Deadly Design (9780698173613) Page 22

  I can’t take it.

  “Let’s pretend I’m getting my tonsils out,” I say. “And I have really, really big tonsils, so it’s going to take a while. Just make sure there’s plenty of ice cream when I get home.” My voice threatens to crack, but I won’t let it. I won’t. I can’t. Not when I look at my parents and see how thin they are. Not physically, but emotionally. I can see right through them, and it’s not fair. No parent should have to lose so many children. But they’re not going to lose me. At least, I won’t let them believe that, not today. I wish this could have been figured out sooner. If Dr. Mueller/Sharp/Bartholomew/psychobastard had died sooner, maybe his sister could have frozen all of us. There could be a whole wing of frozen Mueller babies, and somewhere in the part of our minds that can’t be stilled by science, we’d exist together. I could introduce Connor to James and Amber. We could listen to Triagon play Mozart, and Connor and I could . . . We could be together without being dead.

  I rush toward my mom and put my arms around her, trying to speed things up, like I’m at camp and her going all gushy is going to spoil my reputation with the other kids. Dad throws his arms around both of us, and we stand there for too long. We are giants holding up a massive weight. We are that ancient turtle balancing the Earth on the back of its shattering shell. The weight is too much. It will crush us if we don’t let go, and so we do.

  “Tonsils, Mom. It’s just my tonsils.” But this time my voice does crack. I look past my mom at Cami. She comes toward me, and I can hear her jagged breaths. She forces herself to smile despite her tears. We hold each other for a long time, until the weight comes down, and at first, we don’t care. I don’t care. Let it crush me. Let me die right now with Cami in my arms and no holes cut into my body. She would agree. At this moment, she would let the ceiling above us collapse and bury us in rubble just to end these unbearable feelings. But I love her, so I push her gently away.

  Dr. Bartholomew comes in and straps an identification bracelet around my wrist. I’m out of time.

  I open my mouth, wanting to say “tonsils” one more time. Wanting Mom and Dad and Cami to force themselves to believe that I’m only going away for a little while. That they can see me in recovery in an hour or so, and then they can spoon-feed me Jell-O and ice cream while I flip through channels on the hospital television. But I can’t say anything.

  • • •

  A white mask covers Dr. Bartholomew’s face, but I can tell she’s smiling down at me from the way the lines around her eyes lift. She’s wearing white surgical gear. So are her assistants. The machines and equipment they will be using are covered with white sheets. Normally they don’t have to worry about their patients freaking out at the various tubes and gauges and needles, but I’m alive. Right now, I’m alive, so the technology that will hopefully save me is covered like old furniture in a haunted house.

  The walls and the ceiling are white. I should be listening to Whitesnake on the iPod, stay with the theme. But I’m not. I’m listening to a song by Dr. Dre, Skylar Grey, and Eminem. I close my eyes because I don’t want to see the plastic mask coming down over my face. Instead I see the music video for the song. I see the woman draped in white floating in the air as Skylar Grey sings, I need a doctor. Call me a doctor. I need a doctor, doctor, to bring me back to life.

  44

  “Jason.”

  Someone taps my cheek. At least, I think someone is tapping my cheek. I feel numb, like I’ve just been to the dentist.

  “Jason.” The tap turns into a slap. “You have to wake up. Come on. Wake up.”

  “Stop it.” The words only sound in my head. I try again, but it’s like my throat’s numb. Another light slap, and I force my eyes open. “Stop hitting me,” I manage in a small, rough voice.

  “You’re awake!”

  There’s a nurse standing over me. She’s on the heavy side. Her hair is short and gray, and slight wrinkles are visible behind her plastic-rimmed glasses. She’s smiling, beaming like I’ve just come back from the dead.

  Oh, shit!

  “Am I cured?” I ask, my voice a little stronger. I look around the room. It’s bigger than a standard hospital room, and nicer. There are actually curtains on the windows, not sterile blinds but heavy fabric. “Where are my parents? How long has it been?”

