Chasing Wishes

by Simonenko, Nadia

  The lines on Mrs. Preston's face deepen as she frowns, and she straightens her posture and looks down her nose at me before answering. For a moment, I'm not sure she believes me. No matter what I tell her my name is—no matter where I went to school or what I say my connection her son is—she still sees that I'm still a short Hispanic girl. She still knows I'm not "the right kind of girl" for her son to be friends with, whether she remembers Nina or not.

  "No, he's not here," she sniffs, finally deigning to answer me. "Haven't seen him in years, and good riddance."

  My eyes widen in shock but I quickly regain my composure and put my Skylar mask back on.

  "Oh? What happened?" I ask nervously. "Is he okay?"

  "Not that it's any of your business," she answers, "but he cashed out his trust whe hih? What han he went off to college and then never even bothered calling home. He wasted a single stamp sending me a deranged, ungrateful rant of a letter, and then I never heard from him again. I can't say I'm sorry after all the trouble he gave me as a child, though."

  She stares me down, her jaw tight and her fists balled as if she expects a fight, but I just stare back at her. I'm not here for a fight. I'm here to find Isaac and I'm floored that he ran off during college. I can't even imagine him doing something like that! Something must've gone seriously wrong.

  "I’m sorry to hear that," I mumble, uncertain what else to say.

  "I don't need your sympathy, thank you," answers Mrs. Preston, folding her arms across her chest and scowling at me in response.

  "Do you know where he is now? Could you give me his mailing address?"

  "Why do you care where he is?" she fires back, her pale face suddenly burning red with unexpected indignation. "Does he owe you money? Child support? Were you another one of his whores, like that little bitch he ranted about in his letter?"

  She suddenly claps a hand over her mouth and goes silent as she realizes what she's just said, but it's too late to take the words back now. Her dirty laundry is out in the open and I know everything.

  I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek as I force myself to stay civil as outrage burns to life inside me. I tell myself to pretend I'm in high school, to pretend I have no choice but to stay meek and submissive like in the old days. Old habits die hard, and soon the fire is quenched and I can think clearly again.

  "No, nothing like that," I answer, smiling serenely. I want to slap her for the insult, but she doesn't know I'm Nina and I'm not keen on her finding out. "I was just curious."

  I'm the 'little bitch' in Isaac's letter. I don't know how I know it, but I'm certain of it and I know exactly what his letter said. Isaac cut his mother off because of how she treated me—somehow I'm certain of it now. The only thing I'm not certain of is whether to feel honored or guilty. Isaac didn't forget about me when we lost each other after all—somehow, despite all my fears to the contrary, he still cared about me.

  And yet you still can't find him, whisper my doubts, raining on my parade and smothering the brief feeling of elation. You'd think if he cared so much, he'd have found you by now.

  "Well, I don't know where he is anyway," she sniffs, interrupting my downward spiral as she recovers from her social faux pas and rebuilds her haughty façade. "I'm afraid I can't help you."

  "That's a shame. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Preston," I tell her, and I turn away and start my precarious descent down the icy stairs.

  "Mind your step," she cautions me. "The grounds are... diffic

  ult to maintain in the winter."

  Her words say one thing, but the nervous pause in her delivery says something completely different. She can't maintain them in the winter because she can't afford it anymore. I bet that all those years of lawsuits with her estranged husband drained whatever fortune she once had, and that's why the house is up for auction.

  "I'll be careful, ma'am," I tell her, looking back over my shoulder and offering her a sympathetic look. Maybe she doesn't deserve it, but I still pity her.

  The front door sl fr, loams behind me, its sound muted by the winter snow, and I don't look back a second time. As I get into the taxi, I reach into the bag and pull out Isaac's pathetic present—a tin of homemade cookies I baked for him—and I grab one to munch on. There's nothing left here but the ruins of Isaac's past, and that's not what I came here for.

  I came here to find Isaac's future, maybe even to be a part of it.

  ...and to give him his cookies. I still owe him a few.

  wi

  wi

  wi

  Chapter XXVI

  Terrence

  Marcus guides me down the long, glass hallway of my laboratories and into the main office, being careful to anchor myself to the table before he lets go of me. The results of our immune response studies are coming back today, and we wait side by side in anxious silence for Chen to arrive with the data.

  I shift my weight back and forth from foot to foot and fuss impatiently with the top button of my shirt as if that's going to fool Marcus into thinking I'm not nervous. I'm more than just nervous—I'm outright scared that we'll have failed the study. If that happens, my little side project is sunk and I'm back to square one again.

  I don't know why I keep calling it a side project when it's the second most important thing in the world to me right now. Perhaps my doubts are trying to convince myself that it isn't such a huge deal, as if distancing me from how important it is will make the inevitable failure hurt less.

