1 3 7 – ZOË

by C. De Melo

  He looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “I’m already half way to the other one.”

  That’s weird. I shrugged it off and went into the kitchen. Juana was stirring a pot of beef stew and the aroma was mouth-watering.

  “That smells amazing,” I said.

  She smiled. “It’s my mother’s recipe.”

  “Mr. Adams will be staying for dinner,” I said.

  Her smile faded. “Yes, Mrs. Adams.”

  I was tempted to say something, but refrained since it would be completely inappropriate of me to do so. I couldn’t help wondering what she had against Lance, however.

  I wandered back into the living room. Lance wasn’t back from the bathroom yet so I replenished our drinks, set them on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. I heard whispering and inclined my head towards the sound. It came from the direction of Michael’s office. I stood up and Lance turned the corner and walked towards me. He was pressing a button on his wrist-phone.

  “Were you just on the phone?” I asked.

  “Oh…um…yes, my realtor just called me,” he replied. “I told him I’d call back.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hey, have you seen Maddy lately?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “I had dinner with her last night.” I paused and added, “By the way, did you know she was gay?”

  “I’ve had my suspicions.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t sure. And I figured that if she wanted you to know she would tell you herself.”

  “Fair enough. I guess my comment about you two getting together is completely null and void.”

  He laughed. “Completely. Besides, she’s not my type.”

  “Because she looks too much like me?”

  “No, on the contrary; because she’s nothing like you despite her appearance- and I don’t mean that in a bad way.”

  I felt my cheeks burning. “How do you mean it?”

  “Maddy is open, which is a good thing. You know where you stand with her, you know what she’s thinking and feeling, and for some people that’s refreshing. I happen to like a bit of mystery.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “You think I’m mysterious?”

  “Yes, I do. You don’t put all your cards on the table at once. I admire that.”

  To my relief, Juana came into the living room and announced that dinner was ready. I had a moment to compose myself as we walked into the dining room. We both sat at the dining table and Lance kept the conversation between us light and mundane. Maria came out of the laundry room to serve the meal while Juana remained in the kitchen finishing up the dessert. With so many ears and eyes around us, Lance and I could not speak freely.

  “This is delicious, Juana,” Lance said. “I think it’s the best stew I’ve ever had.”

  Juana poked her head into the dining room a moment later. “Thank you, Mr. Adams,” she said before ducking back into the kitchen.

  At one point during the meal Lance looked at me intently. “So…you’re always alone, but never alone,” he whispered.

  I nodded. “And I’m always being watched,” I whispered back.

  “Sounds a bit like house arrest.”

  “Feels like it, too,” I agreed.

  Maria came into the dining room again and we both remained quiet as she cleared our plates and brought out dessert.

  “Are those apple tarts?” Lance asked as he helped himself to one.

  “Yes, Mr. Adams. Juana baked them,” Maria replied. “Would you care for coffee or tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I shook my head and she left the room, but not without a backward glance over her shoulder. Why did she and Juana grate on my nerves? Why did they make me feel as if they were always spying on me? Maybe I’m just paranoid. Or maybe…

  Lance’s wrist-phone went off and he frowned. “I have to take this, but it’s kind of private.”

  “You can go into my study,” I said.

  I watched him leave the table in a rush, and wondered if perhaps it was a female caller. To my surprise and chagrin, the thought of that possibility upset me more than I wanted to admit. As far as I knew Lance didn’t have a girlfriend, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was celibate. I cringed inwardly. Why did the image of Lance in bed with a woman make my stomach churn? I caught myself drumming my fingertips against the tabletop as the minutes ticked by. He came back with an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry,” he said, offering no further explanation.

  I didn’t dare ask, either. “No problem.”

  “Dinner was great, but I’m afraid I have some urgent business to take care of,” he said. “I don’t mean to eat and run like this…”

  “Oh, no, don’t worry about that,” I assured. “Thanks so much for coming by and hanging out with me.”

  “You never need to thank me for that,” he said sincerely. “It’s always my pleasure.”

  There was an awkward silence as he stared at me. A quick glance towards the kitchen told me that he wanted to say more, but couldn’t due to the fact that we weren’t alone. I walked him to the door and he pulled me into an embrace that was both unexpected and appreciated.

  “Remember what I told you,” he whispered in my ear. “I’m always here for you.”

  Our eyes locked and I nodded. He kissed the top of my head and walked away.

  ***

  Lance called Brady the moment he was outside the gates of his brother’s house. He hated leaving Zoë so abruptly, but Brady needed to speak with him in a safe zone, which meant outside the Adams house.

  “I just got news that Z-Lab in Rio was vandalized. Turns out the chemical leak wasn’t an accident, which is why Michael hasn’t yet returned to D.C. He’s trying to figure out what’s going on,” Brady explained. “Are you sure you didn’t find anything at the house?”

  “I already told you no. His office was clean.”

  “Nothing in your sister-in-law’s studio either?”

  “No, Brady. Come on, man, stop interrogating me.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “You find out anything, you call me immediately. Got it?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not snooping around my sister-in-law anymore. She’s innocent.”

