“I need a zap,” I say, reaching for a laser that will stimulate the heart. A few more adjustments, and then, just as with Cornelius, the rat begins to transform. First, the erratic beat of the heart, the occasional breath. She starts to quiver as Cornelius had done. After what feels like an eternity, the shaking resolves and I see the little feet unfurling toe by toe as a wash of pink floods the translucent white of her skin, signaling that the heart is beating. The rat is alive.
“I think it’s going to be okay,” I whisper to Munn.
“Too right it is!” says Munn, grinning. He tries to contain his emotions, but I can see he is amazed, as though he’s just witnessed a miracle, which I guess he has. He pulls at a whisker and watches as the animal shrinks back, a sign of life. The rat isn’t upright, isn’t able to walk or orient itself, but it certainly isn’t dead.
Munn bursts into laughter. Clapping me around the shoulders, he says, “You’ve done it! Good God, you’ve done it!”
I allow myself a small gasping laugh, more in relief than anything. Then I reach for the other doe, desperate to help her. I feel confident now, moving through the steps as Munn sits with the first rat, who is slowly recovering on a towel in front of him as he scratches hurried notes onto a pad.
I’m not sure when the procedure takes a wrong turn, but it does. Maybe I damaged the tiny rodent spinal column or syringed too quickly the substance between the vertebrae. The second doe comes to life, as the other rats had, but her response is far weaker. She only moves the legs on one side of her body; her color never resurfaces. I work desperately to save her, but she dies again, going limp in my hand.
I’ve made a mistake—I don’t know where. The blood hasn’t circulated correctly back through the brain. Or perhaps it has, but returned too quickly, causing further damage. In any case, the little doe cannot make it back from where she has been sent. And while Munn tells me that this is a great day, a great day indeed, I feel I’ve failed because this second little rat is gone. Perhaps it bothers me especially because of the grotesque manner in which she died, strangled between the thumb and forefinger of a man who, for all his tenderness toward humanity, does not value the life of a creature like her. Or maybe it is because the recovery process itself required me to manhandle her body as she fought to recover. It makes it all the worse that I knew the rat’s name, and because the name seems strangely prescient. As Daisy, the rat that survived, begins to take her first slow, awkward steps into a second life, Not Daisy, the rat that died, lies unmoving on a folded cloth.
Munn, Will, and I go to the dormitory, me with Daisy in my hands.
“Dmitry?” Munn says, knocking.
Will whispers, “I think I hear something.”
I say, “I’ll go in.”
“Are you quite sure?” asks Munn.
I press the door gently open with my shoulder. The only light is from Dmitry’s laptop, glowing from its place on the bedclothes. Dmitry is sitting up, his earphones in. I’m willing to bet he’s listening to Tchaikovsky.
“Kira?” he whispers, removing the headphones. His throat sounds sore. Though he is able to sit up, he looks terrible.
I wish I didn’t have to barge in like this, especially with Munn and Will in tow. Also, I feel guilty that I haven’t brought him anything to eat or drink. He should have a big glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a plate of hot food, not that he’d necessarily want either.
“Don’t talk if it hurts,” I say. “I’ll get you tea in a minute.”
I hear Munn behind me say, “Will, get him tea.”
“Of course,” Will says. Then, in his most polite and ingratiating tone, he adds, “Milk and sugar?”
It’s amazing how agreeable he can be in front of Munn. Or my mother, for that matter. She still refers to him as “that very nice young man.”
Munn addresses Dmitry. “It’s Gregory here,” he says.
“Dr. Munn!” says Dmitry, his voice full of surprise. He pushes his laptop away and runs his fingers through his hair, but it’s all cowlicks and it sticks straight up no matter what he does. “I didn’t realize it was you!”
“Don’t feel you have to move, my boy,” Munn says.
“I have a virus,” Dmitry says. The word virus conjures up all kinds of concerns, but Munn isn’t fazed. He drags a chair over to Dmitry’s bed and sits down with a sigh. Tissues overflow in the wastepaper basket, littering the floor around it. Several near-empty glasses crowd the small night table, along with the beaker of medicines I had collected earlier.
