Текст книги "Revived"

Автор книги: Cat Patrick

Соавторы: Cat Patrick
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

nineteen

I wave my hand to activate the computer, then touch the monitor so it recognizes my fingerprints. It prompts me for a password and I say the first three-syllable word I think of: xenophobe. Matt chuckles because he probably thinks the password is real when, really, the computer just needs me to speak more than two syllables so that it can use voice-recognition software to verify my identity.

“Duck for a second,” I say to Matt. He looks at me funny but crouches down a bit, enough for the computer’s “eye” to scan just me. When it’s satisfied that I’m Daisy and not some imposter, the computer lets me into the directory for Program F-339145.

The God Project.

“They let all the kids in the program mess around in the files?” Matt asks.

“No,” I murmur as I navigate the welcome screens with my hands instead of a mouse. “Like I said, I’m the only one who lives with agents. Mason in particular is really open. He says that I’m almost an agent myself, and that I should be able to access information if I want to. He trusts me.”

“That’s so cool,” Matt says, mesmerized. I don’t answer, choking on the irony of my words.

I motion open the folder with the archived newspaper clippings from the Iowa crash. I choose the longest, most informative story, then scoot my chair aside so Matt can read.

I watch his chocolate eyes float back and forth across the screen. At first, they’re wide and bright: He’s engrossed in the story. Then they narrow, making him look pensive. Finally, when he winces and his face freezes in a pained, uncomfortable expression, I force myself to look away. With nothing else to look at, I read the story again myself.

TWENTY CHILDREN, DRIVER DEAD AFTER BUS CRASH ON HIGHWAY 13

By Jolie Papadopolis, Staff Writer

Thursday, December 6, 2001

The Iowa Highway Patrol has not yet released the names of the minor children confirmed dead yesterday after a Brown Academy bus drove over the Highway 13 bridge and plummeted into icy Lake Confident below, killing all aboard. Police have not determined the cause of the collision; bus driver Peggy Miller, 22, of Briarwoods, also died in the crash.

Though paramedics arrived at the scene in less than 15 minutes, none of the 20 children aboard, ranging in age from four to eleven years old, nor Miller, could be resuscitated.

“It’s the worst tragedy this town has ever seen,” said Phillip D. Grobens, chief of police for the nearby city of Bern, where Brown Academy is located. “My heart breaks for the parents of these children, and for Ms. Miller, too.”

According to an eyewitness, the bus swerved to avoid an oncoming vehicle that had crossed over the center divider of the two-lane bridge. The witness speculated that icy conditions on the bridge could have contributed to Miller’s loss of control over the school bus. Witness Lacy Pine, 18, of Bern, said, “The bus fishtailed and it looked like she got control for a minute and then the back end swooshed hard to the left and the bus was going too fast and it went over. Broke clean through the guardrail. It was horrible. The ice ate it up and there was nothing anyone could do. It just sank.”

Despite Pine’s and corroborating eyewitness statements, Grobens says the county will perform an autopsy on Miller to rule out substance abuse or illness that might have contributed to the accident. Miller had been driving buses for only six months.

“With this many families destroyed, we have to investigate every possibility,” Grobens said.

The names of the children will be released once all of the families have been notified. According to Grobens, one child’s parents were out of the country at the time of the accident and have not yet been reached.

One of the state’s top private schools, Brown Academy matriculates children from preschool to senior high and has received accolades for both its high standardized test scores and its scholarship programs for low-income families. Brown Academy director Elizabeth Friend said in a statement: “Our hearts go out to the families and friends impacted by this most terrible tragedy. Every one of those children was special, and deserves a special place in our hearts forever.”

Brown Academy is closed this week and is offering free counseling for students and parents, as well as a meal service for families directly involved.

Police ask anyone who witnessed the crash to notify the Iowa Highway Patrol at 555-2301.

“Whoa,” Matt says after he finishes reading. “That’s heavy.”

“I know, but look at how it turned out. Nearly everyone was fine.”

“How many weren’t fine?” he asks.

“Uh,” I say, swiping aside the newspaper file and opening the document that contains the list of people who were on the school bus. “Six kids died for real. And the driver. So, seven people.”

Matt scans the names of the kids and I do, too.

Tia Abernathy, Michael Dekas(X), Andrew Evans(X), Timothy Evans(X), Nathan Francis(X), Cody Frost, Marissa Frost, Joshua Hill, Tyler Hill, David Katz, Daisy McDaniel, Elizabeth Monroe, Anne Marie Patterson(X), Marcus Pitts, Chase Rogers, David Salazar, Wade Sergeant, Gavin Silva, Kelsey Stroud(X), Nicole Yang.

