‘Not yet,’ Lily answers. Again, she doesn’t elaborate. I know she’d rather enjoy the silence. I don’t think that will happen.
‘You’ve been here for over a year. Why haven’t you met them?’
‘What makes you think we’ve been here that long?’
‘Mother said we moved here because—’
‘We’ve been here two and a half weeks.’
‘That’s impossible,’ I say. ‘That’s almost exactly how long I’ve been awake. We move here one day and I wake up the next? What are the chances …’
I don’t say any more. Neither does Lily. I remember Mr Bender’s comment about us only being here for two weeks, too. It’s true. How could Mother and Father have known? After I spent over a year in a coma, how could they have predicted exactly when I would wake up and then move to California precisely at that time? Was it only coincidence? Or did they decide when I would wake up? Why would they keep me in a coma for so long? Why would they steal a year and a half of my life? What kind of parents are they?
Careful, Jenna.
I was wrong. Lily gets to enjoy her silence.
Agreement
I never asked about the accident. Something told me not to.
Maybe it was the shine of Mother’s eyes.
Maybe it was Father’s smile that tried too hard.
Maybe it was something deeper inside me that I still can’t name.
The Accident.
Like a title. A stop sign. A wall.
It separates me from who I was and who I will be.
I can’t ask and they don’t offer.
It’s a hushed agreement.
Perhaps the only thing
we have ever
agreed upon.
Inside
‘We’re here.’
Lily’s voice is soft. Different. The landscape I wanted to memorize has ribboned away behind me, and I now find myself sitting in a parking lot that I don’t remember driving to.
‘Jenna.’
That voice again. The soft one of Lily’s I barely recognize. How long have we been driving? How long have I been staring out the window and seeing nothing? It sinks in, like sharp teeth in my skin, just how much I still need to know. My fingers grip the seat. I need a word. Curious. Lost. Angry. Which one? Sick? Is that it? I grasp for a word that isn’t there.
‘Jenna.’
Scared. The softness of Lily’s voice makes it surface. I am scared.
I turn my head to look at her face, wondering at this change in her. ‘Why do you hate me?’ I ask.
She doesn’t answer. She studies my face. Her chest rises, and her head tilts slightly. ‘I don’t hate you, Jenna,’ she finally says. ‘I simply don’t have room for you.’ Harsh words, but her voice is tender and the contradiction is a stony reminder that I am missing something vital. I know the old Jenna Fox would have understood. But the timbre of Lily’s voice calms me just the same. I nod, like I understand.
‘Come in with me,’ she says gently, and she gathers packages from the back seat. I follow her across an empty graveled lot.
A tall whitewashed building, blinding bright against a cold blue sky, appears to be our destination. My eyes ache from the glare. ‘What is this?’ I ask.
‘The mission. San Luis Rey. I’ve been in contact with Father Rico for years. We finally get to meet.’ We enter through a heavy wooden door in a long white wall. The entrance leads to a shady enclosed cemetery. ‘This way,’ Lily says, like she has been here before and knows the way. I look at wilted flowers, notes, and stuffed animals that lie on graves and tombstones and feel a brief moment of envy at the remembrances. I see one marker that dates back to 1823, the numbers almost weathered away. Over two hundred years later and still remembered.
I wonder how Lily knows a priest in an ancient mission so far from Boston. We reach the end of the cemetery and come to the great wall of the church which borders it. Lily pulls open yet another large wooden door, and this time we slip into cool blackness and the sweet smell of burning candles, mustiness, and age. My eyes adjust and I see a domed painted ceiling, and then a gilded crucified figure. Christ. Yes, Christ. I remember. Lily bends a knee as she crosses in front of the altar and lifts her hand to her forehead, her heart, and then each shoulder with movement that is so swift and natural it is over as soon as it begins. This I don’t remember.
