The 100 Year Miracle (37 page)

At the door, she put her fingers to the lock. Her fine motor control was worse than her gross. Where were her notebooks when she needed them? If only she could write these things down—supposing she could manipulate the pen—then somehow it would be better, as though documenting the side effects would improve them. Observe, calculate, classify, hypothesize, test, control. These were the things that did not fail her even as her nervous system did, as her colleagues did, as everything else did. They were her refuge, her comfort.

She heard her own footsteps bang down the wooden deck stairs. There was a time gap there, and she didn’t know how long it was. She was behind the glass, and then she was not. She was outside in the last hours of dark, the last hours of the Miracle, looking out from the stairs at what was left of the most important moment in her life. Nothing would ever be this. Scientists hoped their whole lives for such a thing, and most never found it. Here. Here she’d had six whole days of the miraculous, and everyone knew it. Everyone down to the last civilian experienced it, but no one experienced it like she did. No one really understood what this meant, meant to her, meant to everyone. And she was losing it.

Rachel tightened her grip on the bag and concentrated as best she could when her feet hit sand. She moved fast, ducking under the yellow caution tape. The others still worked, a slower pace, resigned to the end, and while she dared not run right through the research site, she did not take the time to return to the other inlet farther away either. Instead she followed the beach’s half-moon shape ending in a rocky outcropping at the tip like a finger pointing toward the horizon.

*   *   *

Tilda’s foot kicked the bottom. That’s how she knew when she’d reached shore. She could not stand. She was too weak to stand. She was, in fact, too weak and too cold to have made the swim, but somehow she had. Now all she could do was roll over in the water and float the last few yards on her back, her life preserver still around her neck, letting the retreating waves push her up onto the beach.

She had swum through the Miracle, through the shining green ring that pulled her home like a beacon. She had swum through it, and now it clung to her. It clung to her hair and her clothes and her bare skin, so that if anyone had seen her there they would’ve thought her an alien. Tilda felt the sand reach up and accept her, give her something solid and firm to lie against for what seemed the first time in her whole life, and she accepted it right back with a gratitude that was as deep within her as her bones.

There was no hurry. She was safe. She could hear people. There was shouting, and it was coming closer. Someone would find her soon. They would find her, an iridescent green sea creature washed up on shore.

*   *   *

It was low tide. The ocean was pulling away from Rachel, taking back the Miracle it had brought, pulling the dying animals farther out to sea where they would extinguish, leaving nothing but their eggs to float in stasis who knew where for longer than she would ever live. It was terrifying to watch the water recede. She could see it happening as she ran. With each wave that the wind piled up in a neat row against the shore, it pulled one back farther than the last. Just as John had tried to play keep-away with her flask, so was Mother Nature here.

But even Mother Nature could not get the better of Rachel that night. All along the rocky outcropping were pools that had been left behind by the tide, and those pools blazed brighter than the waves the sea was pulling away. If she could get to them, she could have a far more concentrated sample. There was still time. She told herself there was still time.

Rachel climbed up on the rocks, dropping her bag at her feet, and pulled out the largest container. With it in one hand, she put her arms straight out at her sides like a tightrope walker and headed toward the tip of the natural jetty and the tidal pools. The wind grabbed hold of what dark brown strands of hair she had left, pushing them in front of her face. Rachel squinted to see the rocks at her feet. She told each foot to move, first the left and then the right. She had to be so careful, and it was difficult.

Step, step, step
.

She kept her arms out, tipping one way and then the other as her boot slid, and she only just caught herself. There was a pool—the biggest, best, brightest one—three-quarters of the way down. She could see it.

Step, step, step
.

It was louder out here, louder than by the protected sand of the bay far behind. Out here the wind howled, and the waves crashed against the sharp and unforgiving rocks. The rain blew sideways with nothing to protect her. With her arms out wide, Rachel looked like a zealot, a true believer.

