COSMOS magazine

Saturday, July 5

It was not difficult to fall in with the group of boys who raucously told him they represented the youth choir of the First Baptist Church of Karnes City.

"Kansas City? Wow, that's a long way to come."

"No, man, Karnes," a kid his own age said boastfully. "Here in Texas. Home of the fighting Badgers!"

"Wow! Cool!"

As they approached the border, Alex doubted there had really been any need for such an elaborate charade. A line of cars stretched two blocks, and he could see the customs officials checking each one. Pedestrians, though, seemed to flow freely into Mexico. Would it be this easy for Mom and Paul? Hope so, he thought. He worried about them, on their own without him to keep them out of trouble.

Saturday, July 5

Fern sang along with the Dixie Chicks as she ironed open the seams of the new skirt she was making to wear to the weekend dance Boot Scootin' Bar in Houston. She ran to answer the phone. It'd be Ray, calling to let her know when he'd be by to pick her up. Or maybe Linda, eager for the latest update on Fern's romance with the boss.

The scratchy voice said, "Hello, Fern, honey."

Her heart lurched with dread.

"What do you want, Wayne? Where are you?" she said, more sharply than she had intended. But that poor brutalized man, that Dr. Chang. Wayne had done that. And maybe Dr. Nathan as well. It made her sick to her stomach.

"On my way home. I'm not sure what I'll do next. Just wanted to see you one more time, Fern and to... take care of some business."

With a spurt of anxiety, Fern glanced around the bright, cheerful room. She had gotten rid of the awful green sofa, painted the walls a soft yellow, hung curtains with a peach and white floral motif at the window. She'd brought out her sewing machine which had sat uselessly in the bedroom for the ten years of her marriage, wedged between the bed and the wall. He'll kill me if he comes home and sees this, she thought.

"Uh, I don't think that would be a good idea, Wayne. The police have been here looking for you."

"I won't stay long." He didn't seem surprised about the police. "Just want to be with you for a little while. Wanted to make sure you'd be there when I got home."

"Where are you?"

"I don't know. Kerrville. I'll be home late this afternoon." His voice sounded different, somehow. "Fern. You have to do something for me. I think..." A shudder tremored in his tone. "A man... in the workshop..."

Terrified, Fern said nothing. After a moment, the voice she knew and did not know said, incomprehensibly, "They, they rewired..." Another pause, and then he said, as if in pain, forcing out poison from his mouth: "Don't hate me, Fern. Workshop... old farmhouse."

"They came and got him, Wayne. Took him to the hospital." Suddenly she couldn't stop her mouth; she had to know. "Did you do that to him?"

"He's alive?" Wayne's tension eased, just a little. "Made a lot of mistakes, darling. Wasn't quite myself..." She heard a groan, or a laugh. "You'll be glad to learn I'm a new man." His anguish was ghastly. "Gonna try to make things right." He hung up, then, in the silence of her inability to say another word to him.

Fern couldn't think straight. First she'd betrayed Wayne by letting Linda talk her into searching the workshop and calling the police, and thank God she had, but then she'd compounded the betrayal by going out with Ray. It was frightening to consider what Wayne might do when he found out, but there was no way she could order him to stay away. The land and mobile home were his. She could just up and leave, but damn it, this was her home too. She recalled what the policeman had told her. It would be in Wayne's best interest to stop him before he got into even more trouble.

She walked into the kitchen, found Deputy Murphy's card stuck to the fridge with a magnetized miniature toaster.

Saturday, July 5

Roberta keyed in Maureen Baumgarten's cell phone as she exited Loop 410.

"Yes?" Maureen spoke so softly Roberta could hardly hear her.

"Maureen, it's Roberta. I'll be at the hospital in about ten minutes. Less if there's no hassle with parking."

"I'll meet you at the nurse's station. Do you need directions?"

"No. I called the hospital before I left."

 

The third floor, where they had moved Drew two days earlier, bustled with visitors, several of them crowded around the nurse's station. Roberta had a hard time picking Maureen out of the crowd. She remembered an attractive woman in her early thirties, but today the poor creature looked ten years older. Little wonder, considering what she was going through.

"Roberta?" Maureen asked uncertainly.

