Identity

by E. J. Mara

  …what do I want for lunch today? Pastrami or …

  …I’m so glad he finally woke up…

  And they go on, endlessly.

  I glance around the room, looking for a radio or some other logical explanation for what’s happening in my head, because I can’t possibly be hearing other people’s thoughts.

  “Karen?” Dr. Winters and my father say in unison.

  …she’s already showing signs of an altered mental state. It may be an aggressive one…

  Trying not to appear as freaked out as I feel, I shake the doctor’s hand and say, “Car accident. I was in a car accident.”

  He nods. “Right, and-”

  “Are my friends alright?” I look from Dad to Dr. Winters.

  “Nathaniel’s stable,” Dr. Winters replies with that tone of restrained reassurance doctor’s always use when relaying good news. “He had a rough go of it at first. But he’s much better.”

  Relieved, I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “What about Esther?”

  “Esther?” Dr. Winters arches an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, she was driving,” I explain, “she-”

  “My daughter is, obviously, disoriented,” Dad cuts in. “Would you let her rest for a few minutes, Dr. Winters?”

  The doctor nods before taking an awkward step back.

  …we need to get a biopsy of this kid’s tumor as quickly as possible…

  Tumor? A jolt of fear careens clear through me.

  Dr. Winters wipes the worried expression from his face and shifts my chart from hand to hand as he gives Dad a smile. “Sure. I’ll be back in about an hour to fill Karen in on, um, on her results.”

  “We understand,” Dad says, moving to my bedside.

  A tumor? Bewildered by what I’m hearing, I let my gaze drift to the aquarium on the couch. More than half of its flowers are gone. A small red and black bug, about the size of a beetle, munches away on the remaining plants, wiping them out with startling speed.

  First of all, I can’t actually be hearing other people’s thoughts. And secondly, if I somehow am …what if I really do have a tumor?

  Dr. Winters leaves the room, the door loudly closing behind him.

  I take a shaky deep breath and Dad touches my shoulder. “Karen, Esther’s fine, but no one else knows that she was in the car with you and Nathaniel.”

  “What do you mean? Why doesn’t anyone know she was in the car with us?”

  “The point is, Esther’s safe. But there’s something else we need to discuss.” Dad’s face is pinched.

  “My tumor?” I ask, my voice cracking over the scary word.

  He tilts his head and studying me, slowly asks, “How did you know about the tumor?”

  “I heard Dr. Winters.”

  His expression relaxing, I hear, ‘…she must have been half awake when he discussed it with me…’

  “You have nothing to worry about, the tumor is benign.” Dad adjusts his glasses. “Of course Dr. Winters doesn’t realize that yet, and he’ll want a biopsy. But that’s not going to happen.”

  “What do you mean, that’s not going to happen?”

  “Karen.” Dad sets his hand on my shoulder, and unlike the unexpected kiss, this gesture is more dutiful than kind. It’s like he’s trying to steady me. Frowning, he continues, “By now you must know that your mother’s death wasn’t a suicide.”

  My left eye twitches. I look at his hand and try to shift my thoughts from my supposedly benign tumor to what Dad’s saying. My gaze slides back to him. Pronounced bags underline his eyes and a thick layer of scruff covers his chin and jawline. He looks even more worn out now than he did at Mom’s funeral.

  “Are you…” I hesitate, “are you saying I.T.I.S. killed Mom?”

  He retracts his hand and I realize I’ve startled him.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. So, you’ve already put the pieces together? You understand what’s happening?”

  “No. I still don’t even know what I.T.I.S. is.”

  A ragged sigh escaping his lips, Dad looks down at the metal bedrail between us. “It’s an organization I used to work for, a dangerous one. I thought that leaving and cutting all ties to them would keep us safe. But your mother was wiser, she knew we’d never be rid of I.T.I.S. That’s why she left this for you and your sister.” He turns to the jacket on the couch and, pushing it aside, reveals a VHS tape. I recognize Mom’s handwriting on the label, “To Karen & Tessa.” It’s the same tape I saw in Dad’s workroom.

  “No matter what happened, she wanted to be the one to explain this to you,” Dad says as he slides the tape into the VCR. “The tape’s damaged, but you should be able to make out most of it.”