I look at Matt and see that he’s still scrutinizing the names.

“Your real last name is McDaniel?”

“Yes,” I say.

“We would have sat near each other at graduation if you didn’t change your name,” he says, dreamlike. I can tell he’s fascinated by the list so I don’t wipe it off the screen just yet.

“You’re a year older than me,” I say. “We won’t graduate together.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forget because you’re in English.”

“And if I didn’t change my name—if I didn’t die—I wouldn’t be in Omaha.”

There’s a pause in the conversation when I really want to ask Matt what he’s thinking despite it being probably the most cliché thing to ask a guy. When Matt still doesn’t take his eyes off the names, I open my mouth to ask if he has any questions. He beats me to it.

“Where’s Megan?” he asks.

“Oh, she was Marcus Pitts then,” I say. “She was born a boy. Her dad took the accident as an opportunity to leave them, mostly because he couldn’t take the transgender thing. After they moved, Megan’s mom let her wear whatever—be whoever—she wanted. She dressed in girl clothes from then on out.”

“But she was only, what, like five?”

“I guess when you know, you know,” I say with a shrug.

“Oh,” Matt says. “So are the X’s—”

“The ones who died,” I say, nodding.

“Were those kids brothers?” Matt asks. “The Evanses?”

“Yes.”

“And they both died?” Matt says, horrified.

“Yes.”

“That’s so rough. Their parents must have been devastated.”

“I’m sure they were.”

“I’m sure they still are.”

I glance at Matt: He’s holding his jaw in his right hand, and his forehead is distorted and distressed. His dark eyes are clouded over like a rainstorm. He’s affected by these people he’s never met. Maybe it’s because of Audrey, or maybe he’s just empathetic in general, but Matt’s reaction makes me question my own. I have to be honest: For all the times I’ve logged on and researched the program, I haven’t often dwelled on the ones who died for real. In this moment I realize that I haven’t thought of them much at all.

Have I taken on some of Cassie’s robotic tendencies after living with her all these years? Or is it just my developing scientific mind that makes me look at the program so coolly? Or is it the program itself? By teaching me that death is optional, has the program desensitized me to real death?

How will I react if Audrey dies?

Or should I say when?

Thrusting that morbid thought from my brain, I wave away the list. I hear Matt inhale next to me like he’s been holding his breath for a while. I consider logging off but decide to keep going since Matt seems so sucked in. I open the folder where they keep the files on all the victims: one for each, living or dead. They’re not numbered—they all start with F-339145, and then have a random letter after the program identifier—so it’s hard to tell which folder belongs to which person. Matt watches as I play a silent game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe.

When I open “moe,” I immediately recognize Mason’s handwriting. The page is dated December 5, 2001: the day of the bus crash.

Back when the program started, apparently God was paranoid about the Internet and made agents take notes on paper. Eventually, he got over his technophobia and had all of the paper files scanned in and then destroyed. But the handwritten notes are the most real. As I look at Mason’s harried scrawl, I actually feel how dire the situation was, much more than if I was reading a typed report.

“Wow,” I murmur.

“What?” Matt asks.

“Nothing, it’s just the handwriting,” I say. “It’s Mason’s, and it looks so… crazy.”

Matt nods, but he still looks confused. I point at the date.

“This was the day of the crash,” I explain. “The agents had to take quick notes between patients. I’m sure it was chaotic. And it had to be so frustrating for them. Mason and the others were supposed to bring twenty-one people back to life with only a syringe, and that’s it.”

Matt lets my words sink in for a few seconds. “But if the drug didn’t work, they tried other ways to save you guys, too, right?” he asks.

“No, that’s the point,” I say. “To truly test the drug, they could only use Revive. Like, they couldn’t even do CPR.”

“But…” Matt’s words fade.

“Can you imagine being a doctor and knowing all these lifesaving techniques and not being able to use them?” I ask.

“Kind of like having a sister with cancer and knowing about a lifesaving drug that she can’t have,” Matt says, staring right at me.

“I guess so,” I say quietly.

“Sorry,” Matt says.

“Don’t apologize. You’re right.”

Matt steers the conversation back to the screen. Or rather, he looks at the notes and starts reading. Not really knowing what else to say, I read, too.

