by Jim Kroepfl
“I won’t be a groundbreaking researcher,” I say.
Orfyn pulls me closer. “Don’t tell yourself that. You just need to dream bigger. Bat taught me that.”
Again, sweet thought, but as my dad proclaims, people don’t get a second shot. My role in history isn’t what matters most, though. We haven’t discovered the cure in time to save Grandma Bee. I’ll be by her side while she still has good days, though. That is the one silver lining about leaving The Flem. I plan to make the most of her limited time, because Grandma Bee won’t be challenging the premise that we only get one life.
You don’t have to do this!
I bite my lip hard. It’s ironic how Sophie spent the last month threatening to replace me, and now she’s fighting to keep me in her life. I’m still unsure if she always understood we merged, or if she finally accepted it during our fight, which is why I blacked out. Either way, she realizes we’re unmerging.
My mind keeps wandering. I need to make this time about Orfyn. “Why didn’t we get together earlier?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I’m no longer certain which memories are mine.”
“We’ll just have to create new ones.” He runs his finger along my cheek, as if I were a fine sculpture.
Potassium meets water. Boom! My eyes scour his face in an attempt to burn it into my long-term memory. Broad, noble nose. Golden-green eyes. Eyelashes any girl would envy. Masterful, paint-stained hands. I wipe away a tear.
“Do you remember our kisses?” Orfyn asks.
“Yes.” Although I’m not sure if they were all real. And I have a feeling Sophie was in control at least one time.
Doesn’t she realize if all the people with a genetic marker never had children, she wouldn’t have been born? Or so many other world-changing people. Thankfully, no one with an ounce of humanity would allow her to implement her plan in the real world.
I need to stop spinning. This is the last time I’ll be with Orfyn. “I may need reminding, after all.”
His smile ignites a flame that licks at my skin. Our lips know what to do, as if he’s been a long-time boyfriend. I wish we’d spent more time together. I think it was my fault we didn’t.
As we kiss, I breathe in his scent. Cinnamon mixed with walnut oil. Smell is one of the strongest memory triggers, and I want to make sure that should we somehow meet again, my subconscious will remember what he meant to me.
You’ll regret this decision for the rest of your life.
No, I won’t. After the procedure, I’ll no longer know that I was once the Nobel for Chemistry.
Orfyn
Lake unmerged two days ago, and Marty was yesterday. We were told their procedures were a success. I have to believe they’re telling us the truth, because the alternative is too terrible to imagine. I’ve not seen Jules since that day we learned she was their spy. She may be in the process of merging, but I hope she decided to follow her own dreams. The Darwinians said they’d unmerge the kids on the third floor after me, and Stryker believes they’ll go through with it.
I’m next.
Anna asked if we could hold our last meeting in the greenhouse. It was empty the only time I’ve been up here, so I don’t expect to come upon what I do. The sunny room is filled with potted plants in a spectrum of colors.
“What’s all this?” I ask Anna.
“Wheat.”
“Did you plant these?”
“Yeah, I did,” she says, looking proud of herself.
The wheat plants are neatly labeled with their common and Latin names, and there’s a list of dates and measurements. How did the girl with a serious case of don’t-mess-with-me-itus become so fascinated with wheat?
Stryker is braver than me when he says, “You’ve been holding out on us, Anna. When did your life’s goal change to involve dirt and manure?”
I expect her to rip off his head, but she says, “Who knew, right? Before coming here, I’d never grown a plant in my life. Then I couldn’t get it out of my head that there’s a greenhouse up here with nothing living in it. Before I knew it, I was researching strains of wheat from throughout history, and figuring out how to get hold of these rare seeds.”
Who is this girl?
Anna points to a stalk with thin, tightly-woven spikes. “This is Einkorn. It’s the same species grown by Egyptians two thousand years ago to feed the Roman Empire.” She lovingly touches the one next to it. “And this is Turkey. It’s the wheat that cultivated America’s Great Plains.”
“That’s pretty cool,” I say, and I mean it.
She smiles in pleasure. Anna.
I take some time to appreciate the plants’ shades and heights and textures. Some are tall with long, reaching leaves. Some are short with thick, juicy-looking kernels. They’re all a work of art.
“I eventually learned that my Mentor grew up on a wheat farm in Montana,” Anna says. “She makes it sound like a really nice place.”
“She’s influencing you in a good way.” Stryker shakes his head in wonder.
Anna cups a shaft of wheat in her hand with more tenderness than I ever imagined she could. “Wheat is a poison to some people’s immune systems, but it’s also been the builder of societies across the ages. It showed me that nothing is fundamentally bad or good.”
I have a feeling she’s not only talking about wheat.
“For the first time since I can remember, I’m at peace,” Anna admits. “I don’t want to go back to the person I was. I’m not unmerging.”
I know what the next five years of her life will be like. Monitored. Work-obsessed. Isolated. And Anna is choosing to stay because her Mentor helped her discover a better version of herself. We could’ve become friends if Bat wasn’t making me unmerge.
“Good for you, Anna,” Stryker says.
“What about you, Stryker?” she asks. “Are you staying or leaving?”