  Brady nodded and his face was serious. “Just keep your eyes open.”

  The screen went blue and Lance cursed aloud. He felt guilty for having duped Zoë by spying on her while Michael was away. He vowed to himself that he wouldn’t do that again.

  Chapter Nine

  April

  (One Year Anniversary of the Awakening)

  Time magazine contacted me about doing another article on the upcoming one year anniversary of my awakening. The April issue featured a close-up of my face on the front page. I was a bit embarrassed knowing that it would be displayed on billions of tablet screens around the world. Michael claimed my fame was good for business.

  Good Morning USA also contacted me and invited me to be on their morning show. It was shot live daily in Chicago. Owned and operated by an eccentric local with more money than good sense, the show became so popular it rose to number one in the viewer polls.

  “Good Morning USA? Are you serious?” Maddy asked incredulously.

  She had come over for lunch and we were seated outside in my Tudor garden. I poured a bit of olive oil on my baby spinach salad. “Totally serious. They want to do a show on the day of my one year anniversary and I agreed.”

  “The tenth- that’s tomorrow.” She paused and frowned. “I thought you said Michael would be out of town for the next few days.”

  “He’s always out of town. I can’t stop my life because of that.”

  “You’re not thinking of going alone, are you?” she asked, alarmed.

  “Relax, sweetie,” I said. “Lance is coming with me. Michael would never let me go alone. It’s a quick flight. I’ll be back in D.C. in plenty of time for dinner.”

  Maddy added a dash of pepper to her grilled salmo
n. “And he’s okay with that? Michael, I mean. I know things are better between him and Lance, but still…”

  “Oh, he’s fine with it.”

  She chewed and swallowed a bite of fish. “How can anyone stay mad at Lance? He’s such a sweetheart and so funny.” She paused. “Mmm, this salmon is perfect.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  Maddy cocked her head to the side and playfully asked, “Are you responding to my comment about Lance or the salmon?”

  I smiled. “Both.”

  My sister replied by simply arching her eyebrow at me.

  ***

  Lance met me at the house very early the next day. The weather was great, clear skies and sunshine. Our flight was quick. The recording studio was located in the city’s historic district. As the hired car pulled up in front, I admired the architecture. It was a mix of urban contemporary against early twentieth century brick. I assumed the building had once been a factory warehouse. The early morning air was brisk and I shivered as I got out of the car. Lance removed his coat and placed it around my shoulders as he led me into the building.

  “Thank you,” I said in response to the gallant gesture.

  Two young men came over to greet me. One began speaking into his headset while the other gave me his full attention. I removed Lance’s coat and handed it back to him once I was inside the warm edifice.

  “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Adams,” the young man said. “I’m one of the show’s assistants. My name is Bob and this is Phil.”

  I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Bob.” I waved to Phil and added, “This is my brother-in-law, Lance Adams.”

  Bob shook Lance’s hand. “The show airs in a couple of hours. I’m going to take you to makeup and wardrobe. Mr. Adams, you can wait in the green room. We have breakfast available for you there, too.”

  “I’d love some coffee,” I said.

  Bob smiled. “You bet. Would you please follow me?”

  Lance and I were ushered into the green room.

  “Please help yourselves,” Bob said, indicating a table laden with an array of breakfast foods.

  “Do I have time?” I asked.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Bob replied while looking at the big digital clock on the wall.

  Lance and I selected muffins along with coffee and sat down to eat them. After fifteen minutes, I stood. I left Lance in the green room and followed Bob to wardrobe. Two women were already waiting for me. I was told my black top and grey pant suit were too drab for the camera, so they had me change into an aqua knit top and added a colorful silk scarf to my neck in varying shades of plum and blue. After my clothing adjustment, I was whisked away by the makeup artist. The end result was impressive. She had even made my eyes look bigger and greener than their normal hazel color.

  Phil popped his head into the room. “Time to go,” he said.

  I followed him to a well lit studio space where I met the show’s host, a middle-aged former journalist by the name of Susan Grout. Once a leading writer for a major Chicago newspaper, she had joined the show when it was first created, and no doubt had a big hand in helping it reach its current status.

  Susan extended a perfectly manicured hand sporting a flashy diamond ring. “It’s so nice to meet you in person, Mrs. Adams,” she said in a flat, Midwestern accent.

  She was a tall, big-boned woman. Despite major plastic surgery, I could see she was considerably older than me. Perhaps close to Michael’s age. Her hair was bleached blonde and her makeup heavily applied in an attempt to appear younger. She wore a tasteful but conservative light beige skirt with matching blazer and a salmon pink blouse. A heavy gold cross hung around her pudgy neck.

  I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Grout.”

  “Oh, call me Susan, sweetheart,” she said with a smile, showing off ultra-white veneers. “The studio audience will be allowed inside shortly. See those two chairs over there on the stage? I’ll be sitting on the one on the left and you’ll be on the right. Phil here is going to do a run through with you and tell you which cameras to look at, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you look through the script? Are you okay with the questions I’ll be asking today?”

  “I did. I’m fine discussing what waking up was like and the therapy that followed.”