CASE NUMBER: 16

NAME: KELSEY STROUD

AGE: 6

PARENTS: JONATHAN AND NANCY STROUD

(CONSENT GIVEN AT 9:17 AM)

LOCATION OF BODY: LODGED UNDER SEAT EIGHT (MIDDLE LEFT)

PRESUMED CAUSE OF DEATH: SEVERE HEAD TRAUMA (METAL OBJECT PENETRATED HEAD JUST ABOVE LEFT TEMPLE; SIGNIFICANT SUBSEQUENT BLOOD LOSS; GLASGOW COMA SCALE RATING 1 FOR VISUAL, VERBAL, MOTOR)

FIRST DOSAGE: ONE VIAL, 9:18 AM

REACTION: NONE

REPEAT DOSAGE: NONE

RECOMMENDATION: AUTOPSY TO DETERMINE DEFINITIVE CAUSE OF DEATH TO COMPARE AGAINST OTHER REACTIONS TO DRUG. TEST TISSUE AND HAIR SAMPLES FOR RESISTANT MARKERS DESPITE CLEAR INDICATORS THAT POINT TO HEAD TRAUMA AS COD. RELO PARENTS DESPITE FAILED ATTEMPT?

“Damn,” Matt says quietly, shaking his head.

“Sorry,” I say again. “I wanted to find one for someone who made it. I can’t really tell which file is for which kid.”

“What happened to her parents?” Matt asks, ignoring my apology. I swipe away the notes and open another file in Kelsey’s folder. It’s a signed oath. I close that and find the relo detail sheet: Mr. and Mrs. Stroud, who had no reason to go through a name change, now live in North Dakota. At last contact, in 2011, they were “functioning normally.”

Except that their daughter’s dead.

Matt doesn’t say anything more, so I open another folder. The first file is similar to the page of notes on Kelsey, but it’s for another bus kid, written by another agent.

CASE NUMBER: 20

NAME: NATHAN FRANCIS

AGE: 9

Presumed cause of death: Broken neck (X-ray confirmed cervical vertebrae crushed, consistent with vehicle accident; completely unresponsive)

First dosage: None

Reaction: None

Repeat dosage: None

“Damn,” Matt says again, more forcefully this time.

“I know,” I say, quickly closing the file, then tapping the air to open another. Thankfully, it’s for someone who responded to Revive: Gavin Silva, now Gavin Villarreal. I exhale loudly as I move my hands to page through details of his Revival and relocation to New York.

“I know him,” I say. “He’s super cool.”

“Oh, yeah?” Matt says weakly. I can tell he needs to hear some good news as much as, if not more than, I do.

“Yeah,” I say. “Revive worked for a lot of us. It gave us life.”

I feel like I just walked out of a haunted house: My nerves are frayed and I’m post-stress tired. I pause to regroup. Then I try to explain to Matt the pros of the Revive program.

“So, this guy, Gavin, is twenty-two now,” I say in a measured tone. “You’d like him; he’s really funny. He’s in art school and he does these insane drawings. He sent me one for my birthday last year…. It’s that one of the face, in my room?”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

“Anyway, Gavin’s life is way better now. Mason told me a few years ago that back in Bern, Gavin’s dad was physically abusing him. Like hitting him, but also putting out cigarettes on him.” I pause, shivering.

“That’s sick,” Matt says with a flash of anger in his eyes.

“It is,” I agree. “It’s terrible. He had it really rough. But the Revive program saved him from that.”

Matt’s eyebrows go up like he wants to hear more, so I keep talking.

“So, Gavin’s best friend was one of the ones who died. His name was Michael Dekas. Anyway, before the crash, I guess Michael’s parents started to suspect something was going on at Gavin’s house, but they could never get Gavin to fess up. Mason said they asked Gavin’s mom about it but she denied it, then didn’t let Gavin come to their house for a while.

“Anyway, then the crash happened. Michael didn’t respond at all to the drug; his parents were obviously devastated. But then when the agents went to try to Revive Gavin, they found all these burns on his body. There was no one there to claim him—his parents were in Canada, I guess—and the agents asked if any of the families there knew Gavin. The Dekases came forward, and when they saw the burns, they made a snap decision to volunteer to relocate with Gavin… as their son.”

“No way,” Matt says.

“It’s true,” I say. “The program saved Gavin’s life twice, in a way.”

“Yeah,” Matt agrees. “But you know, that’s also sort of kidnapping. It might be worse than the nun thing.”

“I guess,” I say, never having thought about it like that.

“But I still think it was the right thing to do,” Matt clarifies quickly. “I mean, how could they send a kid back to a guy who was using him as an ashtray?”

“Exactly,” I say, but it lacks conviction. Matt and I both get lost in our thoughts for a few minutes. On my mind are shades of gray. Many times, I’ve pondered the ways in which Gavin’s life is so much better now, but the one thing I haven’t considered before is his real mom, and what her circumstances were like then and now. It strikes me for the first time that the situation might not have been as morally black and white as I’ve always thought.