“I’m not going anywhere. I plan to be more famous than Gandhi.” He almost pulls it off, but I know the truth about his past. He’s not doing this for fame.
I think I finally understand what his private conversation with the Darwinians was about. Stryker must have cut a deal to give them one success, no matter who else unmerged. He sacrificed himself for our Nobel class. I wish I could tell Lake.
“It’s kind of saintly what you did for us,” I offer.
He nods, acknowledging that I’m not too far off track. “What about you, Art? Are you staying here in Never Never Land with Mother Nature and me?”
I run my fingertips along the stalks of Buckskin-Red Winter—for higher elevations, as Anna’s label informs me.
“I’m going to figure out how to change the world on my own.”
Orfyn
I step back from the brick wall and admire the painting of the girl.
This time, she’s balanced on the limb of an oak tree. I can’t tell you who she is, but she keeps showing up in my paintings. She has hair the color of a sunrise, and a smile like Mona Lisa’s, but not. The world’s already got one of those. If you’re going to paint, why do what someone else has already done?
It’s simpler working in the light of day, and a lot more peaceful. I still paint on walls, but now I get permission first. And the owners have been psyched about having my work liven up their buildings. I’m still a street artist, but now I’m a legal one.
I pull open St. Catherine’s door and head to the fridge to grab a grape soda. Sister Mo calls for me to come into her office. When I get there, she’s seated at her desk, and in the chair in front of her is the Bishop! Perched at the ready in one of the chairs lining the wall is a man in an ash-gray suit and a blood-red tie.
“Out painting again, son?” the Bishop asks as he gets up to shake my hand, which is a first.
Why is he acting so friendly? We’ve never said a word to each other. “Every day I can.”
“And how is your head?”
“I’m feeling fine, Your Excellenc
y.”
I don’t remember anything about it, but Father Burke told me how I got jumped while painting one night. They beat me up so bad, I ended up in a coma for more than a month. The kids threw me a party when I came back home to St. Catherine’s, which was cool.
Sister Mo gestures to the Suit. “Kevin, this man is a lawyer, and he needs to have a word with you. Come sit down, you.”
My past might finally be catching up to me, but Sister Mo doesn’t look worried. So why is a lawyer here to see me?
The Bishop gestures to the other chair. “Sit next to me, son.”
When you’re an orphan, and nobody has ever called you son, and then our church’s top guy does it twice, it stops you in your tracks. What’s going on?
“Kevin,” the lawyer starts, “I’m with Tennison, Franks, and Stuebmann in Newark. First, let me offer my condolences.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry to inform you of the passing of Bartholomew Wakowski.”
“Who’s that?”
“He was a big fan of yours.”
I’m guessing he doesn’t mean me, the guy who was abandoned at the orphanage. This has to be about my paintings.
The lawyer hands me a thick, manila envelope. “This is Mr. Wakowski’s Last Will and Testament.”
Sister Mo looks as curious as I am.
When the Bishop pats me on the hand and says, “I’m sure it’s good news,” I don’t doubt for a second he already knows what’s in that envelope.
Watch out. He’s going to take a big interest in you from now on. It sounds like good advice, but I have no idea where the thought came from. It’s been happening a lot since I got beat up.
The Suit opens his leather folder and begins to read. “I, Bartholomew (Bat) Wakowski, being of sound mind and rather unsound body, bequeath my entire estate to Kevin Ward, a resident at the St. Catherine’s Home for Children. Tell him to paint the world as it should be, and that he has more family than he realizes.” The lawyer chuckles. “Mr. Wakowski could be a little eccentric.”
When none of us laugh along, he coughs. “Mr. Wakowski was an extremely successful video game inventor. Interestingly, he was also an art collector. His estate includes a number of very valuable paintings, as well as a substantial portfolio of holdings. There’s also a house in New Jersey, although we haven’t yet been able to gain access.”
I look at the Bishop. He’s smiling ear-to-ear. Now I understand why he suddenly wants to become my best bud.
“This has to be a joke,” I say. “I’ve never met the guy.”
“Oh, it’s quite legitimate,” the lawyer says. “And might I add that my firm has counseled Mr. Wakowski in the past, and we would be eager to provide legal services to you … uhm … ”
I guess he’s not sure how to address me now that this Wakowski guy has turned me into something more than a charity case. At least he didn’t use son.
“You can call me Orfyn.”
When the Bishop and lawyer leave, I say to Sister Mo, “I don’t understand.”
She comes around the desk and puts a thick arm around my shoulder. “I’ve been a nun for a long time, and one thing I know is there are angels all around us. And you have one watching over you.”
As strange as this all is, I smile at the thought.
Sister Mo smacks me on the head. “And don’t be too full of yourself, you. You can’t go around disappointing angels.”
Lake
My eyes snap open.
Sunshine streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. My eyes latch onto the painting on the wall next to my bed. There’s something about it that gives me the courage to believe I can do anything—which is odd, because it’s an abstract. I wish the artist had signed it so I can locate more of their work. I still don’t know who sent it to me. It showed up a few months ago without a note or return address.
I stretch and think through my day. My Mathematical Methods of Physical Chemistry class isn’t until eleven, so I have time to pick up a bagel and enjoy it in Central Park. Since moving to the City, it’s become my favorite thing to do.
