In August, the whole Campbell family went to one of the outer islands off the Carolinas. They had been doing this since Cathy was a baby. In the spring of 1980, Cathy began thinking of another child. She wanted a sibling for Rachel. Cathy thought growing up in a house full of siblings was the natural way of things. She always felt sorry for her classmates who were only children, although she sometimes envied them as well. Cathy told Albert that she wanted to come to New Mexico with him that summer. She promised not to nag him about staying in a trailer, if he would promise to come with her to the island get-together with her family when they returned. The compromise was struck, and Cathy, Albert, and three-year-old Rachel flew to St. Louis and then to Phoenix. They planned to travel by a single engine plane to Santa Fe and from there drive to their single wide trailer near the excavation of Pueblo Bonito.
Rachel never learned what happened to the single engine plane. There was an investigation, but any conclusions reached were lost or destroyed before Rachel was an adult. She did not remember the crash, the fire, or being carried away from the wreckage by a stranger. All she ever remembered of that night was being held in strong arms, the warmth of a scratchy blanket, and a few words from a story about a rabbit and a wolf.
Chapter Three
9-26-79
Dear Henry,
Hope this letter catches up to you sooner rather than later. I’m using the New Hartford address. I figure you’ll be there for the autumn foliage. How was Sturgis this year?
New Mexico is the most beautiful place in the world. A geologist’s paradise, too.
If you are still reading this, there is serious shit going down here. Last year, the EPA found radioactive contamination of drinking water on the Navajo rez near Grants. There’s a uranium mining and milling outfit there. Some no-nuke group is saying that radium-bearing sediments have spread into the Colorado River basin. Most of the Southwest draws water from that basin. Kerr-McGee has been mining uranium on Navajo land since 1948. They discard the tailings—huge berms of the stuff—near the mines after extracting the uranium. On windy days, dust from the tailing piles blows all over. No one monitors the natives’ health and their drinking water.
Last July 16—remember that date—an earthen dam near Church Rock broke, and hundreds of tons of contaminated water poured out. At Gallup, the Rio Puerco was measured with 7,000 times the allowable standard of radioactivity for drinking water before they got the dam fixed. I’m working with some people—can’t say who—to take more measurements, do the tests, and get this story in front of the whole country. Local government has given notices and made announcements to people not to drink the water in Rio Puerco or give it to their cattle. Shit, man—most Navajos don’t read English. They have no electricity for radios or TVs. Dead cattle are already showing up. I can’t stop this, but I can sure scream about it. I’ve not gone anarchist. I’m still a New England geologist. Maybe that gives me a little credit.
Cathy keeps hinting she wants to come to New Mexico with me. Maybe, in the spring, we’ll bring Rachel down with us. She’ll be three; that’s old enough to fly, don’t you think? Maybe I’ll be a celebrity by then, if I’m not in jail. Why don’t you and Pansy meet us here, if your VW van is still running by then.
Peace, brother
Albert
P.S. Who puts radioactive water behind an earthen dam?
Chapter Four
Rachel went to live with Henry and Pansy in their quiet home near the Farmington River. She loved books, her uncle’s dogs, and the river. Henry took Rachel out in a canoe and taught her to swim at Barkhamsted. In the winter, they skied together, until Rachel became so skilled that Henry could not follow her on the advanced slopes. Aunt Pansy joined them for hikes in the Nepaug State Forest. She might not have been a water enthusiast, but Pansy knew the forest flora like her own garden.
Henry gave Rachel a microscope for her tenth birthday, and together they looked at all the tiny creatures that lived in the water. Rachel drew pictures of what she saw through the low-powered microscope. She colored the creatures’ outrageous designs and pinned the drawings to her bedroom walls. Henry used to laugh that she was the only little girl he knew who had pictures of bugs and bacteria on her wall.
Rachel spent time with her mother’s family, also. She tried to enjoy the weeks she spent in the summer on the outer islands. The family was always busy, playing organized games or going on hikes and scavenger hunts together. It was when she was surrounded by her Campbell relatives that Rachel felt the most alone. None of the children shared her interest in discovering the natural world. When she collected shells on the beach, she wished she had her big magnifying glass from home. Grandmother Campbell thought such curiosity was much too precocious, and she insisted Rachel play her days away and save thinking and wondering for the school year.
Rachel celebrated her twelfth birthday with her grandparents in North Carolina. She had a huge party with cousins and her cousins’ friends. There must have been forty children all around the huge house and yard. When Rachel opened her presents, there was a book about heroes of science that her Uncle Henry sent to her. The book was a collection of short biographies of Madame Curie, Albert Schweitzer, and Jonas Salk. Rachel left the party, ran upstairs, and started reading it at once. She left her other presents unopened.
From the second floor bedroom, Rachel looked down at her birthday party, still in full swing without her. The kids were running around like ants on an anthill, she thought. Rachel understood that she was not like her cousins. She was not like her classmates, either, nor the kids she saw on television. She wanted to giggle and say “ewww” when she saw a spider, but when she did she felt stupid. She had a much better time with a book than with nearly any person, except her Uncle Henry and Aunt Pansy.