  “Slow down, Jason,” she says. “Just take it easy.”

  I see something in her hand—a syringe filled with medication.

  “Am I cured?” I say slowly. I lift my hand to my head and feel for the holes that were drilled into my skull, but I don’t feel anything except hair that’s grown longer. And I feel pain, not in my head, but my torso. “Where are my parents? And why do you keep calling me Jason?” I grimace. “And why do I hurt so much?”

  The nurse’s face darkens, like she’d suspected something, and now she knows it’s true. “Your name isn’t Jason?”

  “No.”

  “Your parents died in a car accident. Don’t you remember?”

  “What? Mom and Dad?” It’s my worst nightmare come true. I wake up and the people I love are gone, but how could I remember if it happened while I was frozen? “Who’s Jason? My name’s Kyle. And when I was frozen, my parents were alive.”

  “Frozen? What are you talking about? You’ve been in a coma.”

  My stomach screams in pain. I lower the blanket and lift the thin gown. Across my torso are a series of incisions, some healed, some still red but without staples. Some are still held together with small metal teeth. Just down and over from my belly button, a tube with a small cap over it sticks out of my abdomen.

  “I was frozen. I was supposed to be frozen. Where’s Dr. Bartholomew? What is all this?” I stare down at the horror movie on my torso.

  “You’re supposed to be Jason,” she says. “You have a rare disease, and Dr. Bartholomew’s been experimenting on your tissue, trying to figure out how to save you. She’s been doing all kinds of biopsies, but I don’t know what she’s looking for. I just take care of you. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I’ve had this feeling something isn’t right.” She takes the syringe and lays it on the nightstand. “I was supposed to give you that. It’s what keeps you in a coma. I’ve seen what they’re doing to you. I’m not a doctor, but I don’t know how cutting on you like this can help. And then I . . .” She glances at the door, then back at me.

  “Then what?”

  “I heard Dr. Bartholomew say something.”

  “What? What did she say?”

  “I was in the back of the pharmaceutical room. I knocked over a box of bandages, getting clumsy in my old age, I guess, and I was bent over picking up them up when she came in. She was on the phone with someone. She said something about how long to drag it out. That she thought it was time to tell the parents he’s dead. She sounded frustrated, said she was tired of dealing with them. Then she said it was time to start taking brain biopsies. She was holding your file.”

  My fingers curve into fists, and I want to scream, but I don’t dare. Just staying still is torture. How much pain will I feel if I take a deep breath and let really let my anger out? I close my eyes, only for a second, because I know some of the drugs are still lingering in my body, and I don’t want to take the chance of closing my eyes and slipping away again. “She told you that my parents were dead?”

  She nods. “I wondered why nobody came to visit you, and that’s what she told me—they died in a car accident a year before you got sick.”

  “How long have I been here? They were supposed to freeze me on September twelfth, at the cryonics institute in Nebraska. What’s the date now?”

  “You were brought here on September thirteenth. You’re in Saint Louis. You’ve been here for two months.”

  My breath catches in my throat. Two months! Two fucking months I’ve been in a fucking coma while fucking Dr. Bartholomew’s been dissecting me
like a frog in a biology class. I have one month left. One month before I die.

  “So I was never frozen?”

  She shakes her head.

  “And she told you that my parents are dead?”

  She nods again, her hand touching my forearm.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Virginia,” she says. “Nice to meet you, Kyle.” She squeezes my arm. “I’m going to help you, but first, do you know why she’s doing this? I’ve worked with Dr. Bartholomew for years, and I just can’t imagine . . .” She gestures toward my various wounds.

