by Kira Peikoff
He walked to the window and called her. The phone rang as he contemplated the possibility that she might not be able to answer at all. He paced over the wood floor, pressing the phone hard against his ear. One, two, three rings passed.
“Hello?” came her voice, scratchy and soft.
“Hey, Arianna,” he said, his tone chipper. “How are you? I just wanted to see if we’re still biking tomorrow?”
“Actually, no. I’m in the hospital.”
“What?”
Her voice was flat. “I had a bike accident. Had to get six stitches on my chin, and my knees and elbows are all ripped up.”
“Holy shit, are you okay?”
“Luckily, that was about it.”
He exhaled a breath he did not know he was holding. “Thank God.”
Silence.
“Arianna?”
“I’m here.”
“What’s wrong?”
She sighed a long breath, and when she spoke, even her voice sounded deflated. “I guess it’s only fair to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Look, Trent, I owe you an apology. I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
“Okay…” In spite of the irony, his heart began to race; was this the moment of her confession? He hadn’t imagined it like this—with his opponent bandaged and broken, a suddenly weaker match—but why would she tell him now about a secret lab?
“I have malignantly progressive multiple sclerosis. I lose my balance sometimes, and my limbs go numb out of nowhere, like today. I shouldn’t have been riding anymore, but I hate letting it interfere with my life. Which is also why I didn’t tell you. You may not mean to, but I don’t want you to start treating me like I’m some cripple. Because I’m not. Maybe it’s only in my mind, but I’m not.” Her voice rose, lifted by self-respect. “And if you still want anything to do with me after this, you’ll have to get that straight.”
Trent’s mind swirled with a montage of instantly linked events: her limp, her stumbling into the lobby, her foot thrust into the spokes of the wheel. He had never known anyone with MS, had no idea what it involved or implied.
“Jesus, Arianna. I had no idea.… I can’t believe you were still biking, when you knew the danger—you’re a doctor, for God’s sake!”
“Oh, and don’t even dare patronize me. I will live my life however I choose and take whatever risks I want. If I decide to skydive tomorrow as my last life’s wish, then you can either wave to me from the ground or—”
“Your last life’s wish?” he interrupted. “What? What are you talking about?”
“It’s malignantly progressive. Soon I’ll be in a wheelchair, and after that…” After a pause, her voice dropped to a hard note. “I like you, Trent, but you’d be wasting your time to date me.”
He took a deep breath, trying to loosen the shock that was lodged in his throat like a clot. “I don’t care,” he said, trying to sound brave and supportive, and not as rotten as he felt. “I still want to keep seeing you for as long as I can.”
“You do?”
“Yes. But isn’t there any treatment that could help you? Any drug?”
“There are some drugs that slow its progress,” she said. “But no, right now, there’s no cure.”
No cure.
Right now, there’s—
And then, flabbergasted, he latched on to the wildly glaring connection— Can it be? His head began to throb as if from an ice freeze, oversaturated with information.
“I don’t know what to say,” he finally said.
“I need to go, anyway. You probably need some time to digest this. You can call me later if you want. And needless to say, we can’t bike together anymore.”
He closed his phone and stared out the window, barely perceiving the dark treetops below. Time passed—a minute or ten—before his hand mechanically dialed a number on his phone.
Dopp’s voice sounded incongruously normal, even pleasant, when he answered. “Hey, Trent, how did it go?”
Something deep within him, unacknowledged and unwanted, recoiled against his words as he answered:
“I think I found her motive.”
SEVEN
Arianna dropped her cell phone onto the starchy hospital sheet as Trent’s voice dissipated in the silence. She closed her eyes, trying to retain the timbre of his voice, but its distressed tone magnified her worry. I won’t be surprised if I never hear from him again, she thought. In fact, I would completely understand.
Her throat clenched for tears, but she knew that indulging in self-pity was its own side effect of MS, and one that was more detrimental than a numb foot or a wave of dizziness. Even though some other doctors denied it, she believed that attitude played an important role in the rate of a disease’s progression—a staunch belief that compelled her to focus on the joyous aspects of life, and to savor even its smallest pleasures, like crisp air invigorating her lungs.
She breathed in deeply, expanding the tightness in her throat, but the air was stale and reeked of disinfectant. She surveyed her surroundings in dismay, glancing from the paper blue curtains hanging dismally on either side of her bed to the tiny television mounted on the opposite wall that betrayed its age by its DVD player.
She tried to swing one leg onto the floor—and was stunned, not by the expected shock of pain, but by the sensation of nothing at all. Her leg had not moved. She threw off the faux-wool blanket, thrashing her bandaged legs until she felt a viciously sweet pain pulse in her knees, hardly noticing the screech of the curtain as it was yanked along its steel rod.
“Arianna!” exclaimed a voice. “What are you doing?”
The kind face of her own doctor, an MS specialist, instantly stilled her.
“Oh, Dr. Morris, thank God! My legs just went completely dead. I thought for a second…”
He nodded knowingly. His wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose like a filter of emotion: the only one that ever showed was calm.
