by Chad Brecher
Dr. Fife pressed her thumb against the reader and waited impatiently until a light beside the door’s handle changed from red to green. She gripped the handle, opened the door, and entered the antechamber leading into the isolation room. She could hear a clunk followed by the whooshing noise of the ventilation system kicking in. The scientist waited as Anne pulled shut the door from which they had entered. After a lag, the panel beside the second inner door read: Seal Complete. With a whirl, the second glass door slid aside.
Long fluorescent bulbs set into the ceiling suddenly sprung to life, illuminating the isolation chamber. The room consisted of several long black counters, enormous refrigerator and freezer units, and work areas under metallic hoods that provided continuous positive pressure ventilation.
As the two advanced beside a wall of cages, chimpanzees grunted, squealed, and shook the metallic frames.
“It’s over here,” Anne urged and directed Dr. Fife to a workbench beneath a hood.
Dr. Fife sat down upon a stool and popped her head under the hood. The ventilation system hummed. She could see a small metal cage on the table with white lab mice scurrying about. In the corner of the work area were several test tubes lined up in a row within holders. The tubes were labeled “WhiteLeaf5” and contained clear fluid.
The leaf defied scientific logic. The cells that composed it were primitive and were absent of chlorophyll, the green pigment within plants that allowed them to harness energy from the sun. The cells that constituted the white leaf had a prototypical mitochondrial organelle vaguely similar to those that could be found in animal cells. They were able to successfully extract the oil from the leaf and break it down into its constituent elements. The molecular framework was one she had never seen before.
Confident that they had isolated a pure form of the oil, animal trials had been initiated. They had genetically bred mice to develop rhadomyosarcomas, an aggressive tumor of the musculature that was fatal and left the animals physically deformed with balled up tumors pushing up through the skin. These mice were the first to receive doses of the oil.
Dr. Fife looked again at the healthy mice scampering around the cage.
“Where are the mice from the trial?” Dr. Fife asked with a tinge of annoyance.
Anne poked her head under the hood beside the doctor. “That’s just it. That’s what I’m trying to say. These are the mice from the trial. These are the mice with the altered gene. They’re supposed to have cancer and look at them!”
Dr. Fife stared at the animals in disbelief. They looked as if they had just been purchased from a pet store. “There must be some mistake.”
“I sacrificed several of the mice and did a complete histological analysis. Here’s one of the slides.” Anne pushed the microscope towards Dr. Fife.
The doctor’s arthritic hands trembled as she adjusted the focus dial and brought her glasses up against the eyepieces. She could see the normal repeating pattern of red, striated muscle cells. There were no cancerous cells.
“Dr. Fife, it’s amazing. The slides are all normal! I ran an immunoassay and it was normal. The radioactive markers for the cancer genes didn’t light up a single thing. It’s like these mice never had cancer.”
The doctor sat in silence, clutching the focus dials on the microscope and fixated upon the vials of the clear oil. She pushed herself from the work area and backed away.
“Run the tests again,” Dr. Fife muttered as she retreated in a daze for the door.
“Again?” asked Anne.
Dr. Fife triggered the release to the door and backed into the antechamber. Her fingertips tingled.
“Run the tests again!” she barked. “This time with the chimps!”
She waited for the second door to open while she tried to catch her breath. The red light finally switched to green and she grabbed the handle and bolted into the lab. She ripped off the surgical mask, leaned her body against the wall, and shut her eyes.
After a minute, she wandered across the lab until she reached the long window looking down upon the parking lot of the Clay Pharmaceutical research building she had worked at for most of her research life. She rested her forehead against the cold glass of the window. Her hand slipped under her blouse and she rubbed her fingertips across the side of her left breast. I can’t feel it, she thought.
The mammogram had picked it up — a spiculated mass with microcalcifications. The biopsy had confirmed the diagnosis of invasive ductal carcinoma — breast cancer. The MRI of the brain that followed answered why she was having headaches for the last several months. Pea sized metastases were scattered through her brain like buckshot. The oncologist was brutally honest with her prognosis. Is there anything that you have been meaning to do? he had asked.
The coolness of the glass against her skin felt soothing. Below, people navigated their way through the parking lot, unaware of what the next days could bring.
Stay focused, she told herself. Be analytical. Be a scientist.
She couldn’t stop her body from trembling.
It’s a miracle.
Acknowledgements
This novel was a long time in the making. Along the way I have incurred a debt of gratitude to people who have steered me in the right direction. Henry Morrison, Natasha Haines, John Hiehle, M.D., and Katie Crawford all offered advice at important moments. Beth Cohen helped design my webpage and create a platform for this social media neophyte.
I am grateful for the team at Deeds Publishing: Bob Babcock, Ashley Clarke, Matt King, and Mark Babcock all believed in my manuscript and helped get it to this stage.
I am eternally grateful to my amazing children, Benjamin, Sophie, and Vivienne, who tolerated impromptu retreats to my study as I hastily logged a thought before it escaped my mind. Their constant curiosity and spirit inspires me daily. And I would be remiss to overlook George, my faithful, furry companion, whose sleeping presence comforted me while I typed late at night.
Finally, I thank my wife, Sara Byala. From travels abroad and library visits to proofreading and re-proofreading drafts of the manuscript, her belief in this project has never waivered. I could not have done this without her. She is at the heart of this—and all—journeys.
About the Author
Chad Brecher was born in Long Island, New York, in 1972, the youngest of three sons. From an early age, two things captivated him: science and literature. After studying to become a physician (attaining degrees from Brown University and Brown University School of Medicine, and later training at Harvard Medical School and Johns Hopkins Medical Center), he settled with his family in suburban Philadelphia. There, he completed his debut novel, The Lost Book of Wonders. Brecher continues to write in his free time, working on a sequel to The Lost Book of Wonders and additional projects.