Double Helix (10 page)

“Okay,” I called. “Be right there.” I realized that I still - didn't know who else might be in this house. It was still a possibility that Dr. Wyatt had a wife and children.

But I didn't think so.

I looked again at my face in the mirror. I took a deep breath.

Then I went out to have iced coffee with Dr. Wyatt and Kayla Matheson.

IT WASN'T THAT I forgot about my date with Viv that night. How could I forget? I had done all kinds of planning. I had gotten a reservation at The Top of the Hub, one of the most elegant restaurants in Boston. I had bought a nice linen jacket that actually fit, and had carefully tucked two hundred dollars in cash into my wallet. And Viv had told me four times about her new short black silk tank dress. “I've never worn anything like this before,” she'd warned. “You'll die!”

There was no way I could have forgotten. I just . . . stood her up. Viv waited alone at the restaurant, all dressed up and perfumed, for two hours, from seven o'clock to nine o'clock that evening, and I never came.

I don't have an excuse, or an explanation that makes sense. I know my behavior was—unbelievable. Cruel. Or Viv's word: unforgivable. But it was just . . . it was that . . .

It was that, as afternoon faded into evening and I sat talking with Dr. Wyatt and Kayla Matheson on the sunporch, I was somehow unable to leave. I couldn't get enough of watching—surreptitiously—how the light from the sunset created a reddish shimmer around Kayla's hair. And the conversation flowed so easily between the three of us—Dr. Wyatt dominating, of course.

Was consciousness, self-awareness, something that really existed, or was it only the by-product of the operation of a certain type of computer, the human mind? And what about emotions? How did they come to exist?

And: “Eli, sit down. You can't leave yet,” Dr. Wyatt said commandingly, the couple of times I made have-to-leave-now noises.

I didn't want to be rude to him. Or to Kayla.

And I thought that there was plenty of time. I lost track somehow. At first, it was still afternoon, and I wasn't supposed to meet Viv at the restaurant until seven. And she'd said, too, that she would probably be at least fifteen minutes late, that it would take her a while to get ready after a day spent mucking around with people's gardens and lawns.

If only I had arranged to pick her up at her home. At least she wouldn't have had to wait so publicly. But she had thought that I needed to be at the restaurant exactly on time to ensure we wouldn't lose our reservation.

So. What happened is that suddenly it was seven-thirty, and Dr. Wyatt was ushering Kayla and me through the house, saying the cook had prepared a lasagna and we'd be eating in the dining room. It was a special occasion, after all, with both of us young people there.

He just assumed I was staying for dinner. Even though I had mentioned to him earlier that I was busy, he had forgotten. But that didn't matter. It was my fault. My fault, because I didn't do anything. I didn't say a word to Dr. Wyatt. I sat down at the dining room table and listened, and ate, and talked.

What was I thinking? Oh, any number of asinine things. That it would be rude to Dr. Wyatt and Kayla to turn on my cell phone—even though somewhere in me I knew Viv would be calling frantically. That I couldn't reach Viv if I tried, because she didn't carry a cell phone. Mostly, though, I was thinking that I'd just make it right with her later. I'd abase myself. Apologize. Make some excuse. This was Viv, after all. She'd understand about my not wanting to be rude to Dr. Wyatt. Viv always understood. She had not, after all, even said a single word about her disappointment when she hadn't met my parents at graduation. We'd gone on, since then, with things between us just the same as they had always been.

She'd figured out, I thought, that it was best not to rock the boat. Not to push Serious Discussions on me about abstract things like honesty and openness and trust that I didn't want to talk about.

And maybe, also, for a little while that evening, as I listened to Dr. Wyatt, as I stole glances at Kayla—maybe I did forget about Viv. Maybe I just really forgot.

This was Dr. Quincy Wyatt, after all. I was in his
home
. I was his
guest
.

And Kayla.

And then there was the conversation. Okay, it was more lecture than conversation. But that didn't matter; it was a lecture by Dr. Wyatt on the topics he planned to address in his new book, and I was privileged to hear it.

