Parasite (Parasitology)

by Grant, Mira

  “I don’t know,” I said. “SymboGen bugged my house, and now my father thinks I’m withholding information from the military. It’ll be hard for me to go anywhere without being watched. Nathan might be able to manage it—”

  “No, I can’t,” said Nathan. “If they’re watching you, they’re going to be watching me, too. It’s not safe for either of us to try sneaking away.”

  “Did you hear that?” I asked Tansy.

  “I did,” she said. “We’ll think of something else. For right now, you two sit tight and try not to get yourselves killed before I can get there to join the party.”

  “Tansy—” I began, but it was too late; she was already gone. I lowered the phone. “She hung up on me.”

  “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” We were leaving the comforting metal cage of the bridge, sliding back out into the open as the highway continued into the city. “Did she say what Mom wanted?”

  “Just that she wants to talk about some things she can’t discuss over the phone. She said they’ll think of something else if we can’t come to them. I don’t find that very reassuring.”

  “It’s Tansy,” he said. “You’re not supposed to.”

  I laughed again, and leaned over to rest my head against his shoulder as he drove us onward, toward the house that was no longer going to be my home.

  Mom’s car was in the driveway when we pulled up. I grimaced. I’d been hoping to get in and get out without any more family confrontations today. Nathan followed my gaze and grimaced in turn before asking, “Do you want me to come in with you, or would it be easier if I waited out here?”

  What I wanted was to just drive away without facing my mother. I shook my head. “You should come in. I don’t think I can carry a suitcase and manage Beverly at the same time, and I don’t want to go in there twice. Once I’m done, I want to be done.”

  “Right now, I don’t want to let you out of my sight.” Nathan turned off the engine. We got out and walked up the driveway toward the house.

  Mom opened the front door before we got there. Her face was drawn and pale as she looked out at us. I stepped onto the porch. She didn’t say a word. She just stepped forward, wrapped her arms around me, and squeezed so hard I was briefly sure I felt my ribs bend. It was like she was afraid that if she let go, I’d float away and never be seen again.

  “Um,” I said awkwardly. “Hi, Mom. Can you… this sort of hurts.” I patted her on the back with one hand, straining to move even that much. “Can we come in?”

  It felt weird to be asking for permission to enter my own house, even if I was planning on moving out. Still, it was apparently the right thing to say; she sniffled as she let me go, stepping backward and out of the way. “Of course, sweetheart, of course. Hello, Nathan. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Mitchell,” he said, politely not commenting on the fact that she hadn’t seen him because he hadn’t been allowed in.

  Beverly squeezed past Mom as I stepped into the house. Her tail was wagging so hard her entire backside was shaking, making her look like she was on the verge of coming apart in the middle. I crouched down to let her lick my face in greeting, and stayed crouched as I asked, “Did Dad call?”

  “Yes.” Mom sniffled. It was a small sound, almost obscured by Beverly’s panting. I heard it all the same, and my heart broke, just a little. “I… I understand why you feel you need to go, Sal, but I wish you wouldn’t. Not while your sister is still in isolation. The house is too big for me to be in it by myself.” She didn’t need to say that Dad wouldn’t come home until they knew about Joyce, one way or the other. I knew him well enough to know that.

  “I’m sorry.” I rubbed Beverly’s ears before I stood. “I can’t. I know it hurts, but you let him lock me up, Mom. Maybe you even agreed with him. I need to know that I’m not with people who don’t even trust me enough to tell me what’s going on in my own life. I need to know that I’m not with people I can’t trust.”

  Mom stared at me, looking almost like I’d slapped her. Then she nodded, wiping at her eyes with the side of one hand as she said, “That’s fair. I wish you didn’t think that way—and I still understand how we made you think that way. This isn’t some silly teenage rebellion.”

  “I’m not a teenager, Mom,” I said, as gently as I could.

  “No, you’re not.” Her eyes hardened. “You’re six years old. I shouldn’t let you go. You’re too young for this.”

