The Clock Flower

by Barbara Casey

  “It is all so secretive, isn’t it? Clandestine even,” said Carolina. “But, of course, even now a lot of women who give up their babies for adoption don’t want to be traced.”

  “There is something else. There is a separate bank account set up in Mackenzie’s name, and money that comes from that blind trust gets deposited into it each month. And it doesn’t end there.” Larry drank his coffee and put the cup back on the saucer. “I think I located Mackenzie’s father…”

  “The Scottish businessman…”

  “That’s right. I was able to trace a man from the northern part of Scotland who fit the description—raised sheep and sold wool primarily in China, but he died of an apparent heart attack a few years ago. His name was Alister Mackenzie McCallum. So, you see, there is the name “Mackenzie” as well as some other things. I am pretty sure he was Mackenzie’s father.”

  “Oh my.” Tears welled up in Carolina’s eyes. Teaching and living at an orphanage, and even learning about her own background and how she came to be adopted, she was well versed in the tragic stories of the orphans. But this story was about one of her girls. It was about Mackenzie.

  “Of course, there’s a chance he didn’t even know about the baby, but I think he probably did because of one interesting fact. This man owned over 10,000 acres of land in northern Scotland at the time of his death, as well as several hundred Blackface sheep and, of course, the ranch house, barns, and other out buildings. All totaled, its value amounted to well over several million dollars. Records show that it was sold to a company in China, and that money went into the same blind trust that is now in Mackenzie’s name. This was done according to his will. The ranch continues to be managed and worked by locals from that region in Scotland, and it is still a profitable enterprise, but the owner apparently lives in China.”

  “How odd. If this man was Mackenzie’s father, it sounds as though someone from China knew it.” Carolina reached out and held Larry’s hand, as though that would help her to understand what he was saying. “I always thought it was a little strange that an anonymous donor paid for Mackenzie’s education at MIT. Of course, Miss Alcott insisted on contributing also, but no one seemed to know anything about the anonymous donor.” Then, her mind turning in a different direction, “Do we know anything about her mother?”

  “As far as her mother goes, immigration records indicate there were two young Chinese women traveling together from mainland China by way of Hawaii to the United States about the time that would fit in with Mackenzie’s date of birth. One of the women was the only daughter in one of China’s leading ruling families. Her companion was her maid. In the documentation of the two women, the maid is described as ‘being with child.’ So, if that is the case, then she was probably Mackenzie’s mother. When I tried to trace where the woman is now, the last information showed that she returned to her home in China—a small village called Puli on the Yellow Sea.”

  “You seem to have some doubt,” Carolina said.

  Larry ran his hand through his thick curly black hair. “I don’t know; something just doesn’t feel right.” He looked at Carolina and shook his head. “The records have been well concealed, but they are all there, nice and neat. It is just that my instincts are telling me there is more to it.”

  Carolina nodded. She knew about the instincts of Larry Gitani for he was the son of a Gypsy King. If he didn’t feel comfortable with the information, then there must be a reason. “I think you need to tell Mackenzie what you have found out so far. At least that way she won’t feel anxious thinking you have forgotten about her. And it will give us more time to look into matters.”

  “Us?”

  “That’s right. Us.”

  She was right, of course. Larry knew that Carolina needed to be involved. But as he continued to talk, Carolina heard another voice. It was her mother’s voice—a whisper really—Mackenzie needs you. She is in danger. Just like when she almost died from the wicked gypsy boy’s curse, it was the voice of Lyuba, her mother, who saved her. And when she and the FIGs were facing danger deep beneath Grand Central Terminal desperately trying to find Dara, she had heard her mother’s voice—warning her. And she heard it now. For she was the daughter of a choovihni, with the knowledge of gypsies from the beginning of time coursing through her veins. And like her mother, Lyuba, Carolina had the gift.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For the next several weeks, three Females of Intellectual Genius—Dara, Mackenzie, and Jennifer—focused on their individual work, only taking breaks to eat and sleep, and, of course, for the phone call from Carolina each evening at exactly eight o’clock. It was an exhilarating time for the three young women, learning to survive beyond the stone walls of Wood Rose, and meeting their challenges head on as they focused on their unique specific projects and moved toward the solutions they desired. It was also a special time for Carolina as she watched from a distance the metamorphosis of her girls emerging from their protective shells to develop into the brilliant young women she knew them to be. Together they would always be the FIGs, Females of Intellectual Genius. But now, separated by distance and the passage of time, they were discovering within themselves their own distinctive identities.

  As autumn’s painted leaves of orange, yellow, and red turned to brown and began to fall, and a slight chill in the air promised the rapid approach of another season, the FIGs could feel pride in knowing that they each were contributing something of value to the good of mankind in her own exceptional way. Carolina was happy for them and so proud. How to be independent, productive, and happy in a society that would always consider them different was what she had tried to teach them; yet she felt a certain sadness and loss because of it. She had Larry, of course; they were soul mates, they shared a gypsy heritage, and they were destined to be together because of the strong love they had for one another. However, being a part of the FIGs’ lives over the past year—sharing in the experiences they had—the four of them becoming a loving family—was something Carolina knew would never happen to her again. It was almost like she had been specifically chosen by some greater entity for that moment in time to be with them. She and the FIGs had something special, and because of that, they would be bound together forever. But the FIGs were changing, probably faster than she even realized; and because that was the way it was supposed to be, there was nothing she or anyone else could do to stop it.