“Decades ago, Linus Pauling contended that scientists are obliged, in good conscience, to take an active part in forming public opinion in matters to do with science. I've come to see his wisdom on this point. We can't sit back and leave important science policy in the hands of politicians and pundits or”—there was the slightest glance at me—“alarmist writers of science fiction. Face it, most people are unbelievable idiots. They hear one poorly researched, supposedly balanced story on National Public Radio—on stem-cell research, for example—and they're arrogant enough to think they're now capable of making decisions that will influence the rest of humanity. Hogwash! They have no training in these areas. Their opinions simply should not matter.”

Kayla prompted, “So, in your book . . .”

“In my book, I hope, I will convince the reading public that they ought to consult and trust scientists' opinions in many difficult scientific matters. And I hope, also, that I will convince my fellow scientists to eschew so-called ‘political correctness' and speak openly those truths that they—that we—know are truths. To speak their consciences.”

He went on, articulate, eloquent, and if I didn't quite understand what he was driving at when he spoke about politics and public policy—though Kayla seemed to—I didn't care. And one thing he said that night struck me so forcefully that I knew I would always remember it.

“Of course, it's impossible to work in biotechnology without being haunted by those famous words of Maurice Wilkins. ‘DNA, you know, is Midas's gold. Everybody who touches it goes mad.' ” He stopped talking for a moment, then repeated it, gravely, thoughtfully. “Midas's gold. Dangerous stuff, in short. And even an advocate such as I cannot deny that it behooves us to be careful, indeed.”

When I left, and got into the cab that Dr. Wyatt had called for me, it was after ten o'clock. But I knew there was no way I could have left earlier. I couldn't have. I had been meant to be at Dr. Wyatt's house tonight. It was fate. I could go out with Viv anytime, after all.

But I would go see her now. I would apologize, and she would forgive me, and we would reschedule our dinner, and it would be no big deal.

I gave the cab driver Viv's address, and pulled out my cell phone to call her. But she wasn't at home. Only Viv's mother was there, at first relieved to hear from me . . . and suddenly screaming, exploding with how worried she and Viv had been—where had I been anyway?—and then, finally, answering my question and telling me where I would find Viv now.

At my apartment. With my father.

Mrs. Fadiman was going to call them right now and tell them to expect me.

“I THOUGHT SOMETHING terrible must have happened to you!” Viv was wearing the little black silk dress that she had told me about, and she'd been right: It looked cute and sexy on her, even now, even though it was creased and sweaty. Nevertheless, Viv was a wreck. Her hair was crushed on one side; her mascara had smeared around her eyes. And suddenly—because of Kayla's perfection?—I could see all the little flaws. The askew mouth. The short waist. The uncared-for nails.

Guilt—and, shamefully, impatience—geysered up inside me.

“I'm sorry,” I said for the umpteenth time. Of course she was entitled to hours of apologies, but I hadn't been permitted to say anything but “sorry, sorry, sorry” since I'd come in. For some reason this wasn't going as easily as I had thought it would.

Viv stood in the exact middle of our living room. She was clutching her arms in front of herself, cupping her elbows, glaring at me. Her mouth was trembling. “I'm sorry,” I repeated to my father, who was leaning against the wall near the kitchen. The silence that followed let me think that I finally would be allowed to speak. “I didn't mean anyone to worry,” I said. “It was—it was . . .” I discovered that I didn't, after all, have much to say. The excuses I'd been sure would occur to me when I needed them did not materialize. I found myself shrugging. “Something came up,” I said, and I could hear the edge in my voice. So, I knew, could they.

Viv sank down onto the sofa. She had hugged me when I'd come in, but then she'd immediately backed off. “Why didn't you call?” she demanded now. “I was all alone at the restaurant, and I . . .” She bit her lip.

I desperately hoped she wouldn't cry. Not in front of my father. Then—the smeared makeup—I realized she probably already had.

This was unfair and wrong, I thought. The two of them in the room together—it was like worlds colliding, worlds I'd put so much energy into keeping separate. I had nothing to say to them. More, I didn't really even feel apologetic. Why should I answer to them? I'd been thoughtless, yes. But wasn't I allowed that now and then? Wasn't I allowed mistakes? By - people who said they loved me?