  I'm not going to fail, I try to comfort myself, but I'm not sure I believe it. I hired an amazing team of scientists and stole a hell of a lot of technology from all the companies we worked for, but nobody's ever managed to make something like this work before. No matter how confident I am in our design, I have to admit that the odds are decidedly not in my favor.

  A smile crosses my face as an image of Irene forms in my mind. There she is, the most important thing to me right now... I think. Sometimes it's her, sometimes it's Nina, and sometimes I can't actually tell the two apart anymore. My memories of Nina keep blurring into my image of Irene, giving her Nina's soft brown eyes and delicate features, and I don't know whether to feel guilty for sullying Nina's memory or for cheating on Irene in my mind.

  No... I can't worry about that right now. I have to focus on the project today, and there's no time to worry about anything else.

  I reach out and press my palms against the enormous schematic rolled across the table. It's always sitting there—according to Marcus, it's too big to fit anywhere else in the lab. It takes me only a few seconds of searching to find the edge of the design—a raised ink line left on the paper by our industrial laser printer. I follow the raised curve with my fingertips as if deciphering a map, tracing it in a large oval as I walk slowly around the table. I don't need to be able to see the blueprint to do this—I know every last part of the design by memory.

  It's a schematic of the human eye and all the implanted components of our new invention.

  "You're awfully quiet for such a big day," Marcus comments, following right behind me in my slow pacing. "Something on your mind?"

  "No, I'm just nervous," I lie.

  "Come on," he says, prodding me in the back with one finger. "I know you better than that. Tell me."

  "Anyone else here right now?" fr, " he sI ask, stopping my slow meander and leaning in against the table. I didn't hear anyone else come in, but it wouldn't be the first time I was wrong.

  "Not a soul."

  "It's a sort of personal problem," I tell him. "Irene is... well..."

  I trail off as my thoughts all jumble up in my brain and refuse to form coherent sentences. Marcus chuckles, and then I hear the coffee maker start. He's expecting a difficult talk, and he's probably right as usual.

  "Make me one too, will you?"

  "Sure thing," he replies, and then a few minutes later returns with my steaming hot Styrofoam cup.

  "Black with no sugar," he tells me. "Delightfully bitter, much like you until recently, I might
add."

  I ignore his jab and sip my coffee in silence as I try to collect my thoughts. I know what's bothering me—why is it so hard for me to say it?

  "Terrence... I've known you a long time," says Marcus quietly. "I have a pretty good guess what you're going to say. Want me to lead into it for you?"

  I nod silently.

  "Irene's wonderful, isn't she? What's bothering you about her?" he asks, and suddenly all the words fall right into line and find their way to my tongue.

  "She's wonderful, Marcus. I haven't been so happy in years," I tell him. "The problem is... well, I feel like I'm cheating on Nina when I'm with Irene."

  "And?" I swear I can hear Marcus raising his eyebrow at me.

  "It goes the other way too. I feel guilty that I'm still thinking about Nina now. I'm being unfair to Irene by holding onto Nina, too. I feel like I can't have both, and I don't know what to do."

  God, that sounded pathetic, I think. Who'd have thought I'd grow up to live in a soap opera?

  Marcus remains silent for a long time, and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead and the quiet thrum of the lab ventilation system fill my ears.

  "I'm going to need a second coffee," he finally says, and then he returns with another cup for me as well. Good—it's something to occupy my mouth so I don't keep blathering on like an idiot.

  "So, want my advice?" asks Marcus, smacking his lips contentedly as he drinks his coffee. For probably the first time in my life, the answer is an unequivocal yes.

  "Forget Nina," whispers Marcus. His answer is blunt and painful, but impossible or not, I know it's true in the back of my mind.

  "I can't do that," I tell him. "Irene reminds me so strongly of her that—"

  "No," Marcus interrupts. "She reminds you of a decade-old memory of a teenage girl you're never going see again."

  I turn away from him as a quick wave of unjustified anger and frustration washes over me. I asked for his advice, and it's exactly what I expected it to be. Of course he was going to say that—it's not his job to feed my irrational love for a girl who, as far as I know, only exists on a cassette in my bedroom now.

  "Listen to me," he says, putting his hand gently but firmly on my shoulder and turning me back around to face him again. "Irene is a gorgeous, wonderful woman and reminds you of everything you loved about Nina. She absolutely adores you, Terrence—I see it in her face every time you two are toget tw is a gorher. What are you still missing? What more do you need?"

  I sigh and shake my head, but when I try to turn away, Marcus tightens his grip and holds me in place.

  "Terrence... every time you think about Nina, you are cheating on Irene," he tells me, his tone low and stern now. "You're holding back part of yourself and saving yourself for a girl you barely even remember. You need to stop it or you're going to lose them both. You're never going to find another girl like Irene—she's one of a kind."