This was good, she thought. This was helping. Her senses, her mind, her body were in such disarray, but there on the finger pointing out to sea, the wind and the rain pressed into her body, her brain focused on keeping her soft and vulnerable parts upright. Like a monk using a mantra to keep his mind from spinning off, Rachel used the forces of nature to find some center, some point to hold on to. And there she was; she had done it. The pool was just there at her feet. All she needed to do was bend down, get on her hands and knees, and reach, reach, reach.

It was then she felt it. The hands were on her back. The center she had found melted away, as her balance—never as good as she needed—crumbled. Rachel turned quick to look over her shoulder. She had not imagined it. He was there. His hands were on her, pushing and shoving as her feet lost their purchase. It was not the face she’d expected to see. It was such a betrayal, but—and this, too, surprised her—there was relief. She knew what was happening and even perhaps why. And soon there would be peace. All the pressure would be gone and all the pain, too. This was the other possibility. This, too, would end it.

She opened her mouth to speak, even just to say his name, but there was a final push. Before the word could get past her lips, her feet went, splaying out from under her. She watched as the sharp, slime-slick rocks rushed toward her head, and the growling ocean just beyond waited to take all that she had left.

42.

Tilda had to ring the doorbell just as she had the day she’d arrived. She leaned against the wall while she waited for Harry to answer, and Shooby barked on the other side. She had been dropped off by the family that had found her on the beach, her keys lost. When Harry answered, she was wet, bruised and limping, moving more stiffly even than he.

Juno tried to take her to the hospital. She told him he was being ridiculous, which made Harry angry and turned into an argument because he always had to go to the doctor, and why shouldn’t she have to go? Juno stopped listening and instead made peanut butter toast because his mother had said, in between it all, that she was hungry.

Juno did not mention Dr. Bell. Harry did not mention Dr. Bell, and both of them would have continued right on not mentioning her if it weren’t for the sound of the ambulance making its way to the beach.

Tilda, in no condition to do much of anything, stayed at the table with her toast, but Harry and Juno went to the door. Harry was wearing his house slippers. Another pair of shoes sat there, a pair of dark blue sneakers with Velcro straps covered in wet sand. Juno touched them, and some of the grains stuck to his fingers. Harry pretended he didn’t see and went out in his slippers instead.

*   *   *

People were piled up half a dozen deep at the crime scene tape, which had been strung up next to the raggedy, week-old caution kind that had kept the looky-loos off the research site. The sun was just starting to come up, and the rain had stopped. Harry didn’t think this many people had shown up to see the Miracle, at least not all at once.

“Do you know what happened?” a small woman asked.

Her white-gray hair was cropped close to her head all the way around, and she wore oversize black-frame glasses that marked women of that age as artistic, well-off, and likely to be NPR donors. It wasn’t clear if she was talking to Harry or Juno or to anyone in particular at all.

Harry chose to ignore her, but Juno spoke. “We just got here.”

“I heard one of the scientists died, fell off the rocks, cracked open her noggin,” the woman said.

Harry had known that already. He knew which of the researchers it was, too, but he didn’t see any reason to share that with this woman.

“I hope they roll out the body soon,” she went on. “I have a yoga class in an hour.”

“We’re leaving, too,” Juno said and took Harry’s arm.

To get back to the house, they had to walk up the cliff, through the public parking lot, and along the road. It was slow going. All access from the beach had been cut off. The police had even gone to the trouble of stringing a bit of crime scene tape across the bottom of their deck stairs.

When the two made it back, they found a man standing in their driveway, fiddling with Rachel’s truck—or what had been her truck.

“Can I help you?” Harry asked.

“I wish you could,” the man said. “I’m Hooper. Dr. Hooper. We met a few days ago.”

“I remember,” Harry said.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the commotion.”

Harry nodded.

“I’m sorry to tell you it was Dr. Bell who fell, who—passed.”

Harry nodded again, and the two men held each other’s gaze. Hooper broke first.

“Well, this truck belongs to the team, and we’re headed back to the university today. It’s horrible to have to think of logistics at a time like this.”

