Elixir (30 page)

His eyes dart around, stopping on the medical-supply cabinet in the corner. He jerks the handle. Locked. He kicks the cabinet with his good leg. It rattles but doesn’t split. He thrusts his foot into it again. Natasha’s mother, father, brother, and priest watch in confusion behind the six-inch sheet of glass over the observation area.

He kicks once more, denting the wood but not breaking it. He glances at the entrance, still shut, and figures the guards will need to put on biohazard suits before coming in. He has some time, but not much. Yelling, he boots the cabinet again, deeper imprint, no fracture though. He hits it for a fifth time, caving a small round hole. He punches through and unlatches it from inside.

Yanking it open, he scans the shelves for syringes. He makes them out in the top back corner. He snatches one, then unscrews the cap of the snow-covered soap bottle. He dips the needle inside and sucks up the orange liquid.

He lets out the air bubbles with a squirt, shakes his left arm from his jacket sleeve, and stabs himself with the syringe. Pressing the plastic plunger, he administers half the vaccine, immunizing himself so he can go near her.

He runs to the bed and climbs on top of his brittle girlfriend, his knees digging into the mattress, his breath heavy. Natasha’s lifeless, blue-and-crimson eyes fill with a twinkle as she looks at him up-close. He lifts the gown material around her emaciated left shoulder and injects her. “Here sweetheart,” he says, brushing some hair from her face with his free hand.

The buzzer blares. He sees the two bulky guards barreling toward him in protective gear. Just as he finishes giving her the last of the dose, they tackle him, the syringe dropping to the floor with a hollow thud. His back crashes to the surface, whole bed frame vibrating above him.

They scream at him in German as they restrain him, but their voices are distant. He’s not paying any attention. He gazes at the ceiling light, a warm glow across his beat-up body, wet boots leaning against each other, arms stretched to his sides as they pin him down. He’s smiling. They made it. Him and Natasha. Both of them. Free.

The next morning Sean’s legs are dangling off the stone bridge he was flinging pretzels from a few nights ago. A soft flurry descends in the air. Through the wall of dancing snowflakes, he peers across the water at the gold clock face of the St. Peter Church, over twenty-eight feet wide, Europe’s largest. He sits there for a while, the whoosh of cars and trucks behind, his mind pondering what it did the last time he was in the spot. All he is and all he isn’t.

In a bit he’s in the hospital elevator, some snow in his hair and eyebrows, his reflection peeking back at him in those mirrored walls. He gets off at the fifth level and starts limping down the hallway. This section of the clinic, filled with administrative and executive offices, lacks the secluded, sterile aura of the quarantine area and rather, has a homey ambience, floral paintings in wood-grain frames mounted every few feet against the pinstriped wallpaper, dark-green carpeting and roped trim below.

He stops at a door labeled in German “Dr. Hans Obrecht – Director – Infectious Disease” and knocks. “Come in,” the physician says in the same language inside.

Sean enters the room, closing it behind him. He sweeps his eyes over the space, Natasha’s family seated on the low black couch he was on the other day, five men in lab coats huddled around the doctor at his desk, Sean’s empty “Face Soap” container propped up on it under a powerful magnifying glass. Everyone fixates on him, the mysterious topic of discussion the last day. Dr. Obrecht opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it, unsure how to phrase what he wants to say. Natasha’s mom does the same thing.

Sean, discomforted by the eighteen probing eyeballs on him, looks down at that blue rug with the little white circles. He’s not ready to field all the intrusive questions just yet. Besides, he has something much more important to do. “Can I see her?” he asks nobody in particular in English.

“She’s still sleeping,” Dr. Obrecht says in the same language with a heavy Swiss accent, calm water of Lake Zurich outside the window behind him. “It was quite the week for her.”

“I can imagine.” Sean rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll wait for her downstairs. Thanks.” He cracks the door and takes a step into the corridor.

“James,” the doctor says, rising to his feet, getting Sean’s attention before he leaves. Sean turns over his shoulder. “Forgive me, but I think you have some explaining to do.”

Sean looks him in the eye. “It’s not James.”

“Excuse me?”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. “It’s Sean.”