I stop and stare at the gilded figure. My eyes travel to the altar and then the baptismal font. There should be a feeling, I think. The room itself demands it, but no feeling is in me. I close my eyes. I’m instantly caught up in a scene playing behind my lids, and I feel cool drops of water on my forehead. Lily’s unlined face looms, years younger, and then a man, smiling. He takes my whole body into his hands and kisses my cheek. I see my own hand wave before my face, as small as a butterfly, an infant’s hand. I open my eyes. My baptism. I remember it. How is that possible?
Lily waits across the room, poised at another door, expecting me to follow.
‘Did my grandfather have black hair?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ Lily answers. ‘You probably saw him in the videos. He didn’t die until you were two.’
I never saw him in the videos. ‘How did he die?’
‘The Aureus epidemic. We had plenty of warnings that something like that could happen and it eventually did. It took him and twenty million people with him.’
‘And that was just in this country,’ I say.
Lily’s eyebrows raise. It is her first glimpse at the facts my brain chooses to hold on to. Her fingers tighten on the iron door handle. ‘By then most antibiotics were useless,’ she says. ‘Somewhere along the line, we took a giant step backward. When I was a child, there were only a handful of vaccines; now there’s a vaccine for nearly everything because we’ve engineered ourselves right into a corner. That’s progress?’ She looks at me, and a crease deepens between her brows. ‘Sometimes we just don’t know when we’ve gone too far.’ She opens the door to leave, and a shaft of light cuts across the floor.
‘Is that why you gave up being a doctor?’
She stops and turns.
‘Because you couldn’t save him?’ I add. I am only curious, but I see her transform instantly. If she was bitter before, she is stiffness and rage now.
‘And that would be none of your business,’ she answers.
‘They have laws now,’ I say.
One corner of Lily’s mouth turns up. It is not a smile. ‘Yes. They do. Entire acts passed by Congress. Scientists can’t burp without someone forming a committee to investigate them. Some even go to prison. That in your head, too?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t think so. I don’t think they’d want you to know about that. The problem is, some people think they’re above the law. There are plenty of good reasons why we have so much regulation.’
‘Like?’
She seems almost amused by the tone of my challenge, surprised, maybe, that I would even question her. I watch her draw up, becoming larger than the Lily I have seen, looking like she is prepared to take me on and a dozen others, too, if necessary.
‘Engineering corn to resist pests wiped the original species from the face of the planet. Laws are too late for that,’ she says, her eyes drilling into me. ‘And a simple thing like overusing antibiotics created a strain of bacteria so deadly it killed my husband and a quarter of the world’s population. So that is—’
‘Were you?’ I see the circular thought she meant to hide from me.
‘What?’
‘Above the law. When you were a doctor. Did you ever—’
‘Yes.’ I watch the stiffness of her muscles drain away. ‘And I live with that every day of my life.’ She turns to leave.
‘Lily,’ I say to stop her, ‘did my grandfather—Did you—Was I baptized?’
‘When she was two weeks old,’ she says as she walks out the door. ‘We were her godparents.’ She is gone and never looks back to see if I followed.
Father Rico and Li
ly sit in the shade of a pepper tree and swap stories. We have already toured the remnants of the ancient mission garden, where the two of them excitedly examined gnarled roots, weeds, and what appeared to be anemic orange trees that were bearing the tiniest of pale fruit. Father Rico proudly proclaimed it the first nursery in California, but the treasure for both of them lies in the seeds and DNA that are left behind.
Their voices rise and some words drift across the expanse of the courtyard.
‘Pure.’
‘Unadulterated.’
‘Original seed.’
‘Untouched DNA.’
If I strained I could hear it all, but I don’t really need more details than what Father Rico has already given me. He and Lily are both members of the World Seed Preservation Organization, a group committed to preserving original species of plants. Apparently there are few pure species left, due to bioengineering and cross-pollination. The wind, it seems, isn’t discriminatory in which kind of plant pollen it blows. Engineered pollen blows just as easily as the original kind and infects all traditional plants in its path. Now I know the deeper meaning to Lily’s greenhouse. She and Father Rico seem to see bioengineered plants as a time bomb, much like the Aureus epidemic. Their network of seed enthusiasts are out to save the world. Saviors. Lily saved me once. I wonder how often she thinks about that.