Hooper didn’t seem all that broken up about it, but Harry wasn’t one to throw stones. “Some things have to be taken care of,” he agreed.

“I’d like to go inside,” Hooper said, “if you don’t mind, for Rachel’s effects. We can take them with us. I’m sure her family will want them.”

Juno cocked his head. “They’re already gone.”

Hooper blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“The other scientist from your team, he came earlier and took everything away. He said he was working for you. I forget his name. The man with the tattoo.”

A flipbook of emotions played across Hooper’s face and ended on something that looked a little like fear. He did his best to cover it. “Of course, yes. This is such a difficult time. It’s easy to forget what we’re all doing.”

Juno and Harry watched as he hurried back toward the truck, the only thing of Dr. Bell’s that remained. In his rush, he fumbled with the keys, dropped them, and tried again.

“My condolences,” Harry said, but Hooper had already started the engine and did not hear him.

*   *   *

Inside, Harry went to make a pot of coffee. Tilda had left her plate on the table, and water was running in an upstairs shower. Juno sat at her place, and when Harry was done, he sat, too, pulling the morning paper toward himself and folding the crossword section to make it easier to work.

“How are you feeling?” Juno asked.

“I need an eight-letter word for self-assurance.”

The coffee was starting to brew, and Juno got up. He selected a mug from the cabinet and filled it three-quarters of the way while the coffee continued to drip and sizzle on the warming plate until the carafe was replaced.

“Chutzpah,” Harry said, answering his own question. “An eight-letter word for self-assurance is ‘chutzpah.’ It fits.”

Juno got milk from the fridge and carried it and the coffee to the table, retaking his seat. The rest of the paper was pushed to the side unread. Juno flipped through it for the sports section. “You were down at the beach,” he said. “Earlier, I mean.”

His father didn’t answer. Instead he filled in three boxes in front of him.

“You know you’re not supposed to go down to the beach by yourself. You could fall,” Juno continued, this time looking at the top of his father’s head. He kept looking until Harry met his gaze.

“I didn’t fall.”

“But you could have.”

“I didn’t.”

They looked at each other just like that for longer than anyone else would have found comfortable.

“Six-letter word for illness,” Harry said, breaking the silence. “It starts with an M.”

43.

One Month Later

It was midmorning, and the sun was streaming through the library window lighting up a haze of dust motes. Sunny days were unusual in January, and Tilda was enjoying it—although perhaps not so much that anyone else would notice. Shooby was less subtle. He lay on the hardwood floor in the middle of the beam with his stomach bared.

It was still hard to be in this room. It was, in fact, hard to be in the house, but it was hers now, and to leave, even for a while, would’ve been wrong in a way she wasn’t sure she could have explained. Ever since Harry had died, Tilda had taken to spending her midmornings here in his room. She still slept in the attic and went for her swims, but when she came back, she would make coffee and bring it in here. Shooby followed her. He followed her everywhere, but when she came in here, he seemed to stick a little closer, as though he needed to keep an especially keen eye on things.

Tilda had moved almost nothing of Harry’s. The score that he was working on still sat on the piano along with his Blackwing pencils. The debris that gathered around him—minus the plates of old food—was still piled on his small side table. Tilda could see it all sitting, as she always did, at his piano, an instrument that she couldn’t play.

They had had a full Christmas. Tilda had insisted on it even though Harry had taken a bad turn by then. They all knew it would be his last even though no one, including Harry, said so aloud. That was unusual for him. He had always been too frank for his own good, and Tilda suspected it had something to do with the new baby.

Juno—who had joint custody—had come with his little girl, who brought in a haul of presents that made anything Jesus got seem chintzy. Harry’s eyes had watered a little over the whole thing, and everyone had pretended not to notice. It was the first and last time Harry saw her. He died on the twenty-eighth. His funeral had taken place at his church—the same one she had driven him to the day she’d met Tip, and he’d been buried in the one cemetery on the island. “Father, composer, husband,” his headstone read. It seemed, to Tilda, appropriate, and no one had dared contradict her.