On the way to the shower, I stop to pet Watson and Crick, my octopuses, and watch their colors shift with my touch. At first, I’d been worried my cat Pasteur would hurt them, but he avoids them like the plague. I think he senses that the octopuses are undiscovered aliens, and he doesn’t want to risk one of his nine lives being abducted. I smile at the ludicrous thought, but a tiny part of me can’t help but wonder. One day, thanks to science, we’ll know the truth about how life started on Earth.
I luxuriate in the water raining down on me. I don’t take my loft for granted; I’m blessed to own it. Still, I’d barter my inheritance if there was any way to save Grandma Bee. I often wish I could ask her how she managed to squirrel away so much money, and why she chose to never spend any of it to follow her dreams. She always talked about seeing Rome. Why didn’t she ever go? Grandma Bee is in the late stage of Alzheimer’s, and her mind is too addled to provide me with the answers.
Dad might know, but we haven’t spoken in a while. He’s been on tour with his band and isn’t the best at staying in touch. The lawyer who manages Grandma Bee’s finances didn’t have any answers, either. It may always remain a mystery.
I stop on my stoop and look up. The nimbus clouds are my favorites. I’ve made it a ritual to always find a new shape, which is childish, but it makes me happy. I wait until the winds shift and spot a cloud that looks like a submarine. Satisfied, I head out. A few blocks from the bagel shop, a crowd has gathered. When I get closer, I notice everyone taking photos. I tap the shoulder of a black girl with intricately braided hair. “What’s going on?”
“It’s a new Orfyn.”
“A new what?”
“An Orfyn.” She starts talking rapidly. “He’s a super famous artist. He’s just a teenager, but he owns this gallery uptown that only sells art created by young people and—get this—he donates all the money to the City’s orphanages.”
“Isn’t graffiti illegal?” I ask.
“I hear the building owners pay him.”
That’s a first. I’m walking away when she calls out, “Don’t you want to see it? It’s gorgeous.”
That’s a bit generous for spray paint scribbles, but now she has me intrigued. I squeeze through the crowd to get a look. She wasn’t exaggerating.
The painting is of a girl seated on a park bench, and she’s surrounded by enormous red rose bushes. Weighty dewdrops cling to the petals, and the blooms look so real I’m tempted to touch the wall to assure myself it’s only paint. There’s a hopefulness to the girl. Almost as if she’s not seen someone in a while and believes this is the day they’ll meet again. I chuckle at my melodramatic thought. How would I know what the artist meant to convey?
“She looks like you,” the girl says.
I’d been so lost in what the painting made me feel, I didn’t look closely at the girl in the painting. We could be twins!
By now, people are starting to stare at me.
“Is that you?” a businessman with gray hair at his temples asks.
“No.”
But the girl has my blue eyes that I’ve always believed were too close together, my nose with the little bump on the bridge, my pale skin, and her long hair is the same color as mine. My breath catches when I notice her bare feet. Her toenails are painted with my favorite shade of purple. I pull out a stick of gum and begin chewing.
“Come on, admit it,” encourages a plump woman with blue hair and a ring in her nose.
“It’s not me.” They look at me in disbelief, but I’m telling them the truth. I never posed for this picture. I must have a doppelganger.
Without asking, the plump woman takes a photo of me in front of my eerie likeness. “I’m posting this one.”
I consider asking her not to, then stop myself. It’s one photo. What’s the harm?
I know the girl just told me, but who is the artis
t? Considering I’m supposedly brilliant, I have a terrible short-term memory. I lean in to read the name painted in green, the shade of a new leaf. Orfyn.
I need to meet him and learn who that girl is.
Epilogue
Darsha pulls her phone from her Hermes purse.
She has tried everything. Every drug. Every therapy. Traditional and non-traditional.
She will not go softly. There is so much more to do. So much more to accomplish. She has one last chance.
“Darwin Corporation,” a flinty, no-nonsense voice greets.
“Darsha Patel. Procedure M-Sixteen. Confirmation code three-beta-five-zero.”
“Confirmed.”
Darsha ends the call. She can still make a difference. All she needs is more time. And soon she’ll have all the time in the world.
Art Referenced by Orfyn and Bat
The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci
Completed in 1498, it is found at the Basilica di Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan, Italy. Its intent was to capture the Apostles’ reactions after Jesus reveals that one of them will betray him. Technically not a fresco since it was painted on a dry wall, due to da Vinci’s experimental technique and medium, it began to deteriorate soon after it was completed. It was also damaged in 1943 during World War II when a bomb exploded just eighty feet away, virtually destroying the building. Miraculously, the wall with da Vinci’s painting remained standing. Despite seven restoration attempts, very little of the original painting exists today.
The Lady of Shalott by John William Waterhouse
Painted in 1888, it is usually on display at the Tate Gallery in London, England. Waterhouse is known for his lavish depictions of women in Greek and Arthurian (i.e. King Arthur and Lancelot) mythology. This painting is a portrayal of Part IV of Lord Alfred Tennyson’s 1832 poem of the same name.
The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli