Implant Page 2

  “Gordon.” Baum’s voice held the familiar tone of gentle rebuke that always worked its way instantly into Gordon’s mind and humbled him.

  He hung his head.

  “Your father wanted me to watch out for you. I figured there would be time enough after the test to tell you the results.”

  Tears stung Gordon’s eyes. Baum was right.

  This did hurt.

  “How long do I have?” he asked, not lifting his head.

  “With chemo…”

  “Baum.” Gordon looked up and met the doctor’s eyes.

  The clock ticked twice. Three, four, five times before Baum spoke. “Less than five years.”

  Gordon shut his eyes tight and let a hot tear squeeze out onto his cheek.

  “We’ll figure something out—sometimes chemo works. I’ll help however I can…”

  Gordon shook his head tersely. “You already paid for the biopsy, didn’t you?” He tried to sound accusing. “I know those aren’t cheap.”

  Baum smiled down at him, but he didn’t let the smile weaken him this time.

  “Let’s assume I can get the money for chemo,” he suggested, throat dry. “From some foundation or something. Does that usually help—in this kind of situation?”

  Baum pressed his lips together, and just looked Gordon in the eyes for a moment. He was always so optimistic. “No. I’m sorry.”

  Gordon groped for words and found none. What was there to say? He’d just been told, “You’re probably going to die in less than five years, Gordon. And if by some off chance you live, you won’t have any money for college, because treatments will probably suck up your meager income and savings, probably for nothing.”

  What exactly was a guy supposed to say to that?

  “Why don’t you come home with me tonight,” Baum suggested.

  Gordon shook his head jerkily, so that there was a pop in the back of his neck as he moved. “No.”

  “If you’re sure,” Baum sighed. “Gordon…”

  Gordon pinched the chair again and stood up. “What did you have for me to do today?”

  “Nothing, Gordon. Take the day off.”

  “But…”

  “Don’t argue, my boy. Go home, have some time alone, whatever you need to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Home. Nodding, he turned to leave, mouth drier than an autumn leaf.

  He took a few steps, feeling Baum’s kind brown eyes boring into the back of his head.

  He should go home with him.

  “Baum…” he began, not turning around.

  “Yes?”

  Gordon laid his hand on the doorpost and tightened his fingers until they were snow-white. “Nothing.”

  He let go of the doorway and left.

  *****

  He opened his front door, listening to it creak painfully as it swung inwards.

  “Gordon, do you think you could oil these hinges for me while we’re gone?”

  He shut his eyes tight and gritted his teeth until his jaw popped. Slamming the door, he hurled his keys into the bowl on the chest that stood just inside the house.

  His mother had made the request with a sigh. She had sighed so much after it happened, her beautiful eyes hollow with worry. His father hadn’t spoken, but Gordon could see his hands shaking, trembling, the way his strong, sure father’s hands should never shake.

  He’d forgotten to oil the hinges. And they had never come back through that door again.

  Gordon wished now that he hadn’t just nodded in a stupid, scared way in response to his mother’s question four years ago. He wished he’d thrown his arms around her neck; told her how much he loved her.

  Turning into the cluttered living room, he tossed his jacket onto the faded couch, stepped over the shoes on the floor, and settled himself at the computer desk on the other side of the room.

  He typed “chronic lymphocytic leukemia” into Google and pressed the “go” button. The top result was, of course, Wikipedia. “B-cell chronic lymphocytic leukemia.” It was as good a place to start as any, so he clicked.

  It was the most common type of leukemia. It affected the b-cell lymphocytes, which originated in bone marrow and helped fight infection. It was a stage of small lymphocytic leukemia. It was an adult disease, with seventy-five percent of cases developing in patients over age fifty. It only occasionally occurred in teenagers.

  Gordon pinched his lips together. Only occasionally. What difference did that make? Occasionally was as good as a majority, when it was you.

  Yes, it caused severe anemia. Positive ZAP-70 had an average life expectancy of five years, just like Baum had said.

  He stopped reading and let his head drop onto the desk. His hands slowly formed tight, shaking fists.

  It wasn’t fair.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to go to college and get a good education, then have a good career in business, and a nice, long life.

  Alone. A good life, alone and safe. Safe from hurting anyone the way his father had.

  He sat there until his neck got sore, then got up and went through the motions of a day off. Making a salami sandwich, watching TV, taking a nap, checking the mail, heating up a TV dinner, watching more TV. The whodunit episode ended, and some weird zombie movie came on, and he just stared at the screen, seeing the pixels, but not processing the images.

  The room darkened as the world did, illuminated only by the television screen as he sat and didn’t watch.

  The tinkling of his doorbell startled him, reflexively pulling his head towards the sound. Had it only been on the show? He felt for the remote, found the power button, and pressed it, silencing the screams and gunshots.

  He stood up. “Coming.”

  The doorbell rang again as he stepped to the little entryway. “I said I’m coming.”

  He hoped it wouldn’t be too evident he’d been crying.

  When he opened the door, Allison stood there, thin blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, face calm in the streetlight rays, six-buttoned sweater neat and tidy.

  “Hi, Gordon,” she said quietly.