Lily regularly glances my way to make sure I haven’t wandered away or started a conversation with anyone. Occasionally someone passes through the courtyard, mostly other priests, but I remain quiet. Lily told me to. ‘Your mother would want it that way,’ she says.
I see a boy, taller than Father Rico, across the courtyard. He approaches them. His hands are dirty, and he swipes away long cords of black hair spilling in front of his eyes with his forearm. He is … pleasant-looking. I think that’s the word. He talks to Father Rico, nods his head, and then glances over at me. I see Lily’s face. She has noticed and sits up straighter like she is ready to spring. I think he is going to walk over to me and I look away to discourage him. It works. He says a few more words to Father Rico and goes back the way he came, and I am immediately angry with myself for being so quick to please Lily and Mother. It won’t happen again.
Go to Your Room
Mother sips orange juice at the counter, looking over a list of tasks for the day. Lily grates cheese over a bowl of eggs. I sip my nutrients, which are tasteless. I swig down the last of them in a quick gulp and ask, ‘Was I a history buff?’
Mother barely looks up from her list. ‘A what?’
I decide to rephrase Mr Bender’s question. ‘Did I like history? Was it my favorite subject?’
Mother smiles and looks back at her list, making a few changes. ‘Hardly,’ she answers. ‘I’m afraid history—and math for that matter—were tutorworthy for you.’ She is absorbed again in her planning. Tutorworthy? I must have had an excellent tutor.
I push my empty glass away and announce, ‘I’m going to school today.’
Mother drops her pencil and stares at me. Lily stops beating her eggs.
‘I assume I didn’t graduate during the year I was in a coma, so I still need to finish, right?’
Mother hasn’t spoken. Her mouth is open and her head shakes slightly, like my words are ricocheting around inside. Somehow, I find it amusing.
‘There are two village charters within walking distance—I checked the directory on the Net—and the Central Academy is just a short drive.’
‘You can’t drive!’ The words shoot out of Mother, and then she says more calmly, ‘School is out of the question. You’re still recovering—’
‘I’m fine—’
Mother stands. ‘I said school is out of the question. Period.’
I hesitate, but then stand, too. ‘And I say it isn’t.’
Mother is shocked into a marble stance. Neither of us speaks. Finally she looks away. She sits back down. She picks up her pencil. She is calm, smooth, practiced, the mother who seems to know where we are going before I do. ‘Go to your room, Jenna. You need to rest. Go. Now.’
I am seething. Outraged. Incensed. The words. They’re finally bubbling up in torrents just when I need them.
But the will. It is waning. Mother says I should go to my room. Go to your room, Jenna. Go to your room.
I do.
The rage is doubling, multiplying, filling my vision like a black cloud. I can hardly see as each step brings me closer to my room. Go to your room, Jenna. And I am. I am. I collapse on the last stair and rock back and forth silently. What world have I woken up to? What nightmare am I in? Why am I compelled to do as Mother says even when I have a desperate need to do something else? I rock in the dark hollow of the landing, feeling like I am back in the silent vacuum where my voice is never heard. If Jenna Fox was a weak-willed coward, I don’t want to be her at all. I hug my arms, trying to squeeze away the world. I hear a sharp voice. It is Mother. She is angry. At me? I did as she asked. I lean near the banister to listen. Lily’s voice is angry, too.
‘When will you admit you made a mistake?’
‘Stop it! You of all people should understand! If it weren’t for in vitro, I wouldn’t be here. You always called me your miracle. Why can’t I have one, too? Why do you get to decide when the miracles will end?’
‘It’s not natural.’
‘Neither was I! You needed help. That’s all I wanted—’
I hear a strange noise. A sob?