“As sorry as we are to see you so unwell, that’s not why we’re here,” Munn says. He nods at the beaker of medications and adds, “Anyway, it appears you are well supplied.”
Dmitry tries to smile. He looks terrible, dehydrated and sallow, with dark circles under his eyes.
“You wrote out a kind of chart that showed what one might do to encourage the brain, after death, to partition away damaged neurons and restock with fresh ones. Do you recall this chart?” Munn asks.
Dmitry says nothing, so I remind him, saying, “You used a black pen and then wrote questions out in red ink.”
“Oh!” says Dmitry. He looks a bit embarrassed. “Those were just ramblings.”
Will returns with a tray on which he’s placed a pot of tea, cups, and saucers.
Munn says, “You might be interested to know that your young colleague here had a bit of a lark with those ramblings and tried the process. You see that rat she is holding?”
Dmitry squints at Daisy.
“I can confirm that the rat was dead for at least eight minutes before Kira began the process. We haven’t done a thorough analysis to determine the extent of brain damage, but there is no question it was recovered from a state that is considered legally dead.”
Even in the dim light, I can see Dmitry’s bewildered expression. I can imagine the dozens, if not hundreds, of questions flashing through his mind. Munn watches his face as intently as I do, then pours from the teapot, offering a cup to Dmitry before taking a slow sip of his own. Then he leans back in his chair. “You don’t seem that surprised,” he says.
Dmitry sits up straighter. “Is this true? About the rat?” he asks me.
“Of course. And another upstairs.”
“My notes,” says Dmitry. “Where are they?”
“On the table in your lab,” I say.
“You did this?” he says. More of a statement than a question.
It doesn’t feel fair that after all his years working doggedly on a problem, I came along and beat him to the final discovery. “It wasn’t really me. It was you, Dmitry. You did it.” I look from Dmitry to Munn.
“I would say the pair of you make a very fine team,” Munn says.
I hope Will heard that. I glance over to where he’s been standing in the doorway, but he’s gone.
“May I have the rat?” Dmitry says.
I carefully hand him Daisy. He tries to hold on to her, but she is gaining strength now. She walks across the bedclothes, moving in a circle.
“That’s either a nerve issue or a stroke,” Munn says, observing Daisy’s odd movement. “It will be interesting to see how it does after a few hours.”
“And another rat upstairs?” says Dmitry. “The same?”
I stumble through the whole story, feeling a little apologetic for the presumption I’ve shown in working out of Dmitry’s lab, from his very notes, without permission. I feel I’ve taken advantage of him, of his wealth of study and years of steady progress to bring about what happened. “I got very lucky,” I say finally.
He shakes his head. “No. If you had followed my notes, both rats would be dead.” He takes a sip of his own tea now, then clears his throat painfully. “Thank you, Kira. You brought me medicine and then redesigned my experiment so that it would actually succeed.”
Munn says, “We have to talk about what happens next. There are many serious issues surrounding this particular discovery.” He pauses, listening to footsteps that come from
outside. “Will?” he says.
I see Will’s head pop back through the door. “I was just checking on the other rat. Still alive!” he says, sounding as though he is pleased for Cornelius, which I know is impossible. I wonder what he was really doing.
“Please, come in. Close the door.”
With the three of us assembled, Munn explains that while it is clear that a very significant breakthrough has been made, it’s been done without the benefit of the scientific method, and this is a problem. “As much as we allow for creativity and flair here at Mellin, we cannot publish vague and what some would call outrageous claims. We need to conduct a proper investigation. Meanwhile, it is imperative that we keep this secret. The discovery is newsworthy and sensational. Any leak to the press—even rumors that post-death recovery is possible—may cause chaos.”
Why would a scientific advancement cause chaos? My confusion must show, because Munn looks directly at me and says, “Kira, the truth is, we don’t really understand what happened here. Imagine families refusing to bury their dead for years while we work on this.”