  My throat going dry, I turn my attention to the TV, and as Mom appears onscreen, my heart skips a beat. She looks so healthy.

  Sitting on our living room couch and wearing a lime green tank top with dark blue jogging pants, her long blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail that sits directly on top of her head. She smiles into the camera and waves.

  Tears fill my eyes, and I clasp my hands together in my lap, trying to get ahold of my emotions. Mom lifts her hands and signs, “If you’re watching this, then I’m no longer with you, and your father may be gone as well.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “The organization that took our lives is called, “The International Team of Investigatory Science” or “I.T.I.S.” They claim to conduct research for the betterment of humanity, but their true goal is to change humanity. Take me for example.”

  I glance at Dad. His eyes glued to the television, he slowly crosses his arms. The intense longing in his expression is a little too weird for me, so I return my attention to the TV.

  “…my Deafness,” Mom signs, “is a part of who I am, it shapes my entire way of life, and I wouldn’t want to be any other way. But I.T.I.S. would force me to change. They view Deafness, not as a culture, but as a weakness that marks a person as “damaged.” You see, they use a plant called Louisiana Alyssum to develop formulas that supposedly cure people with genetic illnesses. These “illnesses” include hereditary hearing loss.”

  I bite down on my bottom lip, thinking back to the little spray can labeled, “Hearing” that I found in Dad’s work room. I guess that’s the cure I.T.I.S. wanted to use on Mom.

  “But forcing someone who’s Deaf to become hearing isn’t the worst of what I.T.I.S. does. That’s the tip of the iceberg.” Mom’s face grows grave and my stomach goes to knots. I twist her ring around on my finger, preparing myself for something awful.

  “They target the parents of children with various disabilities and lure them into sending their children to I.T.I.S. headquarters, describing it as a ‘lush island paradise.’ That description is a lie.” Mom’s upper lip curls in disgust and her hands move faster as she signs, “I.T.I.S. headquarters are nothing more than an isolated island in a Louisiana swamp. The island is secluded because I.T.I.S. doesn’t want the residents of the nearby town to know that they use children with disabilities as guinea pigs for their experiments.”

  I glance at Dad and his eyes are narrow slits, darkened in an anger that’s tinged with something else ...maybe sadness. His Adam’s apple moves up and down in his throat.

  No, it’s not sadness, it’s guilt.

  “You worked with these people?” I blurt.

  “I had no idea what they were doing.” Dad’s reply is quick, almost automatic. “They lied to me, they-” He shakes his head and points to the television. “Just watch your mother, Karen.”

  “…I.T.I.S. is currently headed by a woman named Jayne Mire,” Mom signs, “and her connections within countless government and economic systems give her the freedom to do as she pleases. Until now Dr. Mire’s been unstoppable, but that’s going to change.” Mom leans forward, reaching for something off-camera. Upon straightening, she holds a small aquarium that’s filled with tiny white flowers.

  I glance at the identical aquarium on the couch near my bed. The
flowers are gone and now the little red and black bug is pacing the aquarium’s walls. I point to it. “Is that the same one?”

  Dad puts a finger to his lips, hushing me. “Just watch.”

  I return my attention to Mom.

  “Your father’s discovered a surprisingly simple means of counteracting Dr. Mire’s main resource, Louisiana Alyssum.” Mom’s eyes brighten as she sets the aquarium in her lap and points to the bug that’s hanging out in its upper right hand corner. “This is a bagrada, a type of stink bug that has an appetite for the Alyssum plant. Unfortunately, it doesn’t touch Louisiana Alyssum, which is a key ingredient in all of I.T.I.S.’s serums. But if your dad can genetically modify the bagrada so as to develop a voracious appetite for Louisiana Alyssum, we’ll be able to get rid of the plant altogether and…” A burst of static shrouds the video in gray lines and indistinguishable high pitched sounds. The tape jumps and the image of Mom disappears.

  A heavy void sinking down on me, I feel as blank as the blackness on the television screen.

  “That’s where the tape was ruined.” Dad’s voice is low as he states the obvious.

