Double Helix (11 page)

My mouth dropped open. I had been totally blindsided. I stared at her, not believing I'd heard what I'd heard. She knew. She knew—

All at once, rage was there. Swelling in me. Ready to boil over. Ready to—

“I asked your father about her tonight, while we were waiting,” Viv said starkly. Compassionately. “He told me everything. Oh, Eli—”

Ready to explode.

I cut her off. “Well, congratulations. Now you know. And you also know that I didn't want you to know. I didn't choose to tell you myself. Not yet, anyway.”

“But, Eli—”

“You didn't care about that, though, did you? You took the first opportunity you had to go poking around. You went behind my back. How does it feel? Huh? How does it feel to know? Are you happy now?”

“It's not like that! I was worried, I—”

“You were curious. It had nothing to do with being worried.”

“But it did!” Viv was white. “How can you accuse me like this? It was all mixed up together. I had to call your father because I was worried about you, and I came over here to wait with him—he asked me to, if you care to know—and—”

“And you seized the opportunity to ask where my mother was. You couldn't wait to find out.”

“But it wasn't to be nosy! It was . . .” She faltered.

I waited. I could feel the sneer on my face.

“It's because I care about you! I love you! I needed to know—I knew there was something going on. Something awful. I had to find out. You needed to trust me and you didn't. But you
can
trust me. I'll show you—”

I could hardly believe that the voice that lashed out whiplike into the air was my own. “You think I'll trust you now?”

Viv's hands groped behind her and pressed up against the wall. Her back collapsed against it. It was almost the exact same spot where my father had stood, half an hour ago.

“Eli. Please. I only thought—”

I had never felt so cold. “Vivian. You didn't think. Or you thought only about what you wanted. You ignored what I wanted. You trampled on my privacy. So listen to me now, because this is the only time I am going to say it.

Ten full seconds of silence ticked by.

Then Viv whispered, “I'm not a tourist. I love you. This is so terrible . . . I've read about Huntington's. I know a little bit. I'll learn more. I want to share this with you. Let me. Please. Please.”

She was reacting exactly the way I had known she would. I noted the fact like a scientist.

“I don't want to share,” I said. “My father got to share. I wanted to keep you out of it. That was what
I
wanted.”

We stared at each other.

“But love is about sharing,” Viv said, after a moment.

“No,” I said. I could hear the conviction—and the raw anger—in my voice. “Love is about protection.”

“No,” Viv said frantically. “That's all wrong! You're wrong, wrong!”

“You're the one who's wrong,” I said.

I think we both knew at that second, as our words hung in the air between us, that there was nothing more to be said. After all there had been between us—nothing.

I don't really remember the minutes that followed. But, finally, it was over. Viv's cab came for her, tooting from the street below. Upstairs, there was no slamming of doors or anything like that. Viv and I even hugged each other for a few seconds, though I felt as if I were made of stone. I kissed her on the brow. Then I sat in the living room and listened. I heard the cab's engine noise fade as it drove away.

I felt a strange kind of peace, because I knew I had done the right thing, even if in the entirely wrong way. Viv would know that, too, shortly. Shortly, she'd thank her lucky stars to have been extricated from me so easily. She'd read up on Huntington's—I knew Viv, and that I could count on—and she'd be horrified and pitying, and beneath that, even if it took her years to realize it, relieved.

Some things were not meant to be shared. Could not be shared. Even if she never admitted it, she'd know. She'd read and she'd know.

This was for the best.

I stood in the shower for a long time. Then I went to bed. Of course, I didn't sleep well. I never did, alone.

AS SOON AS THE sun came up the next morning, I went running beside the river. I threw my whole body into an outright run. But I was aware, as my legs pumped and my feet pounded and my heartbeat and breath steadied into an easy, regular, fast rate, that the endless length of a summery Sunday—a perfect blue-skied day—stretched out horribly before me. Empty.

I sprinted faster, rounding the curve past the old Harvard boathouse and heading across the Charles River to the Allston side.

I could call Kayla Matheson later. I could ask her to play tennis this afternoon. I was fairly sure that she—and Dr. Wyatt—expected me to call today. If it hadn't been said straight out yesterday, if an explicit date hadn't been made with a time and day attached, it had been implicit. It wouldn't be great exercise—which was a pity, because right now I felt like I - couldn't get enough—but that wasn't the point. And, I told myself, there would be no need to feel guilty about seeing Kayla now that things were over between me and Viv.

It was a funny thing. Kayla was beautiful. I could tick off item by item those things about her that were so amazingly inviting: her lithe figure, sexy hair, creamy skin. And she was no airhead, either. But right this second the pieces wouldn't come together in my mind. I couldn't picture her, just her parts. Couldn't feel her attraction; only knew it had been there. Whereas Viv—being without her last night . . . right now I couldn't believe I had been so damned stupid.

No. I didn't need to think about Viv, and I would not. Would. Not.

She knew. She knew about my mother, and that was that.

Twelve miles later, I wasn't tired, but the path along the river was now crowded with fitness-minded Bostonians and Cantabridgians, and I realized that even if I didn't want breakfast, I ought at least to drink some water. I headed back to the apartment. Only as I came in did I realize what—who—I'd - really come back for.

My father was reading the newspaper and drinking coffee in the kitchen. We said nothing to each other as I stood by the sink and downed three glasses of water, one after another. Then I turned and looked at him.

“Okay,” I said. “I can feel you thinking it, so just say it right out loud.”

“You dumped her last night, didn't you? That nice girl.”

It wasn't his business. Besides, he already knew. But he kept looking at me, and so finally I said, “Yeah, I—we—broke up.”