One evening, as Henry guided a canoe on the mirrored surface of the river, Rachel sat between his legs holding her kachina doll. She was too old for a cloth doll, but she liked to have this one with her. Aunt Pansy had sewn the seams many times.
“If I feel happy living with you, Uncle Henry, do you think daddy and mama are mad at me?”
“Of course not. Your mother and father are so glad to watch you grow up into a beautiful, smart, young lady.”
“Sometimes, I talk to them,” Rachel whispered. “Is that weird?”
“I talk to Albert quite often myself,” said Henry.
“Why do you think they died and I lived?”
“Well, from what I understand, you were asleep in the back of the plane. The fire started in the engine in the front, so it took longer for it to get back to where you were. When the nose of the plane hit the ground, it put most of the fire out. When the rescuers got to you, you had crawled back into the tail of the plane. It was the safest place.”
“I don’t remember that at all,” said Rachel.
“That’s what the report said. The tail was sticking up in the air, and you were wedged in there somehow, just waiting, I guess.”
“Did you ever see the report of the crash?”
“A long time ago, yes. I talked to the men who went into the canyon by helicopter and brought you out.”
“Did they say anything about a woman?”
“No. On the plane? It was just the three of you and the pilot. He was a man, of course.”
Rachel turned around and frowned at her uncle. She pointed her finger at him, “Don’t say ‘of course.’ Girls can fly planes, too, and be doctors and scientists and discover things.”
Henry laughed. “You sound like your Aunt Pansy. Yes, I know girls can do anything they want. Especially you. I swear you are the smartest little girl, I mean, child that I ever knew.”
Rachel turned around and snuggled back into her place between her uncle’s knees. She kissed her kachina doll.
“Someday, I’ll be a great scientist, like my daddy,” Rachel said.
“I know you will, sweetheart.�
�
For an instant, Henry felt grateful that his brother was gone, and he got to raise this magical child. It was a terrible feeling to admit, but there it was. Henry decided to thank Albert the next time they talked.
* * *
After distinguishing herself in high school, Rachel won a scholarship to Dalton University. It was the only school she applied to, the only place she really wanted to attend. She finished a pre-med program in three years, attending summers. When she entered medical school, Rachel felt she had found her true home. She thought she would never need another thing—not a friend, a husband, or a family—if she could just work with science and discover something great.
That first year, she met Kruti D’Costa, and Rachel decided she did need just one friend. The second year, she met Brian and decided a lover might be worth the trouble. The second month of the second year, Brian dumped her, and Rachel redrew the organizational chart of her life, eliminating the box for “significant other.” She did not make any changes to her life until she met the virus, a microscopic entity that threw every plan out the window and turned Rachel into a warrior.
Chapter Five
2012
The Norwalk River stretched like an iridescent ribbon between walls of fragrant trees. Its calm, glassy surface reflected the changing beauty on its shores. As a mirror hides what is on the reverse side of its reflection, the river kept its wisdom beneath swaying foliage and a tranquil sky. A thick, pre-dawn fog rose from the river. It covered the water and smothered the sounds of awakening life. Through the stillness came human sounds: a rhythmic scraping backed up by labored wheezing breaths.
Entering the gap, a racing scull erratically fought its way through the mist, propelled by a young woman, rowing for her life. The scrape of the metal oars rose to a screech like a dentist’s drill. The hanging fog turned from cotton white to a dirty gray. The scraping-screeching continued. The water churned white and chaotic. A spidery web of electrical charges erupted in the fog, snapping and exploding. Thunder roared like the sky was being torn apart, and a wall of rain collapsed on the river.
On the surface of the water, the scull spun and dipped, as if tossed into the air. Half-blinded by the rain, the woman drove the scull with all her strength. She fought to maneuver the craft evasively to find a path of escape. Suddenly, descending from the clouds, lit by the sizzling lightning, a grotesque form spread its wide, fur-covered arms above the woman. Its white head was luminous against the dark sky. The square head bore an extended snout and was covered by tuffs of white fur, sticking out in all directions and waving frantically in the wind. Each cheek bore the mark of a paw. The creature hovered over her, not menacing but protecting. Its arms were spread, poised to embrace her, to pull her out of the storm.
Helplessly, she felt a column of water rise, expand, and belch explosively beneath her craft. The scull flipped end over end, high into the air. The woman was tossed like a rag doll into the churning water. She surfaced clear of the craft and saw it smashed hard on its side. With a few feeble strokes, the woman reached the mangled hull. She threw her head back to gulp more air. She tried to grasp for a loose oar, but her body refused to respond. Her mouth opened wide, but her cry was muted. Water filled her lungs, and she slipped beneath the surface.
* * *
Rachel sat up in bed and hugged her knees. It was 5:30 a.m. She pulled the sheet and blanket up and tucked them under her chin. She was shivering, and the blanket did nothing to warm her. She knew from experience that only several minutes of deep breathing and rational thought would calm her. The figure in the air above her was familiar, but Rachel could not give it a name. Finally, it came to her. She had seen such human figures with large masks, covered in animal skins and feathers. They were the masked dancers from Native American mythology called kachinas. What was a kachina doing in the Norwalk River, even in a dream?