Maybe they should have found her and offered her a way out, too.

There’s a gnawing inside me that feels like guilt: guilt for second-guessing the program that gave me a life and a home. I move on from Gavin’s story, at least on the outside.

“There were others who really benefited from Revive, too,” I say to Matt. “I already told you how Megan’s life got better. And Tyler and Joshua Hill—they’re identical twins. Both were Revived. They live in Utah. It would have been so terrible if just one didn’t make it, but they both did. Oh, and Elizabeth Monroe’s younger sister was supposed to have been on the bus that day but wasn’t; she stayed home sick. But Elizabeth was Revived, so her sister will never have the guilt of being the lucky one. I mean, can you imagine having to live each day knowing that your sibling won’t get to…”

I’m so concerned with running from moral dilemmas and trying to defend the program that I don’t realize what I’m saying until it’s out of my mouth. But then it hits me like a sledgehammer to the heart. Shocked by my own words, I look quickly, wide-eyed, at Matt.

He’s the lucky one; Audrey isn’t.

“Oh my god, Matt,” I say. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“It’s okay,” he says quietly before moving his eyes from me to the ceiling. There’s nothing of interest up there, but he stares anyway.

“No, it isn’t.”

The room is so still, it’s frozen.

“Actually, Daisy, you’re right,” Matt says finally, sighing loudly. He pulls his gaze from the ceiling and looks at me with fire in his dark eyes. “It’s not okay that a drug like this exists and it can’t help my sister. It’s not okay at all.”

I’m not sure what to do. Anxiously, I turn back to the screen and start closing files. I hear a clock chime downstairs; my breath sounds like a windstorm.

“We can never tell Aud about this,” Matt says flatly.

“You can never tell anyone about this,” I say.

“I said I wouldn’t,” Matt snaps. “But I guess you’ll have to trust me on that.”

“I do trust you,” I say softly. “It’s just that I’ve never told anyone this stuff before. I’ve never felt close enough to anyone to even consider telling them. And it would be a huge deal if it got out. I mean, there would be riots. Everyone would want it. But not everyone could benefit from it.”

“Like Audrey,” Matt says dismally. The anger is gone as quickly as it came, and I realize that I almost prefer it to sadness. Anger is manageable; sadness is heartbreaking.

“Like Audrey,” I echo.

Even though Audrey will never be in the Revive program, I think of reading her name in a case file. Of failed attempts at bringing her back scrawled in rough handwriting. Of her time of death noted like it’s nothing.

I can’t ignore the sick feeling in my stomach right now.

This little venture of mine into the world of Revive was meant as a gesture for Matt, but all it’s done is make me question my life. Revive brought me back, but the program stole a child from his mother and didn’t try other methods of saving seven people. Who knows what else might have worked on Michael Dekas or Kelsey Stroud? Maybe they needed surgery, not injections.

And beyond that, though I knew that telling Matt about Revive would be rough on him because of Audrey, I didn’t consider that it would also be rough on me. But as I sit here, that’s what weighs me down most.

Revive gave me life—it is my life—but it won’t give Audrey a second chance at hers. And for that, Matt has a right to be mad.

And so do I.

twenty

The sound of the garage door opening downstairs startles Matt and me out of our chairs. Quickly, I close everything on the computer and go through the steps to log off. We run out of the office and across the hall to my bedroom. Right as I’m wondering whether having Matt in my room is better than snooping in secret government files, someone starts coming up the stairs.

“Go sit in the beanbag,” I say. Matt bolts across the room. I sit on the floor, leaning against the bed. I take a deep breath seconds before I hear the knock on my door.

“Daisy?” Mason calls.

“Hey, Dad,” I say. The dad must have alerted him to someone else’s presence in my room—I only call Mason “Mason” at home—because when he opens the door, he’s all father. I can hear cupboards opening and closing in the kitchen downstairs; Cassie’s probably baking a casserole after seeing Matt’s car out front.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says to me. “Hello, Matt.”

Matt waves.

“Hey,” I say. “We were studying English.”

At this point, everyone in the room knows it’s a lie—there aren’t even any schoolbooks around—but Mason doesn’t know I told Matt about the program, and I’m determined to keep it that way.

“I see,” Mason says. “I hope you got a lot done, but it’s getting a little late for a school night. It’s probably about time for Matt to go home.”

I glance at the clock and realize that it’s almost nine. Six hours with Matt have passed like six minutes.

Matt starts climbing out of the beanbag and Mason turns to leave.