  “Legally, I’m an adult.”

  “Only because we never expected you to try something like this. We shouldn’t have stopped with the custodianship. We should have had you declared medically incompetent.”

  Now it was my turn to react like I’d been slapped. My eyes widened. “You don’t mean that. You’ve always encouraged me to rebuild my life. To figure out who I was going to be now—”

  “You’re not my daughter.” The words were calm, almost clinical. That made them even worse. “My daughter never woke up. She hit that bus, and she died, and you moved into her body. You’re a stranger. My Sally was a wild girl, and she was careless sometimes, but she would never do anything like this to me. She was a good girl.”

  “Mom,” I whispered.

  “Don’t you even care that your sister is sick? That she might die, and now I find out you did know more than you were telling us—you two, you’d gone off and put your heads together and figured out a way to test for this horrible virus, and you didn’t come home and tell us immediately. Maybe we could have found out sooner. Maybe she’d have a better chance. Did you even think of that?”

  “I… you… you wouldn’t talk to me,” I stammered, floored. Of all the reactions I’d expected, this immediate, weeping offensive wasn’t among them. “I couldn’t tell you anything, because none of you would talk to me. You acted like I’d done something wrong. How was I supposed to tell you, when you wouldn’t talk to me?”

  “Your sister could die!” she suddenly shouted.

  Something inside me snapped. The sound of drums rose in my ears, distant and reassuring, as I said, “You can’t have it both ways, Mom. You can’t say I’m not your daughter just because I don’t remember growing up in this house, and then tell me my sister could die. If I’m not your daughter, Joyce isn’t my sister, and why should I care about her being sick? But I do care, because she is my sister, and that means I am your daughter. You’re being hurtful and mean because you’re scared. And that’s why I’m leaving. I have enough to be afraid of that I don’t need my family adding to the list. I’ve told Dad everything we know that might help them keep Joyce from getting all the way sick. I’ve been a good sister to her, even if you’re not being a very good mother to me. Now I’m going to go and get my things from my room, and get Beverly’s leash, and then Nathan and I are going to go, and you’re not going to stop us. I’m done being here.”

  “Sally….” Her face fell like she’d just realized what she was saying. “Sally, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean to….”

  “Yes, you did. You wouldn’t have said those things if you didn’t mean to. But that’s okay, because you’re scared. At the shelter, they taught me that scared animals are the most likely to bite, and you shouldn’t blame them for it. They don’t know any better. You know what else they taught me?”

  Mom didn’t say anything. She just shook her head, eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears.

  “They taught me that once an animal starts biting, it’s time to take my hand away from them.” I squared my shoulders with as much dignity as I could muster, and turned to Nathan. “Will you get Beverly’s food and dishes, please?”

  Nathan gave a very small nod. He clearly understood what I was trying to do.

  If I hadn’t already loved him, I think that moment would have been when I fell for him. “Thank you,” I said, and walked down the hall to my room.

  My bedroom was half decorated in things I’d acquired for myself since waking up in the hospital and half decorated in
old things of Sally’s that I’d never been able to bring myself to get rid of. Not because they held some deep emotional importance to me—they didn’t, no matter how much I sometimes wished that they did—but because they were so important to my parents, and to Joyce. What was just an old brown hand puppet to me was Mousie to them, the stuffed animal that had been beloved to Sally until she was in middle school. Old papers I didn’t see the point of keeping were her few certificates for class participation or sportsmanship. I’d been renting space in her room, and with every piece of clothing I stuffed into my suitcase, I felt a little lighter.

  Sally was gone. I’d been living with her ghost for six years. Now I was finally leaving, and I was leaving the haunted house to her. I hated to hurt my—our—parents, but I wasn’t sorry to be getting away from the girl I was never going to be.