“It’s okay, I can keep a secret,” I say.
“It would affect organ donors,” adds Will, undoubtedly to please Munn, who keeps close watch on what affects donor numbers. “I mean, who would sign up as an organ donor if it was even remotely possible they could be brought back from the current definition of dead? People needing transplants would die in droves before we even got our research off the ground.”
Even Dmitry agrees. “I’m afraid we’ve invented a bit of a monster,” he says, almost apologetically. He smiles slyly at me. “You and I are like Dr. Frankenstein,” he says.
I think he means it as a compliment.
17
EVERYTHING CHANGES. MUNN, rarely in the lab before, spends all morning with us. Will seems to have forgotten his list of grievances against me. He treats me like a real colleague and even makes coffee for me before I return home for some much-needed sleep.
It’s as though my life has turned 180 degrees. And yet, as I’m coming up the path to my house, the day looks like any other. I hear birdsong, a radio playing in the open window of my neighbor’s kitchen, the drone of a jackhammer in the distance. I want to shout to the world that we can now bring back a previously “dead” brain. But secrecy is everything.
My body is sore from sleeping in a chair. My head aches as though my skull isn’t quite big enough. I know I need sleep, but I’m too keyed up.
But then I look up and see my mother in the doorway. “What’s the matter, your phone broke?” she says sternly.
I suddenly realize I’ve been out all night with no explanation. “I’m sorry. You know what it’s like at Mellin. You can’t make a phone call. It’s a closed system.”
“You should have gone outside the building and called. What were you doing anyway?”
I was bringing back animals from the dead.
“Dmitry has the flu. He was really sick, and then one of the rats had a heart attack. It’s okay now.”
I step inside, kick off my shoes.
“You’re very fond of this Dmitry, aren’t you?” she says.
It’s true. I like him. I’m sad that he has no family. The loss is more glaringly apparent when he’s sick, as he is now. I’ll go back to the lab later with soup. I wish I could bring my mother. She’s the best at looking after you when you’re ill.
“Lauren was here,” she says now. “She wanted to say goodbye. I really wish you would answer your phone.”
How can I explain the events? I can’t. Not without violating Mellin’s confidentiality agreement. And not without going directly against Munn.
“What do you mean, goodbye?” I say.
“She went off this morning to that thing,” my mother says.
I feel a pang. That “thing” is a three-month residential skills training program that prepares people for working with conservation groups. She’ll be gone all summer.
“She left something for you. It’s on the kitchen table.”
I feel even more guilty now. I follow my mother into the kitchen and see a small box gift-wrapped in SpongeBob paper. On a card it says, I’m going to miss you, Science Girl. Lauren x.
I feel a weight in my throat. Lauren is always doing nice things for me: taking me with her on birding expeditions, lending me clothes, giving me presents. And what have I done for her? Not even been here to say goodbye.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” my mother asks. Perhaps she sees the emotion in my face, because it’s gentler than before.
“I know what it is,” I say. I can tell by the weight and shape of the package that it’s the elegant pink-faced watch with tiny diamonds marking out the hours.
I’m a person who adds up the grocery bill in my head as I shop, checks gas prices at several stations before choosing which one to fill up at, repairs my own eyeglasses because they cost too much to replace. I’ve avoided phone calls and front doors for as many years as I can remember, ducking debt collectors. But it’s not the cost of Lauren’s gift that overwhelms me. It’s the fact that this is the same watch that Lauren wears. Her good watch. Her best. She’d wanted the same for me.
I drop into a chair, studying the little box. SpongeBob has been Lauren’s favorite since she was eight years old.
My mother takes an onion out of a basket on the countertop and sets it on a chopping board. “I’m making you an omelet,” she says. “You need feeding.”