“But you can move and feel them now?”
“Yes.”
How much easier it was to remain calm when you were the one at bedside and not in it, she thought. But she knew that it made her a better doctor, at least. Sympathy was the crux of the job at times, as barren couples cried in her office, and understanding the depth of their suffering was a trait that seemed to inspire more goodwill than her degree from Columbia.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and he tested her reflexes with a small hammer. Her feet kicked up weakly.
“I saw a copy of your admit report. You must have taken quite a spill.” His words were not judgmental; if anything, his tone was sympathetic. It was one reason why she had stayed with Dr. Morris since her diagnosis two years ago: He understood her fundamental need to lead a normal, active life at whatever the risk, never scolding her for testing the limits of the disease.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Arianna said. “And I guess I have to agree.”
“The Novatrone drip is the right course of action at this point, Arianna,” he said gently. “And I think we should get you started on it as soon as possible, since your legs are already showing symptoms of preparalysis. We’ll start it with a course of antibiotics to prevent infection in your cuts. It seems that the shock to your system from falling is expediting the degeneration of myelin in your lower spinal cord.”
She nodded reluctantly. I took what I wanted and I’m paying for it, she thought. The key to the progression of her disease was myelin: the fatty protective membrane layered around nerve fibers in the brain and spinal cord, which increases the speed at which impulses are conducted. The thicker the myelin sheath, the faster impulses can travel. Arianna’s own body had inexplicably begun to attack her myelin, disrupting the electrical impulses conducted to and from her brain, resulting in nerve damage. As more and more areas of myelin scarred, it felt like watching herself drown; soon she would be left paralyzed.
Novatrone was a last-resort drug, a powerful immune
-suppressing medication to delay paralysis in rapidly worsening patients, and Arianna was more aware of its risks than most: It could be tolerated by the body for only a limited time before causing heart damage.
“Let’s do it,” she said, wishing more than ever that she could confide in him.
She had hinted at her secret a year ago, when the group was first coming together, but Dr. Morris had been skeptical of its potential for success. Even worse, he had scoffed at her remark that she wished to be the first human trial.
“Rubbish,” he had said, “it’s a nice fantasy, but first of all, if any scientist ever got that far today, it would be like a monk decoding the human genome in the Middle Ages.”
“I know of a certain monk who was the father of genetics,” she had retorted.
“Mendel was in the nineteenth century, not exactly the Middle Ages! But look, even if some genius managed to discover something without going to jail in the process, it’s almost certain death to be the first trial. Stem cells could be rejected by the body, or lead to tumors, cancer…”
But what other choice do I have? she had thought. I’d rather die trying to live than live waiting to die. And Sam said there are theoretical ways to get around those risks.…
“Arianna, be careful, whatever you’re doing,” Dr. Morris had added. “And don’t tell me. If the DEP ever questions me … But I wish you the best of luck.…”
How she wished to tell him now about Sam’s rats, which once suffered from autoimmune encephalomyelitis, an animal model of multiple sclerosis characterized by almost identical scarring and symptoms. Today those rats scampered around their cages and spun madly on metal wheels. Arianna thought of the plump little creatures often, even lovingly, despite knowing that the complexity of human cells made the same progress so much harder.
Instead of mentioning the rats, she propped herself up on her bandaged elbows and stared into Dr. Morris’s eyes without fear. “Tell me one thing straight,” she said. “With the Novatrone, how long before my legs go?”
“About a month.”
“And after that, how long before—before it’s not worth living?”
“Hopefully, another two months…” He knew better than to deign to apologize or persuade her to accept existence in a vegetative state, one which neither of them would term life.
“Thank you.” She took a breath of stagnant air. “Can you give me a minute?”
“Of course. I’ll go see about starting the drip.” He ducked behind the curtain and she heard his rubber soles squeak across the floor.
This really could be my last winter, she thought, suddenly recalling the winter break during her senior year of college, when she and Megan had jaunted around Europe, savoring “the last winter” before the onslaught of graduate school and jobs. With three days left of their trip, on a delicious whim, the cousins had taken a night train from southern Italy to Florence to see Michelangelo’s David. The most stunning sculpture in the world, they had decided, would be the perfect last stop to their trip. But when they arrived, the museum was locked—a sign on the door read: CHIUSO PER RINNOVO/CLOSED FOR RENOVATION. Her disappointment that day had not been too terrible, as they shopped for handmade leather purses and gold jewelry instead; no doubt she would return to Florence in her lifetime. She had not.
I will, she vowed silently. She stared down at her bandaged knees and rolled her ankles for good measure. I will, she thought; I will stand before that sculpture and marvel at the height of human achievement, and I will walk away from it on my own two feet, knowing that I, too, am the product of a genius.
She grabbed her cell phone off the bed. Sam answered after one ring, his voice husky with exhaustion.
“What is it?” he grumbled. “I’ve been working all day in this damn basement and I’m too tired to talk.”