  “Her brother experimented on me and a bunch of others. He did things to our DNA, and I’m guessing she wants to know how it all works. She lied to me, told me and my parents that he gave her his research before he died, but he couldn’t have. If she had it, she wouldn’t be doing this.” My head sinks into the thin pillow. Dr. Bartholomew had said that I’m the most important person to her in the world. She also said that there would never be a way to stop the longevity sequence once it got activated because of how it specifically impacts my brain. Virtual immortality. The fountain of youth, her brother had called it. Maybe that’s what she wants. She tried to convince me to trust her by telling me how many rich, powerful people support her. What if she could give them immortality instead of just new kidneys?

  I look up at the woman standing beside my bed. She’s the stereotypical grandmother, with her gray hair, full face, and glasses. She must be pushing retirement age and probably has grandchildren she’s planning on spending time with once she does. I wonder what she’d be willing to do to turn back time. To be able to race her grandchild through the park and actually win because even though she’s lived decades longer, she’s not aging. But Virginia’s blue eyes are soft and filled with concern and compassion. Claudia’s eyes have never been anything but small and black, just like her brother’s.

  “Dr. Claudia Bartholomew is a bitch,” I say. “A coldhearted bitch.”

  I wait for her to start defending the great doctor, but she just nods slightly.

  “We need to do some things before I move you.” Virginia goes to a small metal cabinet with several drawers. She takes out a Band-Aid and a cotton ball. She quickly removes the IV needle from my forearm, then presses the cotton ball to it, followed by the Band-Aid. “Would you like to choose which one to take out next?”

  “Which one?” There’s the tube in my stomach, but other than that . . . oh, shit.

  “Let’s get the worst over with first. I won’t lie. It’s going to hurt; it’s been there for a while. Just keep breathing and find a happy place.”

  “I can do it,” I say, as she puts on a pair of gloves.

  She peels the thin blanket off of me, and quickly takes hold of the tube and of me. “Like pulling off a Band-Aid. One, two . . .” She pulls at the catheter, and it feels like a hot knitting needle being yanked out of me.

  “Fuck!” I gasp, wanting to curl up, but the incisions in my stomach stop me.

  “Now for the last one,” she says, rather matter-of-factly, and I’m glad she’s experienced.

  “Is that a feeding tube?” I ask.

  “It is.” She goes back to the metal drawers and takes out a handful of small packets and a large bandage. She swaps the area with one of the packets, wiggles the tube just a little, then slowly starts to pull it out. To my relief, it doesn’t hurt that much, or maybe it’s just that with everything else hurting, the pain blends in. When she’s done, there’s a hole in my abdomen about the diameter of a drinking straw. Blood and the remnants of what looks like a melted milkshake seep out of it. Virginia sanitizes the area again, then applies the bandage.

  “Will it keep leaking?”

  “The hole in your stomach and in your skin will heal up pretty fast.”

  “So that’s how they’ve been feeding me?”

  She nods. “That’s how I’ve been feeding you. I’m so sorry. I should have suspected something sooner, but I’ve never had a reason not to trust Dr. Bartholomew. She said that if you weren’t kept in a coma, the pain from your disease would be unbearable. Your records are stored on a computer. All your medications are listed there, and each time I give you anything, I log it in the computer file. But there’s information that should be there that isn’t. I could never understand that. There’s not even a diagnosis or any records or surgeries or procedures. But now I know you have a separate file, one only Dr. Bartholomew has access to, the one she was holding. I even tried to get into her office to find it, but everything was locked up tight. I wanted to know for sure . . .”

  I think she’s going to start crying, but instead, she makes two fists and tightens her arms like she’s ready for a fight.

  “Time to get you out of here,” she says, taking a phone from her pocket. She dials a number and waits. “Gene, I was right. Are you sure you want to help?” She waits, then nods with the phone pressed to her ear. “Let’s do it,” she says, then ends the call. “I’ll be right back.”

  Virginia goes to the door and peers out into the hallway. She gives me a thumbs-up, then disappears into the hall. Within a few minutes, she’s back, pushing a wheelchair into the room.

  “There aren’t very many patients on this floor. And visiting hours are long over, so we shouldn’t run into anyone. We just have to get you down to the first floor.”