  She gave me a warm, motherly smile. “Super! You’ll do just fine, I’m sure. See you on stage in a half hour.”

  Phil rehearsed my entrance, told me where to look, what to do and what not to do. Oddly, I wasn’t nervous.

  “Can the people in the green room see what’s going on?” I asked.

  Phil pointed to one of the cameras. “Yup, that camera right there.”

  I looked into the green room camera, smiled and waved. “Hi Lance.”

  “He can hear you, too,” he pointed out. “The studio audience is going to be allowed inside in about a minute so we have to go wait in the green room.”

  “You look great on HV,” Lance said to me when I entered the green room.

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “I wasn’t before, but now that I see so many people in the audience I’m starting to get a little bit nervous,” I admitted.

  “Don’t be. The audience will love you.”

  Phil listened to his headset and then looked at me. “You’re on,” he said.

  “Break a leg,” Lance said with a wink.

  Susan announced my name and that was my cue to walk onstage. The audience greeted me with applause.

  “Welcome, 137-ZOË,” she said, taking both of my hands into her own.

  I hadn’t expected her to call me that and it made me pause mid-step. I took my assigned seat.

  Susan beamed. “Or do you prefer to be called Mrs. Adams?”

  “Actually, Zoë is fine.”

  I wondered why she didn’t discuss how to address me before I came out.

  “Welcome, Zoë, and thanks for being here.”

  “Thanks for having me,” I replied politely.

  Susan turned her head to look at the audience. “Today marks the one year anniversary of Zoë Adams waking up from her cryogenic stupor.”

  Stupor? It wasn’t like I’d been drugged.

  Susan looked at me. “So, how do you feel?”

  Before I had a chance to reply something hit the upper side my head, making a cracking sound. I thought that perhaps one of the light bulbs had exploded from the ceiling and fell on my head until I felt something slimy ooze down my hair and past my ear. As I wiped the goop away with my hand something heavier hit me in the center of my chest with a thump. I glanced down to see a red stain splattered across the front of the aqua shirt.

  While my brain was trying to comprehend what was happening, a big man rushed forward. He was dressed like a farmer in blue jeans, work boots and a red flannel shirt. Gripping my shoulders with his huge, calloused hands, he yanked me upward and out of my seat. My feet could barely touch the floor. My eyes caught a group of people standing with raised fists in the front row. Some of them had eggs and ripe tomatoes in their hands. One held a sign that read: God Hates Cryogenics.

  The man who held me in his grip put his tanned, lined face very close to mine. His colorless grey eyes were filled with hatred and disgust. The stink of tobacco on his breath made me instantly nauseous.

  “According to the Lord Almighty, you shouldn’t be alive,” he sneered in a southern accent while spraying my face with spittle. “You’re nothing but an abomination of nature! A wicked blasphemy that shouldn’t be allowed to exist!”

  Susan’s eyes were wide as she cried out for security. Within seconds two beefy security guards pried the man off of me. As he was being led away, he spat on the floor. The disgusting wad of saliva landed inches from my shoes.

  “Ladies and gentlemen this is Good Morning USA and we are coming to you live from Chicago, Illinois,” Susan said excitedly, not wasting the opportunity to boost ratings. “Stay tuned while we discu
ss the topic of cryogenics. Blessing or blasphemy? Send your opinion on the matter to the web address listed on your HV now!” As I stood there shaking, she turned to me and asked with sticky sweet concern, “Are you all right, dear?”

  Something about the gleam in her eye made me wonder if the whole fiasco had been staged in the first place. Two women from wardrobe came out with towels and began to clean me up. The audience erupted in a cacophony of voices. Arguments broke out as members of security tried to keep everyone calm. I stared into the green room camera and Lance came running out a moment later. He gripped my wrist and literally pulled me offstage. Susan called after us, but he ignored her and urged me to keep pace with him. Phil and Bob came rushing towards me backstage.

  Bob frowned. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “We’re leaving,” Lance replied.

  “But we’re in the middle of shooting the show! You can’t just leave,” Phil said, annoyed.

  Lance got in the man’s face. I had never seen him get angry or aggressive before. “Oh yes we can,” he contradicted in a steely voice. “We’re out of here. Come on, Zoë.”

  Our car was waiting for us in the back lot. We got inside and Lance told the driver to take us straight to the airport. My hands were trembling and my heart was racing. Being attacked in public in front of countless people was both shocking and humiliating. Lance was visibly furious, but when he realized that I was crying his face softened and he put his arm around me.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispered into my hair. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

  “They were so mean,” I said as tears stung my eyes. I wondered how people who had never met me before could possibly hate me so much.

  He sighed. “They’re more ignorant than mean. They preach against cryogenics because they believe it goes against God’s will,” he explained softly. “Most anti-cryo protesters aren’t as vicious as the ones you came across today. What they did to you was extreme and totally uncalled for.”

  I rummaged through my purse for tissues and blew my nose. “That’s the last time I’ll go on a live show.”

  My wrist-phone went off. It was Michael. “I just heard the news. Those bastards,” he said. “Are you okay, princess?”