He slammed down his coffee cup. “Don't try to tell me it was her idea! Why, Eli? She's pretty, smart, nice. And if you got some kind of erotic charge from being secretive, get over it. I already knew you had a girlfriend.”

“You did not know about her,” I said, stung.

“I knew a long time ago.” At my skeptical look, he added, “Listen, I was there when you told your first lies about eating your vegetables. How could you think I wouldn't know about her?”

“But I—”

“Last year, March, right?” continued my father. “Mid-month. First time you had sex.”

My jaw dropped.

He said, “Anybody who was paying attention would have known. You wandered around grinning to yourself. Pulled out the cell phone every half hour when you were home, which - wasn't often. Held yourself differently. Didn't hear what I was saying most of the time. And I'm sure you won't remember it, but you did mention her, a few times, by name.” He shrugged.

It felt—so strange to realize my father had observed me that closely. I felt naked. Exposed. It was not comfortable or good.

“I was happy for you,” my father went on. “I could tell this was a girl you cared about. A girl who cared about you.” A pause. I could almost hear him making a deliberate decision to say what came next. “I was hurt when you didn't bring her home.”

Damn him. “You know why I couldn't,” I said.

“Do I?”

I grabbed the second chair of the dinette set by its back and pulled it toward me. “You know so much. Don't tell me you - didn't know that, too.”

“But she needed to hear about your mother. She was in pain about your having been so secretive.”

I stared at him. “She told you that?”

“She didn't have to tell me. It was obvious.”

“Oh,” I said. “Of course. Everything is obvious to you.”

He sighed. “It's her right to know, Eli.”

“Really? How do you figure that, Dad? How do you figure her rights in this particular situation are more important than mine? In this particular situation that happens to involve
my
mother? And
my
genetic inheritance?”

“In a serious relationship—”

“She's—she
was
—just a girlfriend!”

“You weren't serious about her?”

I was silent. So was he. In the end I said, “I needed a relationship that worked for me. That didn't involve other people. What's so wrong with that?”

“
She's
another person.”

“You know what I mean.
Other
other people.”

“And you know what I mean.”

I did. He meant the same thing Viv had meant last night. But they were both wrong. Why couldn't I choose to be in a relationship but not share some things? Didn't I have a right to privacy? Couldn't—shouldn't—someone who loved you make room to give you privacy when you told her that you needed it? Couldn't she do that without question? Not whine about feeling hurt, feeling excluded? Not pick pick pick at you? Couldn't she—couldn't Viv—understand that it was not about her? That it was not personal?

It was then that my father said what he had been wanting to say all along. Because he, too, didn't understand that it was not about him.

“I knew exactly what Vivian was feeling. You've shut me out, too, Eli. Since Ava went into the nursing home, you won't talk, you won't tell me what you're thinking. You've slammed shut like a jailhouse door. I'd hoped you were at least talking to your girlfriend, but now I see you weren't even doing that.

“Don't you understand—you don't have to do this alone,” he said. “If you'd only listen to me . . . Eli, you don't have to go through this alone.”

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

“But—”

“It's my own goddamned choice,” I said. “And, by the way, you're really the wrong person to give lectures on the psychological benefits of trust and the rights of the other person in the relationship. Like you don't have secrets of your own. Like there isn't something important that you won't tell me.”

“Eli—”

“Let's talk about who slammed shut like a jailhouse door
first,
” I said. “Let's talk about who's got secrets that go way back. Before I got this job, even. Way before, Dad.”

“You're talking about Wyatt.”

“Feel free to share,” I said. “Keeping things to yourself is a sign of lack of trust. Of a dysfunctional relationship. Probably even of mental illness.”

“My situation and yours are not the same.”

“Oh?”

“You don't understand.” He looked away.

I said, “Then this is your chance to help me understand.”

I waited a full minute more. Then I turned my back, filled my glass of water again, and drained it.

“See you later,” I said, and walked out of the kitchen.

I WENT TO WORK.

There was no necessity for it. I wasn't on animal care that weekend; Larry and Mary Alice had thoughtfully given me a couple of regular workweeks before putting me on a rotation that included weekends. Who'd have believed that if I had had the phone number of the woman who was caring for the rabbits on this beautiful spring day, I'd have happily swapped with her?

Then I realized I could go to work anyway. I had an ID badge, I had a card key for our lab, there was other work I - could find to do, and why not just go there? The thought was a big relief.

Wyatt Transgenics felt strange and empty at noon on a Sunday. Of course, there were always people in the building—far fewer on weekends, but the security guards were there, and lab assistants like me to care for the animals. Also, some of the scientists worked hours that were anything but regular. The empty feeling simply came from the contrast of the bright May warmth outside to the artificial light of the corridors within. That, and the quiet.

Even knowing that, the building had a creepy feel. I was unable to stop myself from stealing a glance behind me after I signed in with the guard at the front desk. I found my steps speeding up as I mounted the double-helix staircase and passed down the lengths of the carpeted hallways. When I keyed open the door of my own lab and closed it behind me, I felt as if I'd barely made it to safety in time. I rolled my eyes at the poster of Swampy on the wall. I was being ridiculous. But the lab did feel like a refuge.

I pulled out my cell phone and checked for messages. Nothing. There'd been nothing on email, either. Well, that was good. I didn't want Viv rethinking our breakup, or trying to rehash things. There was no point to that.

What I wanted was to work.

I was planning to modify our research database. I'd figured out that if I added a couple of cells to the data matrix, I could calculate some aggregated rabbit milk quantity and quality information that Larry had said would be helpful to have. I sat down at the computer, made a copy of the database to experiment with, and started to play with the data cells and calculations.