  She comes toward me, taking a syringe out of her pocket.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Pain. You’ll thank me, I promise. Now roll over a little.”

  I try to roll over, to expose at least a little of my ass to her, but the pain is too much. Then her hand is against my hip, pushing me. I feel a quick sting and hope to hell the shot works fast.

  “Come on.” Her arms go around my waist and she pulls me to a sitting position. It’s all I can do to stay sitting. My muscles aren’t used to working, and there are still sedatives lingering in my body. I start to roll backward but she grabs hold of me. The wheelchair is next to the bed now.

  “I can do it myself,” I say, thinking for a minute she means to lift me out of bed like I’m a baby.

  She puts a hand on her round hip. “No, you can’t. Come on.” Her arms go under my arms, and she’s lifting me. My feet search for the floor, but when they feel the coolness of the tiles, my knees start to buckle—and the pain, God! The fucking pain!

  Suddenly I’m in the chair. Virginia starts tucking a blanket around me. I want to ask her how soon the pain medication is going to kick in. I want to ask her to give me another shot, but the pain has immobilized my vocal cords, so I grab her arm and look up her.

  She bends down in front of me, patting my hand. “It’s going to be all right,” she says.

  Virginia peeks into the hallway before pushing me out. And the pain medication is starting to work. My eyelids start to slip down, and I try to force them up again. I don’t want to sleep. I force my head to life, force my eyes to stay open and that’s when I see the camera mounted in the hall outside my room. There’s a little blinking light telling me that it’s working, that in some little room there are security guards watching the various hospital halls. I just hope they’re watching all of them and not just mine. But even if they are, there will be a video to rewind once they notice I’m gone. A video of Virginia wheeling me out of my room. I try to say something, to warn her, but then my eyes are just too . . .

  45

  “Am I supposed to give him five milligrams every eight hours or eight milligrams every five?”

  I press my eyes open to see a man sitting in a folding chair next to me. He’s holding a phone up to his ear, and he looks frustrated.

  “I know you wrote it down, but your handwriting is worse than chicken scratch. Eight milligrams. No, he’s still out. Hopefully he’ll wake up soon and I can call his parents get him the hell out of here!”

  “I’m awake now,” I manage t
o say.

  The man with a tanned, narrow face and deep winkles looks at me awkwardly. “He’s awake,” he says into the phone and waits. “Hold on, I’ll ask him.” He turns to me. “Are you in much pain?”

  I think for a second, and the answer is, mercifully, no. I shake my head.

  “Good,” he says. “The boy says he’s not in much pain.”

  There’s a sheet under me and blanket covering me. My arm is hanging over the side of a . . . sofa, and something is licking my hand. I look down and see a wiry-haired mutt lying beside the sofa.

  “Duke, stop that,” the man yells at the dog, then gets back to his phone conversation. “You sure he should be taking two of those? He says he’s not in that much pain, and one will knock me on my ass faster than a bottle of whiskey.” Pause. “Fine. You’re the nurse. You just make sure you call me once you get to Phoenix. And, Virginia, be careful.”

  He ends the call, but stares at the phone for moment, like maybe he forgot to say something important to the person on the other end.

  “Was that Virginia?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “On a goddamned plane to Phoenix, thanks to you. I don’t think she’s ever coming back, either. Her daughter lives out there. I just hope whatever you got her mixed up in doesn’t follow her.”

  I want to assure him that it won’t, but I can’t. “You might call her back. If Dr. Bartholomew knows that she has a daughter in Phoenix, that she might go there . . . she might want to go someplace else.”

  He exhales like an angry old bull, his eyes staring down at the floor. “Her daughter’s married, not too long either, so she’s got a different name. Virginia doesn’t socialize much with the hospital people, so maybe they don’t know.”

  I try to give him a reassuring smile and pull my arm back onto the sofa so the dog will stop licking it.