  I stripped, leaving the clothes I’d worn to USAMRIID scattered around the floor, along with whatever listening devices they’d contained. I even left my messenger bag, replacing it with an old backpack from the closet. I didn’t trust anything anymore.

  After that, it only took a few minutes to pack up everything that I wanted to take with me. Some clothing, a spare pair of shoes, a few extra notebooks, the terrarium with my plants, and my computer: that was everything that actually mattered to me. The rest of it was Sally’s, and she was welcome to keep it as far as I was concerned. I turned off the light and closed the bedroom door, looking at it for a moment before pushing my hand gently against the wood.

  “It’s all yours now, Sally,” I said.

  Sally didn’t answer me, and I turned away and walked back to the front room.

  Mom was still there, holding her arms around her body like she was afraid that she might fall to pieces if she let herself go. Nathan was standing by the door, holding a cardboard box full of dog supplies, with Beverly sitting patiently by his feet. She always settled down like that once we got her leash onto her; as long as she was promised immediate access to the exciting outside world, she was happy to wait for the humans to finish getting their act together.

  Her original master must have worked long and hard to train her as well as he did. But he, like Sally, was long gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

  “I’ve got everything,” I said.

  Mom jumped, turning toward the sound of my voice. “Sal, I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” I said, and was surprised to realize that I meant it. “You’re worried about Joyce. I can’t blame you for that. I’m worried about Joyce, too.”

  “I still shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. It wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry.” She sounded contrite.

  That was a good start. “It’s okay,” I said again. “I understand. And it’s probably a fight we needed to have a long time ago. Dr. Morrison says feelings of resentment are only natural on everyone’s part. Mine because you’re holding me up to the memory of someone I’m not anymore, and yours because I’m here, and you feel like you have to love me, but I’m not the daughter you raised. It’s probably a miracle it took so long for those feelings to come to the surface.”

  Mom blinked. Then, to my surprise, she smiled. “I thought you hated your therapist.”

  “I do hate my therapist. He’s annoying and he thinks I’m pretending to have amnesia because I don’t want to cope with the realities of my situation. Also he breathes through his mouth while I’m trying to think, and it’s weird. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong about everything, just that I don’t want to invite him to dinner or anything.” I looked at her as levelly as I could, trying to pretend this wasn’t awkward—that I wasn’t looking at my mother and telling her it was okay if she didn’t love me anymore, because she’d put off grieving for the daughter that she lost for long enough. It wasn’t working. I didn’t honestly expect it to. “I love you, Mom. I do. I don’t blame you if you can’t love me. And I’m leaving because I think it’s probably way past time for me to be gone.”

  I wanted her to argue; I wanted her to say that no matter what I did or didn’t know, she would love me forever, because I was still her little girl. Children don’t remember being infants, but parents don’t stop loving them the day that they forget about learning how to walk. I was just a more extreme case.

  She didn’t argue. Instead, she wiped her eyes, smiled at me, and said, “Sally would have hated you, you know. You’re the sort of do-gooder she used to complain about being boring and… and effortlessly law-abiding, and making the rest of us look bad. She would have done her best to convince you never to come near her again. Probably by shouting ‘fuck’ at you a lot in public, and then claiming to have Tourette’s if anyone called her on it. I don’t think you would have liked her either, though, so I suppose that’s all right.”

  I didn’t say anything. Mom wiped her eyes again, and straightened, seeming to draw strength from some unknown source. A decision was made in that moment. I could see it in her eyes, and I think that she could see it in mine. Whatever happened after this, whether we all came back together as a family or not, things had changed between us.

  “Will you be at Nathan’s place?” she asked. “I have the number there. And you have your phone, of course. I’ll make sure that we keep you posted about what’s happening with Joyce.”

  I hoisted my suitcase higher, briefly amazed at how little my life weighed. “I’ll call tomorrow, once I’m settled in at Nathan’s.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’d appreciate that.”