  The “projects” as they were referred to brought a new dynamic to their eight o’clock telephone conversations. Sometimes the three FIGs would be so focused and distracted by what they were working on, there wouldn’t be much said. They only wanted to feel the presence of one another—to know that they were close—and be comforted by the love each felt for the other in their odd little family. It was during these quiet times that Carolina would talk about her own day—each of her classes and what she was teaching her students. “I wish you could have been here to listen to Jimmy Bob recite some of his poetry,” she told them. “The students really enjoyed it.”

  One of the poems Jimmy Bob recited was called “Beneath the Swags of Spanish Moss,” which he had written just for Carolina’s class, a beautiful free verse describing Wood Rose and told in the voice of his dog, old Tick. Because he had only written it the night before, he didn’t have it completely memorized and needed to read it. However, as he explained to Carolina in great detail, he had left his reading glasses on the small table next to his can of soda and bag of cheese chips. “Luckily one of the eleventh-grade students, Lynda—spelled with a ‘y’—Cargill, wore reading glasses—big pink glittery frames with purple butterflies on the corners of the lenses—and she let Jimmy Bob borrow them so he could read his poem,” Carolina told the FIGs. “But there was a rather large Band-Aid on his cheek from where he had nicked himself shaving that morning, and it kept getting stuck to one of the butterflies whenever he tried to make the sound of old Tick barking…” and they all burst into a fit of giggles. All in all, it was one of Carolina’s most successful classes,
and she told Jimmy Bob she would invite him back again soon.

  Other times, the energized excitement of what had been accomplished during the day was so extraordinary and so powerful, it was almost tangible, and there simply weren’t enough words to express it. And on this particular night, with the waning blood moon hanging low in the northern sky, Mackenzie shared something that made her excited—her new discovery.

  “We already know that sirtuins, a class of protein found in dandelions, regulate aging, but our study is really the first one demonstrating that sirtuins can reverse age-associated degeneration,” said Mackenzie, talking so fast the others had a hard time keeping up. “This opens the door to potential treatments for age-related degenerative diseases.” Then, lowering her voice to a point that the others almost couldn’t hear her, “Studies have already shown that even a single gene mutation can lead to lifespan extension. I think I am very close to finding that single gene in the dandelion that will reverse aging.”

  That soft-spoken revelation, so matter-of-fact and startling in its simple honesty, would have astounded anyone else and raised skepticism. But it was Carolina and the FIGs that Mackenzie told. And they had no doubt that Mackenzie would find that single dandelion gene.

  That was also when Mackenzie chose to tell the others that she had asked Larry to see if he could trace her birth parents—and what he had been able to find out.

  “Mackenzie! That is amazing!” said Dara, because she was always the first to speak.

  Jennifer, because she was the most sensitive to the feelings of the others, asked, “Are you alright with that, Mackenzie?” It was one thing not to know, because then you could make up anything you wanted to believe about your parents. But to actually know was different; it was also frightening.

  “I think so,” she answered, glad that she had told the others and now she could talk about it. “Larry didn’t give me many of the details—only that my father was from Scotland—a sheep rancher—and believed to be deceased, and my mother is probably living in China,” she said with no lisp and little emotion.

  “I am sure he will be able to find out more, Mackenzie,” offered Carolina, noticing that Mackenzie seemed to be accepting the information Larry had given her very well, all things considered, and didn’t seem to mind one way or the other, perhaps because the excitement of the project she was working on took priority over all other things. Somehow, Mackenzie had formulated the information about her birth parents into the same complex numerical equation with the dandelion gene. It was how she was able to come to terms with being placed in an orphanage as a new-born baby; and it was how she was able to process the possibility that she might one day meet her mother.

  It was obvious to Dara, Jennifer, and Carolina that Mackenzie was in her element. She wasn’t just surviving in her new environment; she was flourishing, made even more evident by the fact that her lisp had all but disappeared. That alone gave Carolina the assurance to believe that no matter what they found out about Mackenzie’s birth parents or the challenges that were ahead, Mackenzie would be able to face them with confidence. Even so, she was glad they had a plan and their secret code word “Thurgood” for emergencies if anything did go wrong or if a challenge presented itself that was simply too difficult.

  As Senator Xing-Ling Yi had promised, a private lab was provided, equipped according to Mackenzie’s instructions, for her research on the Clock Flower Project. “If you need anything, all you have to do is ask,” President Hershell told her the day he showed her the lab and gave her the key. Then in a more hushed tone, “I am sure I don’t need to tell you what this means for all of us here at MIT.” Mackenzie didn’t know if Ling had told him what the project involved or not, but it didn’t matter. She knew, and her work in continuity theorems and sequential limits along with compilations of advance calculations based on ancient Chinese formulae, the Jiuzhang suanshu or, more commonly called, the Nine Chapters on the Mathematical Art, was directing her toward the answers she was seeking.