I probably look a little the worse for wear myself. "Maureen! I'm so sorry I couldn't come sooner. Had one crisis after another, and then it seemed I might be coming down with the flu and I didn't want to risk infecting Drew." The crease between Maureen's eyes deepened. "Don't worry. I'm feeling better now. Just stress." She laughed. "Playing with Paul's mice has helped relax me."

Maureen relaxed a little, too. "Thank you so much for coming. Drew would surely appreciate it. The flowers you sent are beautiful." She swayed slightly; Roberta put a hand on her arm to steady her.

"How is Mrs. Chang today?"

"She's—" Maureen scrunched up her face. "Roberta, I think she's totally losing it. She imagines he's trying to communicate with her. She insists he smiled at her."

"Oh, dear. I don't know if I'll be able to do any good, Maureen. But I'm willing to try."

"Go in without me, that'd be best. I told Alyssa I'd go down to the cafeteria and get lunch. Room 314." She pointed. "Right side of the hall."

Roberta dodged a small girl being chased down the hall by a larger boy. One of the rooms she passed was a riot of flowers and balloons. Drew's was bare, save for the large floral arrangement from MTJ Labs and a couple of smaller ones from co-workers. He had never been a sociable person, had few friends outside of work. A small Chinese woman with red hair sat beside the bed, eyes closed, dozing.

Roberta forced herself to look down at the bed. On the phone Maureen had said Drew looked like an ice carving; today, at least, his face showed a little colour, almost as though he were merely asleep. She felt an odd impulse to call his name, try to awaken him. She glanced at Mrs. Chang. Could she advise this woman to let her only son die?

George Milton's recent death had wounded her terribly, but her natural father had been a worn-out old man, with a full rich life behind him, patiently awaiting the slash of mortality's scythe. What did she know of the agonies of bereaved motherhood? She'd never married, had no children of her own. Yes, her lab staff was like an extended family, and in some ways Drew had been like a son. To her he confided things he surely told no one else. His mother, he had once smilingly said, was an enigma. She adopted a Western name and coloured her hair, but she wept and threatened to disown him when he brought home his Jewish girlfriend Maureen. "My mother is a tiny, frail little thing. But you don't mess with her. A will of iron!" There was nothing she could possibly say to change this woman's mind. He's my son too! No, that would hardly be appropriate.

Until this moment, she realized, she'd been numb all the way through, numbness slashed open by bursts of rage at this Wayne Elliot lunatic. Standing over her surrogate son, bright green lines pulsing at the edge of vision that represented whatever last life force was left in him, helpless sorrow overcame her like a seizure. Roberta Treadwell stood over the hospital bed. She thought of her father. Her tears fell unnoticed on Drew's pale cheeks, ran toward the corners of his motionless mouth.

A hand touched hers; she shuddered, opened her wet eyes. The little red-haired woman gazed at her in sympathy.

"You are Dr. Treadwell, are you not?"

Roberta nodded, turned her face aside, tried to control her weeping. To her dismay, she began to hiccough.

"Here, sit down, drink some water. Drew has spoken often of you. He will be glad you came to see him."

"I—think very highly of your son. He was—is—one of the brightest scientists we have."

"It helps to have a good cry." Alyssa Chang nodded wisely. "It helps. But don't you cry any more, Dr. Treadwell. Drew will wake up and be fine. You'll see. He's going to get well. A mother knows these things." Mrs. Chang took a hand towel from the bedside table and patted away the last of Roberta's tears from her son's immobile face.

Saturday, July 5

Since he was a child, Wayne had found comfort in the woods, alone. He remembered leaning against a tree trunk, watching a pair of warblers carrying food to their young. He had felt more closely related to the birds than to his mother and father, more at ease with a pack of feral pigs than with the friends who were constantly judging him so that he could never for a moment relax. But if he had always loved the woods, never until now had he so keenly appreciated the beauty of the shapes and colours of the leaves, the endless bifurcation of branches growing up, roots growing down.

A little to his surprise, he was overwhelmed by feelings for Fern, feelings that seemed to grow from his joy in being back home again. It was a side-effect of the auxosome treatment, he knew that, but it did not diminish his feelings or their truth and urgency. He quickened his pace, eager to hold her in his arms, beg her to forgive him for not being a better husband. That moment of seeing Fern again was as far as he dared look into his future; from her he would get the courage to take care of whatever he found in the workshop. He would begin the remainder of his life from the safety of Fern's embrace.