In spite of the nightmare, Rachel wanted an hour on the river before she had to leave for New York. She was speaking at a medical conference, and the sight of an audience always unnerved her. Experience told her an hour of rowing would release enough endorphins to get her through the speech.
Rachel arrived at the harbor where she stored and launched her scull, just as the sun was touching the surface of the river. It was her favorite time of day. The birds were waking; the water lapped softly against the columns of the marina. The quiet sounds made the hairs on the back of Rachel’s neck rise, and a wave of calm moved down through her body. The river was working its wonders on her, as she knew it would. Looking across the row of sculls hanging on the marina wall, Rachel noticed one was dripping. Someone had already been out this morning and hung the craft where Rachel’s scull belonged. That scull’s hull was crushed. Someone must have been hurt in that collision, Rachel thought. The unexpected look of the craft, wrecked and wet, temporarily confused her. After only a few seconds, though, she realized the craft was her own.
Rachel ran back to her car. She grabbed her cell phone out of her handbag and started dialing. The first voice she heard was thick with sleep.
“It’s Rachel.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re back in bed, already? What? You couldn’t call me or at least leave a note?”
“What are you going on about?” said Marc, a fellow sculler who borrowed Rachel’s craft when his cousin visited and they went on the river together.
“My scull. It’s wrecked. You let your cousin use it, didn’t you. Remember, I told you, ‘Use my scull when you want to, but don’t let your klutzy cousin near it.’ Do you remember those words?”
“Rachel! I didn’t use it. My cousin isn’t here. I was sleeping when you called.”
Rachel realized she was practically hyperventilating. She had never spoken in anger like this to anyone.
“Rachel? What’s wrong?”
“Sorry. I’m an ass when my property is destroyed. I know you wouldn’t have just left it like that.”
“This is more than just a crushed hull. I’ve never heard you sound so …”
“So, what?”
“So crazy. No offense.”
“It’s OK. I deserve that, I suppose.”
“I’ll make some calls for you. Maybe someone at the marina saw someone with your shell. OK?”
“Thanks. I guess I’m more stressed about my presentation in New York than I thought. Forget I called,” said Rachel. She tossed her cell phone into her bag. She was more upset with her own behavior than she was about her smashed scull. She could buy a new craft easily enough. She never went off on people, not even the soulless capitalists she worked for, and they deserved it much more than poor Marc.
Rachel put the wrecked scull out of her mind on the drive to New York. She was speaking at the Waldorf Astoria at a medical conference on auto immune diseases. Rachel’s research at Socoro Pharmaceuticals in Stamford had just succeeded in producing a treatment that would bring relief to millions of adults and children who spent their lives in constant pain.
Chapter Six
At the conference, Rachel took the stairs to the third floor of the Waldorf and stood at the end of the Silver Corridor. In a few minutes, she would deliver the most important speech of her life. The black and white chessboard floor in front of her was smooth and level, and the lush plants on the sides reminded her of the trees along the banks of the river. The giant chandeliers were like stars overhead. Suddenly, Rachel was overcome with the desire to feel the cool marble under her feet.
A few of the conference participants were milling outside the meeting room. Some were just arriving, and others were taking breaks to use their cell phones. They began to nudge each other, and in a few seconds, all eyes were focused on the tall, athletic woman, in tights and a skirt, who ran down the hall and slid on her shoeless feet across the polished marble. None of them suspected that the woman they were watching glide across the surface of the Waldorf’s stately co
rridor was a stellar virologist, working off her nervousness before she astounded them with news of her medical breakthrough.
Rachel walked through the door at the front of the meeting room. At the podium, she unzipped a pocket of her laptop bag and took out a flash drive. She had an identical flash drive in her handbag and a third in the pocket of her gray cashmere cardigan. For this presentation, there was no such thing as too much backup. Rachel loaded her presentation on the laptop, and the Socoro Pharmaceutical logo appeared on the screen several feet high behind her. She sat down at the front table and waited for the audience to settle itself.
The first slide of the PowerPoint that flashed on the screen behind Rachel was a picture of two hands, painfully twisted by arthritis and folded together as if in prayer. Rachel hated the picture, but Socoro insisted she use it. The marketing pros paid a rheumatoid arthritis patient a couple of thousand dollars to photograph his hands. Until this moment, Rachel could convince herself that she was not part of the sales side of pharmaceutical development. Yet, here she stood in front of a pair of gnarled, praying hands five feet tall.
“Remember, you do it for the patients,” Rachel reminded herself. She took the job at Socoro because they offered her a free hand and a generous budget to develop the new rheumatoid arthritis drug. She charged into her lab every morning prepared to battle the disease that crippled millions of people around the world, freeing them from pain and debilitation. Rachel was confident in her research and convinced of the efficacy of the antiviral P1601. The “P” stood for Rachel’s Aunt Pansy, whose fingers were already misshapen with rheumatoid arthritis. The number 1601 represented the trials performed by Rachel and her research team to find an agent that showed promise to prevent a viral trigger from activating the genetic material carried by all patients who would one day develop R.A.
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