“I just have to tell you one thing.”
“What?”
“We have three months.”
* * *
Trent had planned on calling Arianna back that evening, but after his conversation with Dopp, he felt sapped of strength. What Dopp told him was to be expected: As grim as her situation was, it helped their case in several ways. It yielded a surefire motive for embryo research, and it set Trent up perfectly to use her vulnerability to develop her trust. Soon, Dopp assured him, she would confess.
“But aren’t we taking advantage of a sick person?” Trent had asked, desperate to expose this qualm darting around his brain like a trapped fly.
“It could look like that,” Dopp said. “But I don’t have to remind you what the stakes are. Don’t believe she’s weak just because she’s sick, or it will throw you off.”
“You think she’s strong?” Trent asked with disbelief, although he knew that she was, in a way he could not entirely explain.
Dopp scoffed. “This is a woman who’s completely selfish about everything she does.”
Total self-reliance, Trent thought: Physical, emotional, intellectual—that was it. Suddenly a phrase from the Bible popped into his mind: Woe unto ye who laugh, for ye shall mourn and weep. Trent had always been haunted by it—had God really meant that? Must those who were happy and strong be cut down for those who weren’t? It seemed to offend his deepest sensibility, the same sacrilegious part of him that respected Arianna.
Dopp sighed. “This line of work isn’t always pretty, but it is always necessary. Remember who we’re working for.”
“Yes.”
“You can call me whenever you need to, Trent. We’re in this together. And God is guiding our hand, I’m sure of it.”
Dopp proceeded to talk strategy about how to gain access to her apartment, while Trent scribbled notes. When he hung up, he fell back on his bed, intending to follow through right away. But the foam mattress sank under his fatigued muscles. As dawn began to penetrate the burning-red curtains, Trent’s stomach lurched before he fully awoke. The sensation of dry plastic on his eyeballs reminded him he had not meant to fall asleep.
He jumped out of bed, peeled his contacts off, and jumped into the shower. As the hot water revitalized him, he tried to rehearse the new plan, but could not focus; the knowledge that had long been obvious to his body was now creeping into his mind. It was no use kidding himself anymore: Arianna had awakened something deep and uncontrollable inside him. Trent cursed, spitting out a mouthful of water. How did he get to this place? And where the hell did he go from here?
He wondered if he was in shock. Since her revelation last night, he had been possessed of a desire to protect her—and immediately recognized the painful irony. How could his instincts be so at odds with ethics? It was impossible to answer. Or maybe the answers were impossible to accept.
There was only one thing for him to do: push on with his job. How he felt—how amazingly alive she made him feel—was irrelevant. No one could ever know. He would continue to do the right thing, and what happened to her because of it was not his concern.
* * *
Arianna’s obvious delight at his call that morning encouraged him to stick to Dopp’s strategy. She said she was returning home after the administration of some IV drug, and then she would be resting all evening. It was the perfect segue.
“Do you need someone to help you get home?” he asked.
“Oh, thanks, but my cousin is going to help me.”
He scrambled to recover, hoping he would sound kind and not desperate: “Well, how about if I come over to your place later on and cook you dinner?”
“That’s so sweet,” she said. “Are you sick at all, though?”
“No, not at all.”
“Okay, I just can’t be exposed to any pathogens right now. And I don’t look too presentable, but what do I care, I’d love to see you.”
Yes, he thought, that wasn’t too hard.
But the speed with which she had accepted his offer undermined his anticipation. If she were hiding a lab there, wouldn’t she have hesitated before allowing him in? But maybe she had decided on the spot to show him, as a r
eward of sorts, since he had not abandoned her?
Leaving his apartment six hours later with a cooler of food, he sent an unspoken prayer up to God, or was it to himself? Either way, the hope was the same: Let me be ready for whatever happens tonight.
* * *
His heart did not begin to pound until he swung open the glass door of her lobby, making his imminent arrival feel real. He strode across the checkered floor to an open elevator feeling a spurt of guilt, as if he were sneaking in, and realized then how dangerous it could be for him to feel any guilt at all. I’m just doing my job, he countered. And with any luck, it will get done tonight for good.
He clipped his cell phone innocuously over the pocket of his jeans. A camera’s eye peered out from its cover, furtively set to record video of her apartment. Come Monday, Dopp was counting on this footage for proof or clues. On his wristwatch, Trent slid the knob up.
The elevator opened to a hallway with white walls and beige speckled floors. He knocked on her door.
“Coming,” she called. He heard her footsteps draw near, along with the sound of a cane hitting the floor. She unlocked the door and opened it several inches, keeping her face hidden behind it.
“Do you like blue eyes?” came her coy voice.
“Huh? Sure, why?”
“Good,” she said, and swung the door all the way open, stepping around it with a flourish. “Ta da.”
Trent gasped. The whites of her eyes had turned aqua, making her own blue irises seem diluted in comparison, like glass marbles floating in a fluorescent pool.
“What the—?”