Here was the fence he had built with his own hands; he was almost home. He heard a bark. Gretchen.

Saturday, July 5

Alex was nowhere to be seen. Ahead of her in line, Paul moved with an easy saunter. Not brashly confident, nor at all nervous. Two uniformed men stood checking IDs at the entrance to the pedestrian lane of the bridge spanning the Rio Grande River. On this side, Del Rio, Texas, and the ferocious people in pursuit of them. On the other, Piedras Negras, Coahuila, and the unknown. She saw Paul flash his fake passport, engage in cheerful conversation with the guards. They waved him on. Thank God.

The line moved forward. Jill tried to step back from herself, take inventory. Heart racing, breath rapid and shallow; she found that she was actually wringing her hands. I'm an intelligent woman, she told herself sternly. With the auxosomes at work inside my little grey brain cells, I'm probably smarter than I've ever been. Calm down. Deep breath. In... Out... You are a tourist visiting your neighbour nation for the first time, filled with interested enthusiasm for the adventure. Maybe you'll pick up some items cheap, something pretty or even gaudy to remember the holiday with and show the family back home.

There. That's better. She recalled a psych prof once telling her class that how you say something is more important than what you say. Okay. Generalize that: how you behave has more impact than how you look. For years, she knew, she had cringed away from the world, had hidden her brutalized face. Not any more. Alex loved her, Paul loved her. She was a lovable person, thinking happy, carefree thoughts. Swimming. A leisurely backstroke. Walking in the woods with Dad.

"Your ID, please." The guard glanced at her face, took the passport she offered him. "Name?"

"Joyce Peters." She smiled effortlessly.

"What takes you to Mexico today?"

"I'm looking for one of those carved marble chess sets. A friend of mine got one down here for a very good price, and—"

"Okay, you can go on." He waved her through.

Paul waited in an open-air tourist cantina on the Mexican side of the bridge, not looking around for her, swinging one foot. Jill wanted desperately to give him a good, long hug, but she was not completely sure they were safe, even now. She passed him by, and a moment later he ambled up alongside. Sweat began to run into her armpits; she trembled with aftershock nerves.

"Oh my God, Paul, oh my God."

"You're here, we're through, take it easy, dear heart. You were brilliant."

Ready to faint, she held his arm. "I was sure I wouldn't make it across, Paul. My acne scars! But I behaved as if there were nothing to see, and it worked!"

"Scars! Perhaps the auxosome has bestowed marvellous acting talent upon you!"

She glanced at him doubtfully. "Do you think?"

He laughed out loud. "Actually, no, sweetheart, I'm sorry, the stage will not be your new career. Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

Nettled, Jill released his arm.

"I didn't mean— Here." He cast about, picked up a heavily ornamented mirror from a sidewalk display of goods for sale, mostly tourist items. "Take a peek at your face."

What? She took a quick, averted glance.

"No, damn it, you always do that." Paul sounded cross. Perhaps it was the tension of the border crossing. But he was brandishing the accursed mirror in her face. "Go on, have a bloody good stare."

Jill forced herself to have a long, hard look, pulling her bandana and hair back.

Good God in Heaven.

If you knew where to look and looked very closely, ignoring the healing impact injury in her forehead, the acne scarring was still there. Just. The faintest shadow.

She was dumbfounded.

And her features were... leaner, somehow. More chiselled, the way things had been when she and Keith were first married.

Then Jill caught herself doing the silliest thing she'd ever done in her life—she turned the mirror around and looked at the back of it, as if some disbelieving part of her suspected a cruel conjuring trick. Paul doubled over, screeched with laughter, then caught her up and kissed her mouth. When she happily disentangled herself, she said, "I guess I should've known it would happen once your dick started to—"

Paul shook his head, grinning, and paid for the mirror. "Ugly bloody brute of a thing, this, but it'll be a memento. Jill, to tell the truth, I hadn't consciously noticed either." He paused as she tucked the mirror in her bag, placed his hands on her shoulders, subjected her to a comically critical appraisal, frowning, shifting his head from side to side. He nodded judiciously. "You know, Jill, you're bloody gorgeous! Better dump your Botox and Revlon shares, sweetheart—this is going to put a real crimp in cosmetics stock!"