‘Claire.’
‘Please,’ Mother says. Her voice is soft now. Almost a whisper.
‘Claire, you can’t keep her hidden from the world. She wants a life. Isn’t that what this was all about?’
‘It’s not that easy. It could be dangerous.’
‘Walking across the street can be dangerous, but thousands of people do it every day.’
‘I don’t mean for her. There are others to consider.’
‘Oh. Them.’ Lily’s voice is mocking. Mother doesn’t respond. The conversation seems to be over. I hear dishes clatter and then a chair scraping across the floor. Silence threads through the house like a lace pulling tight, and then I finally hear the scraping of another chair and the sound of Lily sighing herself into place. ‘You know I don’t care one way or another. I said good-bye eighteen months ago. You can send her back to Boston as far as I’m concerned, but as I see it, you made a decision. Right or wrong, it’s done. Now you have to move on. Are you her keeper or her mother?’
I hear a choking sound, and then an almost inaudible ‘I don’t know’.
Silence follows. No dishes. No chairs. No voices. No bending. Mother is done. So is Lily. Lily, the last person I expected to argue for me. At least I think that’s what she did. But she would be just as happy if I were three thousand miles away in Boston. Probably happier. I don’t understand. I only know I will not be going to school. Claire said so.
Claire.
I remember now.
I didn’t call her Mother. I called her Claire. I am certain of it. I finish the ascent of the stairs. I go to my room. Claire told me to. I think I hate her.
Jenna Fox / Year Ten
I know the meaning, but I check again to be sure.
Hate v. 1. Intense dislike, extreme aversion or hostility. 2. To dislike passionately. 3. To detest.
There is a better word for Mother. Aggravating, maybe.
But I think Lily is wrong. She does hate me. Her aversion is extreme. She nearly shakes me with her constant sideways glances. She hasn’t spoken more than four words to me in as many days, but since she’s been out in the greenhouse from dawn until dusk, it has been easy to avoid me. Our worlds only intersect briefly in the morning when the three of us sit at the kitchen table and in the evening when we return there. I have been in my room watching discs. Mother asked me to. Her desperation for me to be who I was has intensified. As the Cotswold sees improvement, workers coming and going and restoring, it is like she expects to see the same measure of improvement in me. Restored shingles. Restored floor
ing. Restored Jenna.
I don’t want restoration. I want a life. Now. I want to move on. Those were Lily’s words. It is ironic that her words should become my own.
But I watch the discs.
Because Mother told me to.
I am halfway through Year Ten of Jenna Fox. I see a pretty girl. Her blond silky hair wags in a ponytail across her back. I have already seen her at diving lessons, another ballet recital, practicing piano, and now I see her running across a field kicking a soccer ball. She is impossibly busy. Her life is so full I can hardly take it in, the complete opposite of the empty-life Jenna I am now.
She kicks the ball to a teammate, who in turn kicks the ball into the goal. A horn sounds. Fists fly into the air along with shouts. Teammates hug and lift one another, and Jenna is in the midst of it all. I hear Father and Mother, unseen behind the camera, cheering and finally calling me over. I run to them. I acknowledge their congratulations. I smile. I toss my head back to call to a friend, and I notice something for the first time. A thin red line just under my chin.
‘Pause,’ I blurt out. ‘Back. Pause.’ The disc player follows my commands. I look closer at the still picture. ‘Zoom.’ The thin red line becomes what I suspected. A scar.
I walk to my bathroom mirror and tilt my face back. I run my fingertips up the length of my throat. I feel. I search.
There is no scar.
It’s been seven years since that video was filmed. Do scars disappear in seven years?
A Glimpse
It’s been twenty-five days since I woke up.
Eight days since I went to the mission.
Six days since the new front walkway was laid.
Five days since the plumbing fixtures were replaced.
Three days since I last saw Mr Bender through my window.
Three days of rain and 4,287 cold beads of water beating against my windowpanes.