Viv said, “I waited and waited, and finally I called your father and introduced myself.” I heard the emphasis on the last two words clearly. She added, “He didn't know where you were, either.”

There was a pause in which I could have said “I'm sorry,” again, but I didn't. I looked at Viv and she looked at me.

“Let me guess,” said my father. His voice could have competed with a desert for dryness. “You were at Wyatt's?” He was looking directly at me, and must have seen the acknowledgment on my face.

Viv gasped at my father. “If you knew that—guessed—why didn't you tell me? We could have called Dr. Wyatt—- could have checked!”

My father said, very precisely, “I dislike Dr. Wyatt.”

Viv's mouth fell a little open. “Oh,” she said.

My father was still staring straight at me. “You acted like a cad tonight,” he said. “I'm ashamed of you.” Before I could reply—not that I had any idea what I would say—he levered himself away from the wall. “I'm going out,” he announced. “Over to the Sheraton to have a scotch at their bar.”

I turned and watched as he moved unhurriedly to the small table near the door and pocketed his keys. I watched his back as he opened the door and left. I kept watching the closed door as the silence came down around me and Viv and enclosed us. Finally, without looking at her where she sat behind me on the sofa, I said, “Viv? Want to take a walk? I can't stand being in this apartment right now.”

She didn't reply, and in the end I had to turn to her. “Can we walk?” I asked again. I was trying now to temper the anger out of my voice. I still didn't fully understand where it had come from or why I felt it. With another part of me, I knew this was Viv—Viv, who I loved. That I wasn't really angry at her.

A whole minute passed before Viv shook her head. She leaned her elbows on her knees and her hands cupped her face. I could hear that she was wheezing.

I tried, then—a little.

I said, “We could go out tomorrow night instead. How would that be? I'd pick you up this time so you wouldn't have to wait anywhere.”

Viv shook her head again. She leaned down further to conceal her face. Her shoulders shook, her breath heaved harshly—she was clearly trying not to sob aloud. “I'm sorry,” she choked out. “But I am never going back to that restaurant.” She curled further in on herself.

I knew I should sit beside her on the sofa and pull her into my arms. Stroke her hair. Say, “There, there.” Murmur apologies and
never again
s and tell her I loved her over and over and over.

Instead I went looking for a box of tissues, didn't find one, and came back defiantly with a new roll of toilet paper.

Viv was still crying. I put the roll down on the coffee table in front of her. I watched her, this girl that I really did care for, who had truly been the only good thing in my life for the past year, and I felt incredibly distant from her.

My father was right, of course. I knew it. I had acted like that old-fashioned thing, a cad. Thoughtless, rude, cowardly, stupid. No argument. I should have fallen to my knees before Viv and begged forgiveness for hours. I should have been cuddling her right now.

But I was so tired. And it all suddenly seemed melodramatic and unnecessary—the apologies, the explanations. Games, theater, hoop-jumping. I had apologized already, several times. Was it really necessary that I abase myself? I would never make her do that, if the situation were reversed. Couldn't this just be over? Couldn't she be generous enough to forgive me easily ? Did she have to cry? Did she have to be so . . . so manipulative ?

I liked having a girlfriend. But for a second I wondered: What would it be like to have one who wasn't so emotional? Someone with whom I could just, oh, play tennis?

I hunkered down on the opposite side of the coffee table from Viv. Finally she stopped crying. She looked up. I handed her the toilet paper roll and she looked at it, then at me, and then tore some paper off and blew her nose. “Sorry,” she said. “I'm a mess.”

“I'm the one who should be apologizing,” I said, not because I felt it, but because it was what I was supposed to say.

Viv shrugged. She got up and disappeared into the bathroom. When she came out, her face was scrubbed and she - didn't sit back down. She said baldly, “I wasn't crying about tonight. I know you think I was, but I wasn't. Even though it was awful. Almost unforgivable, except for—I was crying—oh, Eli. Your mother. Oh, Eli. I am so sorry.”