  "But—"

  "You asked for my advice," he interrupts, "and I'm giving it. You need to accept Irene for who she is and not just for how similar she is to Nina, or you're going to lose her. You know that just as well as I do."

  I run a hand through my hair in agitation and just as I'm about to fire back at Marcus, Chen arrives and interrupts our conversation

  "The study results are in," he calls out, his footsteps echoing as he hurries down the glass hallway. "I'm holding them hostage for a cup of coffee, though, so pay up."

  "We don't negotiate with terrorists, Chen!" Marcus cries out in mock horror. "Well, not unless they're okay with decaf."

  "Throw in a half-and-half and you've got a deal," he counters, and Marcus laughs and runs off to the coffee pot.

  "So, what's the update?" I ask as nervous excitement swells inside me. "Did it work? How'd the tests go?"

  "Hang on one second while I find the summary," Chen answers, and Marcus and I wait in agonizing silence as he shuffles through stacks of paper.

  "Sorry, I know it's in here somewhere," he apologizes, his tone marked with embarrassment. "I saw it like five minutes ago, I swear."

  Marcus grumbles impatiently and the table creaks beneath his weight as he leans in beside me.

  "Found it!" calls out Chen triumphantly. "Everything came back clean both in the optical nerve interface and the eye as well. There was no inflammatory response in any of the in vitro or animal studies. This baby is good to go, Terrence."

  My pulse quickens and a thrill runs through me at Chen's good news. It's too good to be true, though. There must be something else wrong—there always is.

  "And what about the optical sensors?" I ask. "Did they retain functionality during the studies?"

  "All of them. Every single test came back perfect, no matter what temperature or acidity conditions we used," he answers proudly, and I can see his beaming smile in my mind even though I've never seen him in my life.

  "Chen, one last, serious question for you," I ask. "Pretend your son needed the implant... do you trust it enough to give it to him?"

  "Hell yes," he answers without even the slightest hesitation. "Like I said, it's good to go. This baby's ready, Terrence."

  That seals it for me. Chen's always been fairly risk-averse in my experience, and if he trusts it that strongly, I can trust it too. I brace myself against the table to fend off the dizzying feeling excitement spiraling upward through me

  It works. Holy shit... it actually works!

  "Chen, what is all this crap?" asks Marcus from off to my left, and I hear him shuffling through a pile of papers. "Consent signatures, waivers of damages... this thing's lthi, what ike a thousand pages long. I don't recall asking the micro labs for a copy of War and Peace, just the data from our inflammation assays."

  By the time I realize what Marcus is talking about, it's too late to interject and change the subject. Chen's already answered him, and I can almost hear Marcus' jaw hitting the floor.

  "It's the first-in-human surgical paperwork," he explains. "The hardest part for any new medical device is getting the official clinical patients lined up... and, well... we have a volunteer already."

  I can feel Marcus' eyes drilling holes straight through me. My secret's out of the bag. He doesn't need to read that gargantuan document to know who the first volunteer was for our experimental artificial retina.

  It's me.

  "Terrence... you can't do this," he tells me, his voice low and serious.

  "Sure I can. Name a better candidate."

  "I won't let you do—"

  "You can't actually stop me. I own the company," I interrupt him. "I've been praying for an opportunity like this for five fucking years, Marcus."

  "Just let us test it in a general population first!" he argues. "You've been waiting five years—what's one more year just to make certain it works?"

  I shake my head. Another year is more than I'm willing to wait, especially now that I know the cure is right here in my laboratory. As awful as the surgery will be, I'm getting that implant. If it works, it'll replace my deteriorated retinas and I'll finally be able to see again!

  "Why is this so hard for you to understand?" I fire back at him. "Someone has to test it—why shouldn't it be me? Do you have any idea how hard it is to—"

  Marcus interrupts me before I can finish my rant.

  "Charlotte, for the love of God, help me talk some sense into him," Marcus pleads, and I spin on my heels in what I think is the direction of the doorway. I didn't even hear her come in – usually her heels give her away from a mile off.

  "Terrence, we need to talk," she says, ignoring Marcus entirely. There’s an unusual tone in her voice, as if she’s attempting to be civil but only just barely holding back.

  Her heels click loudly as she strides quickly to my side, and without waiting for me to answer, she loops her arm around mine and pulls me away from the table.

  "I'm not changing my mind, Charlotte," I protest, yanking my arm free from her and anchoring myself on the edge of the table before I lose track of where
I am.

  "I don't care one bit about your decision regarding the implant," she says. "I can't stop you anyway. I need to talk about something else. It's urgent."

  "Well, what is it?"

  "We need to talk alone," she says impatiently, and she grabs me by the arm again.

  I’m really not in the mood for one of Charlotte’s tirades—it's always a tirade with her, I've learned—but I let her guide me out of the labs and upstairs toward my room.