  “Hello.”

  She looked down and slid her right forefinger through the fingers of her left hand. “I know I was upset earlier. I wanted to thank you for helping me.”

  Gordon sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I wish I had helped you,” he said, standing aside to let her in.

  She stepped through the door and stood in the tiny, dark entryway, waiting for him to close the door. Then she lifted her blue eyes to his. “I don’t need anything. But I think I was rude earlier. Was I?”

  He tried to smile. “It’s okay, Allison. Did you—did you have a good day at work?” He reached for a light switch.

  “Yes,” she answered as the light came on. “I like it there. Nobody makes fun of me.”

  “Good,” he said, wishing she would leave.

  “Did you have a good day at work?”

  His throat tightened. “Yes,” he said, knowing his tone was not convincing.

  Allison wrinkled her forehead and stepped closer, invading his personal space for a moment before pulling back. “It looks like you were crying.”

  Gordon turned his face away.

  “What’s wrong? I want to help you.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t help me. Nobody can.”

  “My father might be able to do something.”

  “No.” He shook his head again. “It’s not anything he can help with.”

  “But he has lots of money, he could…”

  He looked back at her, his eyes begging her to go away. “It’s not a money thing. I just found out I have leukemia.”

  Silence pressed into the corners of the room. Hesitantly, she touched her fingertips to his arm for one second, then pulled her hand back. “Is that cancer?”

  “Yes, Allison. That’s blood cancer.” His eyes burned and he blinked rapidly.

  She thought for a moment. “I think—there might be something I
can do.”

  “Like what?” he asked listlessly.

  “I’m working with my dad.”

  Gordon’s eyes widened, though he didn’t see how that could help him. Allison’s father was the vice-president of the Academy of Sciences, a governmental institution for research and development in all areas of technology. It was an elite workforce.

  She misread his expression, and spoke defensively. “I’m good at my work. I can help with circuitry and all kinds of engineering. They all say I’m good.”

  Gordon nodded. Allison’s electronic and mechanical knowledge was outstanding, that he knew, but she was so socially challenged, he hadn’t thought she’d be able to get a job where she could really use them. But he only said, “I’m sure you are good.”

  She smiled shyly, then looked over both shoulders as if the blank walls or the mess in the other room might be listening. Then she leaned close to him. “My father’s been heading a team working on an implant.”

  “An implant?” Gordon frowned.

  “A medical implant.” She lowered her voice still more. “It’s supposed to cure cancer.”

  Gordon’s head jerked back, and a light burst in his brain. Cure cancer? But—what about money?

  Before he could ask anything, she started talking again. “It hasn’t been tested yet.”

  “Then… how do they know it will work?”

  “They don’t. That’s why they need a test case. My dad’s supposed to find one.”

  His heartbeat accelerated, and a shiver ran through him and settled in his stomach. “So… would I have to pay anything?”

  “No.” She shook her head, and straightened up. “My father said they would pay for a test case.”

  Gordon’s throat went dry, and he swallowed. He should wait, he should think about this, talk to Baum, do some research—

  “Tell your dad I’ll come by tomorrow morning,” he said. He felt light, floating, like someone in a dream.

  “I will.”

  He wanted to shake her hand fervently, gratefully, but knew she wouldn’t like to be touched. So he tried to let his eyes show his gratitude. “Thank you, Allison. Thank you so much for telling me.”

  She nodded, then slipped her right forefinger into her left hand’s grasp again.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he smiled, feeling like his spirit was going to fly through the ceiling. He reached for the doorknob and pulled the door open.

  “Okay.” She smiled slightly, and walked out.

  He watched her retreat down the sidewalk, towards her house, which was only two streets down. Then he looked up at the sky, where the first star was just blinking down on the world.

  The second and third stars had presented themselves before he turned inside and pulled the door closed. He pressed his back against the hard, wooden surface. Then he let his knees relax, and sank to the floor.

  There was no way he was getting any sleep tonight.

  *****

  He tried to call Baum before he left for the Academy, both on his cell and office phones. He was slightly relieved when the doctor didn’t answer. The feeling that Baum wouldn’t like any of this persisted—Baum would want to look into it, learn more about the idea behind this implant and what kind of safeguards it had, and so on and so forth.

  Gordon understood perfectly well that there was a risk, but he really didn’t care. It was his only hope as far as he could see. According to his brief research the morning before, chronic lymphocytic leukemia of his type was rarely helped by chemo or radiation or stem-cell or any of the known treatments. And if he waited as long as Baum would want him to, another test case might come along, and his hope would be gone.

  When he got up that morning, he realized that he had neglected to mention a specific time when he told Allison he’d meet her father “the next morning,” but it didn’t really matter. He knew when the Academy opened—he’d gone there three times on school field trips. If he was there at seven thirty, they could decide for themselves when they’d see him.

  After the incident of the day before, he knew better than to try his bike again. Stuffing a few dollars in the pocket of his jeans on the way out the door, he headed for the bus stop on the next block.

  Even during the short bus ride, his heart rate increased at an alarming rate. Taking a deep breath, he looked down at his red sneakers and focused on visually tracing the white stitching. Over the toe—back, and then looping up to the laces—down, and back to the heel.