“Good to see you, young man,” he says. “I hope your sister is feeling better.”

“Thanks,” Matt says before Mason leaves.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “They’re home early.”

Matt crosses the room and stops about a foot from me. “It’s so weird knowing that he’s not your real dad,” he says. “He really acts like a normal father. He deserves an Oscar.”

“Wait ’til you meet my mom,” I say with a dramatic eye roll.

Matt laughs that perfect laugh of his and in that moment, despite my confusion over the program, I’m glad that I told him everything. I feel closer to him than ever.

When he leans in and kisses me this time, there’s something new between us. Instead of first-kiss-with-a-hot-guy giddiness, there’s something deeper. I can feel it in my toes and in my belly button.

And in my heart.

When Matt leaves, I log on to my regular computer and see if Megan’s online. I message her and tell her cryptically about the evening. At least the part with Matt.

Megan: You did WHAT????

Daisy: know.

Megan: M’s going to kill you.

Daisy: Maybe

Megan: Worth it?

Daisy: Yes, if nothing more than for the kiss at the end of the day.

Megan: Spill…

We chat for an hour, until Megan has to do homework and I have to update the blog. Before signing off, she writes:

Megan: Don’t forget to comment on my latest post.

Curious, I type in the address for Anything Autopsy. Megan’s post is called “The Autopsy of the Queue” and is all about the personalities people reveal while standing in line (the cutters versus the cutees and the oblivious people in the middle who should have stayed home because they always seem so surprised when the clerk shouts “NEXT!”). Megan’s position is in defense of the cutter, who is just trying to make the most of her day. I spend an hour perfecting a platform for the cutee, which is built on the idea of karma. Practice patience and be rewarded with extra butter on your popcorn; cut and find yourself in the one seat in the theater with chocolate melted into the fabric.

I post my rebuttal, then get ready for bed. When I get back to my room, there’s a text waiting from Matt.

Matt: Can you talk?

Smiling, I type back:

Daisy: Call you in five?

Matt: I’ll be waiting.

I dial in the dark. Matt picks up after the first ring.

“I thought of something on the way home,” he says instead of hi.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t get why you guys moved here,” he says. My stomach sinks. I’m not sure why the idea of telling him I’ve been Revived more than once feels so bad, but it does. I think he mistakes my nervous silence for hurt. “I mean, I’m really glad you guys moved here. I didn’t mean it like that at all. I just—”

“Oh, I know,” I interrupt. “I’m a little embarrassed to tell you why. But I guess I’ve shared a lot today, so why not put it all out there?”

“Okay…”

“I’ve died five times.”

Now Matt’s the one who’s silent.

“Are you still there?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Whoa.”

“I know,” I say, ashamed. “I mean really, it’s more like four—I had to be Revived twice after the bus crash—but technically, five vials means five deaths. After that first day… well, I’m really allergic to bees, and I guess I’m accident-prone, too.”

“No way,” Matt says. “What… I mean, what’s it like?”

“What?”

“Dying,” he says.

“Oh.”

“If you don’t mind talking about it,” he adds.

“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Um… I don’t really remember that much about it, to be honest.” It’s a total lie: I remember many graphic details, but I don’t want to cause Matt more pain than I already have. He might think death talk is fascinating right now, but later, when Audrey’s time comes, he’ll be haunted by my stories of being afraid and in pain.

“Oh, okay,” Matt says, sounding a little disappointed. But he changes the subject anyway. “Are you going back to school tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Audrey, too.”

“Really?” I ask, excited.

“Yep, the doctor cleared her,” Matt says happily. “Only he wants her to be with people at all times in case she has a problem, so my mom won’t let her drive to school alone. We’re going together.” Pause. “Want us to pick you up?”

I smile at how normal the conversation is now, even though Matt knows a completely abnormal thing about me.

“Yes,” I say.

“Okay, we’ll be there at seven twenty.”

“Awesome.”

It’s late and that’s the logical end to the conversation, but I get the feeling that Matt wants to say something more. I wait patiently, my nervousness snowballing with each passing second. Finally, he speaks.

“Daisy…”

“Uh-huh?”

“That was one freaking weird afternoon,” he observes. His tone is low, intimate. It makes goose bumps pop up on my arms.

“I know.”

“But it was good,” Matt says.

“It was?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It was weird, but it was okay, because of you. Because I feel like I know you a lot better now. I feel sort of honored that you told me all that. That you showed me the secret stuff.”

“Even though…” I say, feeling like I can’t even mention Audrey’s name.

“Yeah, Daisy,” Matt says. “Even though.”