  And that was that. There was nothing left for me to say to her, or for her to say to me: we had used up all the words that we had left to spend between us. I nodded, once, and turned to join Nathan next to the front door. His hands were occupied with Beverly and her supplies, and so he allowed me to open the door and let him out. Beverly’s tail wagged wildly as he led her to the car. I followed them, not allowing myself to look back until my things were in the trunk and Beverly was safely ensconced in the backseat. Then, and only then, did I look toward the house.

  The door was already closed. My mother was nowhere to be seen. I froze, my heart seeming to turn into a solid lump at the center of my chest. Nathan followed my gaze. Then he walked over and put his hand on my shoulder, comforting and solidly warm.

  “I will never judge you for not being someone that I’ve never met, or known you to be, or wanted,” he said quietly. “You’re my Sal. That’s all I’m ever going to ask you to be.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered. I hugged him before getting into the car. Beverly promptly stuck her nose over the back of the seat and licked my ear. I laughed, and twisted around enough to hug her neck. “At least one of us is excited.”

  Nathan got into the car, smiling at the pair of us. I could see the regret lurking behind his expression. Now we had both been rejected by our mothers. “I’m excited,” he said. “I’ve got my girl and my girl’s dog. Suddenly, we are a nuclear American family. All we need now is a picket fence.”

  “I’ll see about building one in the terrarium with the Venus flytraps,” I said.

  Nathan laughed, and we pulled out of the driveway, leaving the only home I had ever known behind. It had been my decision to go. It was the right decision. My eyes still burned as I watched the house getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. And then it was gone, and so were we, and I knew that I was never going back again.

  Minnie met us at the door, her jowls pulled down into an expression of firm disapproval only somewhat mitigated by the fact that her stubby tail refused to stop wagging. She was a solid brick of a dog, with the classic brindle and white bulldog coloring and huge, inherently sad eyes. Beverly lunged forward, pulling her leash out of my hands in her eagerness to go nose-to-nose with her new roommate. I let her go. If there was going to be a problem, it was better for us to find out immediately.

  The two dogs circled for a moment, each of them sniffing frantically in their race to be the first to make up their mind about the other. Finally, a decision was reached, and Min
nie went trotting off into the bedroom, with Beverly following close behind. Her leash dragged along the floor as she walked, creating a soft swishing accompaniment to the clacking of her claws against the hardwood.

  “They seem to be getting along,” Nathan said, setting my terrarium down on the coffee table.

  “Yeah, they do. Dogs are like that sometimes.” I looked around, taking in the sparse furnishings and Ikea shelves with a new eye. “Are you sure you don’t mind us being here?” I asked. “I mean, two dogs is a lot to deal with, and you know they’re both going to want to sleep with us, and…”

  “Sal.” Nathan put his hand on my shoulder when I didn’t turn to face him, repeating, more firmly, “Sal.”

  I turned.

  He plucked my suitcase from my unresisting fingers and set it carefully on the floor next to my feet. Then he stepped closer, took both my hands in his, and said, “I love you. I love your stolen dog. I love that now Minnie will have company during the day. I want you here. All right?”

  “All right,” I said, and forced myself to smile. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He leaned forward and kissed my nose. “Honestly, I’m just glad that you’re all right. When your parents stopped taking my calls, I was afraid…”

  “That I’d gotten sick? Not yet. I feel fine. Maybe the worms don’t like damaged brains?” My smile turned more sincere, if somewhat twisted around the edges. “There’s the real solution to the tapeworm invasion. Get in a car accident, give yourself some head trauma, and if you survive, you’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not sure that would work for everyone.” Nathan pulled his hands out of mine, picking up my suitcase. “Let’s get you settled.”

  Beverly was already on the bed when we came into the bedroom, doing her best to get a thin layer of black fur on everything. She wagged her tail as we arrived, but didn’t get off the bed. Minnie was stretched out on an enormous corduroy pillow off to the side, apparently having decided that shedding on the bed wasn’t important enough to warrant the effort of making the climb.