  I try to ignore my feelings and with a glance at the bagrada in the aquarium, ask, “Why do you want to go through the trouble of creating a bug to eat the plants? Why didn’t you just get people to create a poison to kill the plants ...” But my voice trails off at the sight of Dad. Now, he looks more than angry or guilty, it’s like he’s sick with worry.

  “Because the plants are too strong.” He takes off his glasses, brings his index finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose, and gives his nose a squeeze. “I.T.I.S. genetically alters the Louisiana Alyssum to withstand almost all known poisons.”

  … how do I tell Karen the rest of this? She’s going to ask why I.T.I.S. killed her mother…

  “Do you need to sit down, Dad?”

  He doesn’t seem to hear me. “Karen, listen. I want to explain some things your mother left out.” He puts his glasses back on. “I knew Jayne well. We were childhood friends who’d lost touch. Then, the day after I graduated, she called out of the blue and asked me come to work for her. I accepted and became head of I.T.I.S. Research and Design. I led the creation of cures for all sorts of sicknesses and the invention of military-grade equipment.”

  There’s a frown creeping into my expression and I know I should hide it, but I can’t. Why on earth would anyone want my dad to head the creation of cures and military-grade equipment? He’s book smart, but he’s not Einstein smart.

  “What, exactly, did you invent?” Even I can hear the skepticism drenching my every word.

  “A host of innovations that were misused.” He shakes his head. “For example, Jayne and I …Dr. Mire, that is, Dr. Mire and I created a memory-erasing serum called Luomnem.”

  “You’re saying you made ...” I pause. “You made a memory-erasing serum?”

  Dad’s always tinkering away at various projects in his workroom, but I’ve never known him to successfully invent anything. I bet he supervised the memory-erasing serum project, and Dr. Mire was the one who was hands-on in the actual creation of the formula.

  “Yes,” Dad continues, “it was comprised, mostly, of Icem, an extraterrestrial substance that can be used to render memories temporarily inaccessible to any region of the brain other than the subconscious.”

  “W-wait a second,” I stammer, “you said, ‘extraterrestrial,’ as in, it’s not from earth?”

  “I did.” Dad waves this off like it’s unimportant. “Anyway, based on the assumption that memories are to a mind as shoelaces are to a shoe, interlaced and coming together to form mental connections between experienced events and relating triggers, I created a machine to contain and work with the Luomnem.”

  I blink back at Dad, confused.

  But unable to read my look of bewilderment, he continues, “The original version of the Luomnem was large and tubular, not dissimilar to an MRI machine. When a subject was placed inside, a technician would use radiograph equipment to target specific areas of the subject’s brain where a memory was to, so to speak, ‘be untied’ and therefore rendered inaccessible to other regions of the brain. This way, the subject would only lose a specific memory.”

  “So,” I slowly reply, “you and Dr. Mire created a huge memory erasing machine?”

  “Yes.” Dad adjusts his glasses, his scowl deepening. “We created it to treat veterans with severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. We believed that by disabling the soldier’s access to memories of the inciting traumatic incident, we’d help them. ” Dad’s eyes glaze over with sadness, and uncomfortable, I push my palms together. I hate seeing him look like this. “But against my advice, Dr. Mire simplified the Luomnem and converted it into two aerosol forms. One is a Super Massive Luomnem machine and the other is handheld. Instead of deleting a specific memory, it unties or ‘erases’ up to twenty years of a subject’s recall.”

  “So they can’t remember anything from the past twenty years?”

  “Precisely,” Dad nods. “The Super Massive version is typically distributed via a helicopter. It’s injected into the air, tainting it to ensure that anyone within a four mile radius is infected.”

  “Geez Louise.” I murmur, my thoughts darting to the helicopter that showed up right before our car accident. Come to think of it, Esther even said it had one of those Super Massive Luomnem machines in it.

  “The handheld version,” Dad sighs, his expression darkening, “is disbursed via a small metal device that’s inserted into a subject’s nasal cavity. The man who was chasing you, Roy Hallowell, is an I.T.I.S. agent who specializes in administering handheld Luomnem. Three years ago he used it on your mother.”

  “What?” I unclasp my hands, a sort of internal earthquake shaking me from the inside out as I realize what he’s said. “That man erased Mom’s memories?”

