Living Proof, стр. 30
“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