A pause. “Sean. My apologies, I swore it was James.” He runs a hand through his silver hair, the strands toward the front touched by the anxious sweat coating his brow. “My colleagues and I performed a blood test on Ms. Vonlanden this morning and well...” He grips the serum’s plastic container between his thumb and middle finger and shakes it twice. “What the fuck was in this soap bottle?”

Sean offers a light chuckle. He twists the doorknob a couple times, latch bolt popping in and out with a clink. “I went through a lot the last few days to fill that up. I don’t really feel like talking about it now.” He glimpses the six men in white lab coats before him, then bends down and rolls up the left hemline of his jeans, exposing his ankle wound. “I’ll make a deal with you guys though. I’ll tell you all about it later if you can get someone to check this out for me.” Balancing on his good foot, he juts his bad one forward.

Stretching his neck, Dr. Obrecht analyzes the gash. “What is it, a laceration?” Sean nods. “I believe we have the expertise on staff to assist with that,” the physician says with sarcasm. A couple of his colleagues snicker at his little joke.

“Thanks doc. It’s a deal.”

“Wait, can you just describe—”

He shakes his head. “We’ll chat later.” Swinging his eyes toward the doorway, he catches the father’s line of vision. They hold their gazes on each other for a few seconds, Mr. Vonlanden’s demeanor timid in the presence of the enigmatic healer. Sean recollects the way he screamed at him in this very room a few days ago, called him a nobody. He’s certain the father is thinking about the same moment. Sean grins, a subtle smile that says everything it needs to, the ignorant man put in his place, no conversation needed. Sean exits, sealing the office behind him.

Checking out the floral paintings on the walls, he hobbles toward the elevator, a small lamp above each piece of art, a cone-shaped shine emitted along the canvases, brushstroke details brought out. He stops by one that gets his interest, a Peace Lily, five white bulbs on a black background. He stares at it for about a minute, appreciative of its simplicity, then continues up the hall.

About an hour later he’s sitting on a folding chair outside a room in the clinic’s main zone. He has a blue soft cast on his left foot stretching to mid-calf. As he gulps from a bottle of water, the door opens with a squeak, a nurse stepping into the hallway. He swallows his sip and asks in English, “Hey, is she up?”

She studies him for a while, same probing expression everyone was giving him upstairs. “Are you the one that went in there yesterday with the soap bottle?” He nods, then takes another swig. “What was in there?”

“I’m talking about it with you guys later. I already promised the doctor.” He turns to the entryway, trying to peek through a slit. “Right now I just want to see her. Is she up or no?”

“She’s a little drowsy still, but yes, she’s awake.”

“I’m gonna go say hi,” he says, standing.

“Yeah. Go ahead.” She points at the handle, still gaping at him. He rests his drink on the aluminum seat and grabs a set of crutches against the wall. With the cushioned tops under his armpits, he maneuvers through the doorway.

He notices Natasha’s outline behind the sheer privacy curtain circling the bed. He nudges the door closed with his shoulder, then plants his crutches on the tile floor and takes himself toward her. He flaps the curtain to the side, his girlfriend spinning to the swoosh. Her face lights up when she sees it’s him. “Hey,” she says, voice soft and sweet. She pats the spot of mattress to her right.

He guides the screen closed, a nook forming around them, rest of the room and rest of the world drowned out. “Hey,” he says with a grin. He nestles on her side, his cast brushing against her leg.

Her eyes are clear, no more bleeding, but she still appears frail. He knows the remnants of the illness will fade soon though. The last thing on his mind is her not-yet-healed surface. His skin remains black and blue and his lip sliced. But she doesn’t seem fazed. The last thing on her mind is his not-yet-healed surface.

She’s not sure what to say, so many thoughts racing, so many questions unanswered. She squints a bit, watching him as if she’d encounter something there she never saw before. He senses what she’s doing and finds it kind of amusing. He can guess how strange this must be for her. He chuckles. “What?” she asks.

“No. It’s just...you’re funny. How you’re looking at me.” He tilts his head over his shoulder and smiles. “It’s still me.”

She lies on her side, gazing at him with the pillow under her right cheek. “What did you give me?”

“Remember when I told you to be strong for a few days?” She nods, a few blond strands flowing across the white pillowcase. “Well...I was making something for you that would help.”