  Dad nods.

  My mouth dry, I think back to Mom’s abrupt change in personality when I started high school. It happened exactly three years ago, just like Dad said. All of a sudden, Mom claimed she didn’t know who Tessa and I were, she was inexplicably addicted to drugs, and she even started hitting Tessa. So, Roy did all of that to her by erasing her memories? My breath becomes a cresting wave that’s stuck in my chest and overwhelmed, I close my eyes.

  “Karen?

  I open my eyes and Dad’s looking at me, his brown eyes softening in sympathy.

  “I’m fine.” I straighten my spine. “Right before the accident, I saw a helicopter and Esther said something about it having a Super Massive Luomnem. Did I.T.I.S. erase all of those people’s memories?”

  “Yes. Everyone who would have seen the accident and the helicopter have had their memories adjusted.” Dad nods. “Unseen brought you and Nathaniel to the hospital-”

  “But Esther, why isn’t she here?” I cut in, a streak of guilt tearing through my stomach. “Why didn’t Unseen bring Esther too? What if her memory’s gone and…”

  Dad offers me a weak smile. “Esther’s fine, trust me.”

  My stomach turns. “But how? There’s a Luomnem-carrying lunatic out there!” Dad’s still smiling as, ‘…she was created for these kinds of things…’ slips into my thoughts. “What do you mean she was created for these kinds of things?” I demand.

  “I didn’t say that out loud,” Dad says, his grin vanishing.

  “Yeah, okay. About that…” I hesitate, and Dad moves towards me.

  “How did you know about your tumor, Karen?” Dad asks, “And how did you know what I was thinking just now?” Despite his question, the look on his face tells me he’s already figured out what’s going on.

  “I’m hearing thoughts that aren’t mine,” I confess, “I heard Dr. Winters thinking about my tumor and I heard you thinking about Esther.”

  Dad’s eyes shine, a crooked half-smile returning to his lips.

  …of course! That makes perfect sense!...

  “How does that make perfect sense?” I ask, “It doesn’t make any s
ense to me.”

  “Look.” He reaches into his pocket and retrieves the tiny aerosol can I’d lifted from the bottom desk drawer in his workroom. It’s now warped and half-melted. “Karen, this explains your ability.”

  “How?”

  Returning it to his pocket, he says, “It’s a combination of a drug known as “Triphylamonal” and a carcinogen called “Lexilohr”.”

  I sigh. “I’m already confused.”

  Dad scratches his head and squints. “The Triphylamonal binds itself to a subject’s DNA, changing it. In so doing, it endows the subject with seemingly ‘supernatural’ abilities, such as the ability to fly or to, at will, transform the body’s cells into a liquid or a stronger solid. Take Roy, for example. He’s got Triphylamonal attached to his DNA and it enables him to morph into titanium at will.”

  “He morphs into titanium at will?”

  Dad nods. “It’s really nothing more than a chemical reaction.”

  “Why does it give different people different abilities?” I ask.

  “Good question. Triphylamonal is sensitive to countless features within the subject’s DNA and body chemistry. To put it simply, since everyone has differing body chemistry, everyone’s Trip-based abilities would be different. But anyhow, the other drug this,” he says, tapping the small aerosol container, “contains, Lexilohr, typically causes tumors within a subject’s body. But when forms of Triphylamonal and Lexilohr are combined, the result is a new substance that, upon inhalation, makes its way into the subject’s DNA sequence and provides them with whatever missing body part, organ, or other physical deficiency the body requires replacement cells for.”

  “You’re saying it makes people grow entire body parts?” I ask, stunned.

  “Precisely. If, for example, you were missing a spleen, the Trip-Lex combination would enable you to grow a new spleen. The new spleen, however, would first emerge as a noncancerous tumor which would then develop into a spleen over time.”

  I think back to the accident. Everything happened so fast, but I definitely remember the aerosol can falling out of my pocket and going off, emitting a spray, just as Esther grabbed my hand. And when that weird time-stopping-while-colors-fill-the-air crap happened, I saw these sparkling things flying through the air and a lot of them flew into my nose, mouth, and eyes. What if those sparkly things were the Trip-Lex?