  He was annoyed when the stitching started jiggling. Jerking his head up, he laid a hand over his heart. Calm down, Gordon. Deep breaths.

  “Sir?” The bald man across the aisle stared. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Gordon said, forcing his voice to remain steady. He looked down at his hand. There didn’t seem to be any pink in his skin at all.

  He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, trying to relax. He was just in the process of taking a deep breath, when the vehicle stopped and the driver called back, “The Academy of Sciences!”

  Gordon jerked up. “I’m getting off here,” he announced, a bit too loudly.

  The bus driver nodded and opened the doors, and Gordon stumbled down the steps. The bus rumbled away behind him.

  The Academy of Sciences headquarters was a huge complex of buildings, and the main building alone covered four blocks and had fourteen or fifteen stories—Gordon had forgotten which. The words “Academy of Sciences” were attached above the grand, four-door entry in giant neon-blue letters. The font was futuristic, but in a cheesy way, like something out of a cheap 1960s sci-fi movie. The building itself was white metal, and it was somehow both artsy and industrial at the same time.

  Blowing out slowly, Gordon darted towards the rightmost of the sleek blue doors. It slid open as he approached, and he dove in and stood just inside, gawking.

  The lobby alone was three stories high, and probably took up half a block. It was predominately white, with blue accents, and enormous windows that stretched nearly from ceiling to floor with wavy blue panes. Long, winding hallways stretched away to his left, and to his right was a wall of desks behind plexiglas that reminded him of the deposit windows at a bank.

  Down the middle of the enormous room was a long row of blue cushioned benches, back to back. Other than those working at the desks, the only people he saw were a young boy seated on one of the benches, and a trim woman in a blue and white suit walking towards him.

  She smiled, showing every shining tooth. “Welcome to the Academy of Sciences! May I help you?”

  Gordon nodded, then straightened his posture. “Yes—my name is Gordon Harding, I’m here to see Mr. R. J. Greer?”

  The woman smiled some more, and nodded. “I’ll tell him you’re here. Please, have a seat.” She gestured with one slender arm to the long, long row of benches.

  “Thank you.” He looked at the benches, still feeling slightly nauseated. He had no desire to sit near the other boy, but he also didn’t want to appear to be avoiding him. The answer seemed to be to sit a polite distance away, say, a couple yards. Gordon picked out a seat to the boy’s left, and walked towards it, footsteps echoing through the lobby.

  As he approached, he took in the boy’s appearance. He was probably a couple of years younger than Gordon, and was extremely skinny. Instead of sitting in the normal way, with his back flat against the back of the bench and his feet on the floor, he was slumped down with his feet up on the bench and his knees drawn nearly up to his chin. A tablet computer was propped against his knees, and he was typing, eyes peering and squinting as if he were either confused or very nearsighted. His hair, which seemed too long, was parted in the middle and tumbled over both sides of his head.

  Trying not to appear to be staring, Gordon settled himself carefully in his chosen seat. The blue cushion was too thin, and slippery. He shifted awkwardly.

  The twisted feeling in his stomach persisted.

  Maybe he should have waited and gotten Baum’s adv
ice.

  But then, what choice did he have?

  The other boy dropped his feet to the ground very suddenly, causing an echoing thump. Gordon jumped, and turned to find the boy staring at him.

  “What are you doing here?” the boy asked.

  Gordon swallowed and frowned, put off by the abruptness. “I… have an appointment with the vice president,” he stuttered, wondering if it was any of the boy’s business.

  The boy peered at him. “So do I. I suppose you have something to do with that implant?”

  His stomach plummeted and his heart began to race again. “Yes… are you a prospective test case?”

  The boy scowled, and slapped his tablet down onto the bench next to him. “Definitely not! You are aware that the Implant 5.8 hasn’t even been tested on human beings yet? The only real tests were on chimps in the tech lab over a year ago. Which is a whole other can of worms.”

  Gordon blinked. “How do you know so much about it…?”

  “I make it my business to keep up with these things,” the boy nodded. He plopped one foot back up on the bench and bent to tie his shoe. “You can’t be serious about accepting.”

  “I don’t see why it’s your business,” Gordon protested, feeling his face flush with heat.

  “It’s my business, as a citizen of this country, to see that it stays free and independent. You’d have to be crazy to let the government own your life and health like this.” The boy stomped his foot back down again.

  “Look, kid, my life and health are mine to worry about. Besides, without this implant, I won’t have either for anybody to worry about.”

  The kid stood up, veins bulging in his temples. “Don’t you see what’s really at stake here? Now it’s just your life, but in the future, in a hundred years, it might be…” The kid stopped. “You all right?”

  As the boy said the words “a hundred years,” Gordon had felt a brief, unpleasant sensation deep in his stomach, like someone had grabbed his insides and squeezed them.

  The blood drained from his face.

  “Hey.” The boy gripped his arms. “You okay?”

  Gordon opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He swayed, dizzy.

  The floor dropped away from beneath his feet, but he didn’t fall. He remained suspended in midair, and watched as the boy’s intense face swirled, faded, and washed away like paint.