She lingers on him, hoping he’ll explain more. He doesn’t, at a loss himself. “They said I’m gonna be okay. It’s gone.” She pauses. “All of it.”

“I know.”

She’s quiet for a while, inspecting his face again for something she never knew existed. “How did you know?”

“Because I just know certain things.” He pats her thigh through the covers. “About stuff like that.”

“I don’t get what you’re saying.”

He can’t help but find her natural reaction to it cute. He kneels on the mattress and reaches over her, his leather jacket grazing her hip, then grabs her cell phone from the night table. Sitting back down with it in his lap, he scoots closer to her and clicks a couple buttons. “Here. This’ll help.” A YouTube clip of him on
Jeopardy!
when he was eleven starts playing, screen shining on his “CALIBOY” T-Shirt, yesterday’s clothes still on. He passes her the phone.

“What is this?”

“Just watch it.”

She sees three contestants behind podiums, the one in the middle about a foot shorter than the other two. “Mayonnaise is an example of this colloidal dispersion of liquid particles in another liquid,” a voice says from the speakers.

“What is an emulsion,” the little one in the center says.

“Correct.”

“General Science for twelve hundred please.”

“Earth’s crust consists of about forty-six percent oxygen. This element is second most abundant at about twenty-eight percent.”

“What is silicon.”

“Right.”

She holds the phone a couple inches from her face, examining the young contestant’s features, detecting traces of her boyfriend James in them. Her attention jumps from the child him to the current him. “This is you?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

She watches for another minute or so, trying to piece things together. She lays down the phone, clip still rolling, and looks around their little space for a while, exchange of
Jeopardy!
questions and answers still audible. “What are you, like a genius or something?” He chuckles. Her mouth opens a bit in surprise. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

He grips a patch of bed sheet, rolling it into a little ball, then unrolling and repeating. “I guess it didn’t matter. But then you got sick. And it did.” Outside, the snow has subsided, the sun emerging, a wedge of light pouring through the big window on their nook, soft shadows touching the sheer curtain where it bends and billows.

She looks at the podium on the video. “Who’s Sean?”

“That’s my real name.”

“It isn’t James?”

He wraps his hand around hers and says in an understanding tone, “This must be really weird for you. Believe me, I get it. Something happened with me in the States and I needed to change my identity. Sounds crazy, I know. I’ll explain all of it.” He kisses her forehead. “But everything else about me you know. You’re the only person in the world I’ve told any of that other stuff to.”

She glimpses his eyes, warm like always. Weighing it all, she stares with folded arms at the silhouettes swaying around their nook for about a minute. The shock of his fake name is a bit unsettling, but then she tries to put it in perspective. Reflecting on what he told her and everything that occurred the last day, she comes to the compelling realization he just cured the world’s deadliest disease for her.

Smirking, she pokes his shoulder. Reacting to her playfulness, he smiles back and asks, “What?”

On the show they used to make him wear a lot of hairspray and put him in boxy suits. His personal taste is more casual, and he always hated how they made him look. Being so familiar with him, she assumes this without him even admitting it and decides to have some fun with him. She nods at the YouTube video and says in a taunting way, “Look at you up onstage with your fancy little hair and your fancy little outfit.”

His cheeks get red. “Stop.”

“Awwwww.” She snickers. “What happened to this style? I think I like it better than the one now. Much more refined. Really. You should consider—”

He starts tickling the sides of her belly. “You want to laugh?” he asks with sarcasm. “I’ll make you laugh.”

Giggling, she tries to push him off. “Stop. Baby.” She twists back and forth, bed frame squeaking. “Baby.” Her laughter gets louder.

“You asked for it buddy.”

She smacks his back. “I’m gonna get you so bad later.” They roll around.

A week later a taxicab pulls up to the Rayburn House in Washington, DC, a large Congressional office complex. Sean slips out in a down jacket and beanie, face healed other than a small mark on his cheek, no more cast on his ankle. He gazes at the pillars in front, then crosses the street and climbs the stairs, just a trace of a limp remaining in his step.

He enters and wanders through a hallway bustling with political aides, lawyers, lobbyists, and other federal-government affiliates. Soft streaks of midday February sun spill through the windows on top of the hectic crowd.