  Senator Yi called Mackenzie from Washington, DC, as often as her busy schedule allowed, sometimes just to say hello or for a brief chat, or other times to discuss Mackenzie’s progress, and always to ask if she needed anything. She had given Mackenzie all of the computer pass codes so she could electronically access the current, on-going research being conducted at Yellow Sea Laboratories as well as the numerous archived files. Mackenzie read everything, pulling out the information she thought might be useful in her own work—an ancient formula, an obscure reference, a long-forgotten applied experiment. She was so close to identifying the single gene needed for age reversal, but there was something missing. It were as though the research that had been done up to that point had suddenly hit a brick wall. Something had been overlooked or forgotten, so she continued to read through the files and rework her own formulae. And she had her beautiful yellow dandelion pin that Ling had given her, something Mackenzie wore every day for good luck.

  Everything from Yellow Sea Laboratories had the name “Sui De Long” stamped on it, and when Mackenzie asked Ling about it, she explained that “Old Dragon,” as it was translated, headed up the project. When Mackenzie looked her up on the internet, she found a photograph that showed a young woman, probably in her early to late thirties, with a shock of short, jet black hair. She had attended the same universities as Ling, and her list of credentials in the field of scientific research was long and impressive. Her date of birth made her 52 years old, however, which didn’t fit the much younger woman in her photograph. Thinking it might be an old photograph, she looked more closely and saw the photographer’s name with the date. It had been taken that year. “How weird is that!?” Mackenzie muttered.

  For the time being, she preferred to work alone. Later, if she found she needed assistance, she would ask. This meant that she had the only key to her lab, and she wouldn’t have to be concerned about any experiments—long-term or otherwise—being interfered with if she wasn’t there. And even though all of her notes on her lab computer were backed up on her private server as well as on the small computer she always kept with her, she could feel comfortable knowing everything was safe since it was so critical, as Ling explained, that none of the research got into the wrong hands. “If someone with evil intentions possessed the knowledge of age reversal—immortality—they could literally hold the world hostage,” she told Mackenzie.

  It was in that same conversation that Ling mentioned to Mackenzie she was planning to make a trip to China before the end of the year, and she wanted Mackenzie to join her, something that worried Mackenzie because as much as she wanted to go, she didn’t want anything to interfere with whatever Carolina and the FIGs were going to do. Or, maybe, Ling wouldn’t mind if Carolina, Dara, and Jennifer came with them; that is, if they even wanted to go to China.

  Mackenzie was talking about all of these things in one of their nightly phone calls when she stopped in mid-sentence suddenly remembering something Ling had said to her when they first met: I have been following you and your education with great interest for many years… “Why do you think that is?” It was almost a whisper. Then, with a slight lisp, “I mean, how would she have even known about me?”

  Dara came up with a plausible explanation. “All those politicians in Washington have people who do nothing but look for smart young people they can get to work on special projects. That’s probably how she found out about you and your genius for mathematics and problem-solving skills.”

  Jennifer, not sure what to think, waited for Carolina to say something, and when she didn’t, she simply agreed with Dara. “That’s right, Mackenzie, isn’t it, Carolina?”

  But Carolina didn’t hear her; she only heard the voice of the gypsy choovihni—her mother—Mackenzie needs your help. There is danger. Please be careful, my precious daughter.

  * * *

  Liz, Jennifer’s CA, noticed a change. Jennifer had actually greeted her several mornings and asked how she was doing. She still stayed locked up in her room be
tween meals and the tall stack of paper had now become two tall stacks, but Jennifer seemed almost approachable—even friendly—calling the other young women in her suite by name and occasionally carrying on a conversation. She seemed more normal, and everyone else at Juilliard noticed it as well which gave rise to more conversations about the strange, quiet girl with brilliant blue eyes who wore her long blond hair tied back in a ponytail. “I heard she just inherited a ton of money,” said one of the students studying opera ballet. “I think she is bipolar and the doctor has put her back on her meds,” said another student who himself had been recently diagnosed as bipolar and was studying modern abstract and conceptual art using the painterly technique. “When do you think she will want to start some classes?” asked one of the highly trained professors from Germany who had been looking forward to working with this young talented genius with a virtuosity for music composition. His colleague only shrugged, not particularly wanting to get involved or even express an opinion since he had heard the rumors of Jennifer’s angry outbursts and the newest one that she was the secret child of the famous German composer, Richard Wagner.

  “I’m starved.” Jennifer was already waiting at the door when Liz showed up to walk her to the dining hall for breakfast. “I hope they have biscuits and gravy this morning.” Then flipping her ponytail and smiling at Liz, “You must be from the south with that accent. I bet you like biscuits and gravy.” Liz hardly knew what to say. She didn’t even realize that Jennifer had paid any attention to her, much less noticed her southern accent. She checked to see if Jennifer was holding anything in her hands that could be used as a weapon. “I come from Georgia,” she finally answered, moving aside slightly and putting a little more distance between them just in case. “Just a small town. And I love biscuits and gravy.”