She pours oil in a pan, adds onions, then mushrooms. Like anyone who has worked in a restaurant, she does three things at once: whisking, pouring, flipping. She garnishes the omelet with herbs from the garden and hands me a glass of orange juice, serving up breakfast on a warmed plate. It isn’t until I’ve taken the first mouthwatering bite that I understand the significance of what I’ve just seen. My mother is operating at full capacity—at least this morning she is.
I’ve almost forgotten what she was like before she became sick.
“You’re feeling better?” I ask cautiously.
“I’ve been having some good days,” she says.
Midway through our meal my phone rings. I think it will be Lauren, but there’s no caller ID, and when I put the phone to my ear I hear Rik’s voice.
“Is it true?” he says, his words rushed. “Were they really dead?”
He’s talking about Cornelius and Daisy, of course.
“When did you hear about it?” I say.
“Munn has me setting up meetings. He’s going to Washington to talk to some people there, get some funding. It’s all very hush-hush. This is serious, Kira.”
“Are you going, too?”
“Yes, of course. I take the notes,” he laughs. “I want you to know that I’m really happy for you.”
Rik has never called me before. Lauren insists he’s just waiting until I’m eighteen to ask me out, but that’s not the vibe I get. Whole weeks go by without him even looking my way.
He says, “Are you free at all? I think there has to be a celebration. Something to mark the occasion. I mean, after Washington, that is. Would you like that?”
I feel my heart speed up, my mouth go dry.
“Sure,” I say. The words arrive as a whisper. “That would be great.”
I hope my voice is the right mixture of confident and pleased, like guys ask me out all the time.
“Great, I’ll organize everything,” he says, with excitement.
And as quickly as that, the phone call is over.
I look up to see my mother is staring at me, a dishcloth over her shoulder. “You look as though someone just gave you some very good or some very bad news,” she says.
“It’s possible I just got asked out on a date.” I can’t help but marvel at this fact. I’m happy, but also astonished, more because it seems so unlikely than anything else. I don’t even know how to be on a date.
My mother smiles. “Well, I’m not surprised,” she says. “Senior year and all.”
Munn and Rik l
eave for Washington. Dmitry slowly combats the flu. Meanwhile, Will and I wind up phase one of the experiments involving the Innards. The study reveals the normal rate of deterioration of organs over time given different media. It also shows how we can improve the condition of organs if we use Mellin’s new “organ restoration units,” what I call the bassinets.
It’s good stuff. Not bring-back-from-the-dead stuff, but good.
Will does the writing part. I draw up the notes and organize the data. We’re busy, but Will finds time to angle for more information on post-death recovery. He wants to know everything about what I studied and what I did.
“Right now?” I say. I’m in the lab, bent over a laptop and working through the data.
“Yes, now. Why not?”
“We’re not supposed to talk about it,” I say. It’s the one thing we can’t share with our colleagues in Munn’s innovation ecosystem. “Someone might hear.”
“Oh please,” he says, scoffing.
But I won’t talk about it. I wish I could, especially to April, who has no idea why she can’t bring home Cornelius as she’d been promised. And why suddenly Daisy can’t walk right and her sister is dead.
I’ve been avoiding April for days. I realize now that I’d better face the music. “Excuse me,” I say to Will, and then, because I feel I really should at least acknowledge what happened to her rats, I climb up the stairs to the animal tech room.
“Hey,” I say to April. She’s cleaning cages, her back to me. “I’m really sorry about Not Daisy.”
“You might at least give me an explanation,” she says without turning around.
I wish I could. She deserves to know. “I can’t tell you much.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“I’m not allowed.”
She swings around, and the look on her face about kills me. “I’ll have you know I’ve been at Mellin since you were in junior high. I know everything about this place. And for goodness’ sakes, I think I know how to keep a secret!”
I stare at the floor. “I’m sure you do. It’s only that Munn specifically said—”
“Oh stop!” interrupts April. She takes a long breath, steadying her temper. “I leave you in charge and suddenly one rat can’t walk correctly and another is dead, its brain extracted and the body left for me to deal with. I don’t care what Munn says, I think I’m owed an explanation!”
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