The Adoration of Jenna Fox (21 page)

She doesn't hesitate. "You become mortal
like the rest of us," she says. She turns away, busying herself with more
of the mess I have created. I could almost feel sorry for her. I see the line
she is dancing. It is the same one I have danced with ever since I saw blue gel
beneath my split flesh.

"You never did tell me," she says.
"What were you looking for when you turned into a human tornado?"

It is a casual slip, nothing more. I shouldn't
attribute much meaning to it, but still, I notice the word
human.
I
would gladly be a human tornado.

"Something to wear," I answer.

"The fedora is something to wear."

"I was looking for a red skirt I used to
have."  

"It must have been some skirt."

"It was. I bought it when I was shopping
with Kara."

"Oh." The meaning of the skirt echoes
in the single syllable.

"I wanted a change from all the blue
shirts and pants I have now. I thought it might be out here, but I guess Claire
left all of my stuff in Boston. More appearances, I suppose."

"Probably something like that."

I begin sweeping scraps into a dustpan and
change the subject. "And you never did tell me
—how
did all these boxes end up here?"

"A detour," she says frowning.
"Claire called me. The house situation had become a problem. She was
frantic. The place they had originally planned on hadn't worked out at the last
minute. But then your father had an old childhood friend, Edward, whom he knew
he could trust. Edward told him about a place near him that was perfect
—the right climate, out of the way, roomy, a little
run-down, but otherwise just what your parents needed. Except they didn't want
ownership traced to them or your father's business. They were in a hurry, so I
was the quickest solution. Claire and I have never had the same last name, and
no one keeps tabs on what I do anyway. So I bought it for them."

"Buying it didn't mean you had to come
here."

"She asked. No, correction. She
begged.
She said she needed me. She was scared. And I figured that no matter what I
thought about the whole thing, she is my daughter. My only daughter."

So Lily is under Claire's spell, too. She's not
that different from me.

Lily looks up, squints, then shakes her head.
"Might as well tell you the rest. I was also drafted as part of the escape
plan
—if it became necessary."

"What?"

"They needed an escape plan in case the
authorities caught up with them. So while your parents provide subterfuge, I am
to whisk you to Edward, who in turn will help whisk both of us out of the
country. The choice was Italy, since they don't have the same restrictive laws
as us and the climate would work well for you."

Whisk me. Like I am a piece of dust deposited
in a dustpan, "Why didn't they just
whisk
me out to begin
with?"

"Why do your parents do any of the things
they do? They want it all. And if they can get away with it, they will."

I note her take. Getting away with it.
"It" being me, and me being illegal. And now against her will, she is
caught up in something she doesn't believe in and is against the law. How far
will a parent go for a child?

"Well, just where would you be right now
if you weren't stuck in this lovely little resort?"

She smiles. "I was on my way to a friend's
villa near
Montalcino
in Tuscany. A nice enough place
to drop out. They offered it to me for as long as I wanted. I was even going to
try my hand at wine making."

Lily's own little Walden never realized. For
this. "So you traded an Italian villa and wine for a crumbling Cotswold
and an illegal lab pet. You're not very good at trades, are you, Lily?"
She empties a dustpan of broken glass into the trash and looks at me straight
on, briefly, then bangs the dustpan against the can to get off all the last
particles. "I do okay," she says.

The cleanup is done. There is no busyness to
keep us here.

We  stand  there 
uncomfortably.  Our reason for working together has ended, and I still
want so much more from Lily. The oafish out-of-step me surfaces, and I cross
the thin line we dance.

"Would I have wanted this, Lily? Would the
Jenna you knew have wanted what I am now?" In an instant I am desperately
afraid because I have crossed a boundary. A black-and-white, yes-and-no one.

"That depends, Jenna," she says.
"What
are
you now?"

The black-and-white answer I was expecting
swirls into murky gray. "I don't know."

"Well, until you can answer my question, I
can't answer yours."

Identity

Identity n.
1. The condition of
being oneself and not another. 2. The sense of self providing sameness and
continuity over time. 3. Exact likeness in nature or qualities. 4. Separate or
distinct existence. 5. The qualities of a person that make them different from
others.

I check them off.

Different from others. Is one yes out of five
enough?

Lily says percentages and politicians can't
define identity, but they've defined mine: illegal lab creation. The hand that
I have been dealt. Is this what
Allys
meant?

Allys
is so sure of herself. So
confident. She calls Dane a decomposing
turd
without
blinking. Without knowing it, she calls me a lab pet. Why am I so drawn to
someone who could destroy me? Why do I need her to be my friend?

The dictionary says my identity should be all
about being separate or distinct, and yet it feels like it is so wrapped up in
others.

The Unknowable

Are there some things I will never
know?

The unanswerable I will have to
accept?

Have I changed the way everyone
does, time and events

 molding me?

Or am I a new Jenna, the product of
technology, changed by

what was put in or maybe what was
left out?

And if my original ten percent
really is enough, what if it had

been nine percent? Or eight?

Is one numeral that different from
another?

When is a cell finally too small to
hold our essence?

Even five hundred billion
neurochips
aren't telling me, and

I'm not sure they ever will.

The question that twists inside me
again and again
—am I

enough?—I
realize for the first time, is not just my

question, but
was the old Jenna's question as well.

And I think about Ethan
and
Allys
and even Dane,

and I wonder

has it ever been their
own question, too?

Environment

"I'm leaving to pick up your father. I'll
be back soon," Claire calls from the bottom of the stairs.

I hear her leave. The house is empty. Lily has
gone to Sunday Mass. I have never been left home alone before. Are they
beginning to trust me? I look out the window at the veranda below. The railings
have all been replaced and the brick walls repaired. The Cotswold is beginning
to look more like a house and less like a ruin. Claire's magic is working. Day
by day, it improves. The upstairs rooms remain empty, but they are at least
clean now, the
spiderwebs
all swiped away.

I've been cleaning my own room today. Claire
does not employ housekeepers anymore, not like she did in Boston. She does not
want prying eyes or ears. When a workman must come-inside, she follows him and
hovers. Not a minute is given for free wandering.

There is not much to clean. My room is still
sparse.
"It is life near the bone where it is sweetest,
" I say
to the walls. I amuse myself with my cleverness. I run a cloth over my desk and
chair and I am done.

I pick up my copy of
Walden,
now
uploaded word for word into my biochips, but there is still something different
about opening a real book, the scent that emerges, seeing one word at a time
and soaking in its shape and nuance. I wonder about things like the sounds and
scents that surrounded Thoreau as he wrote each sentence and paragraph.

Turning pages, feeling the paper, I wonder if
any of the trees from Thoreau's forest are still alive and wonder what Thoreau
would think today if he could visit my small pond and eucalyptus grove. I
wonder if, unlike Thoreau, two hundred years from 
now
I might
still be able to visit my pond and forest. When I turn the pages of the book
and read the words and the spaces between, I have time to think about these
things. Thoughts like these are not written down or uploaded into my Bio Gel.
These thoughts are mine alone and no one else's. They exist nowhere else in the
universe but within me.

I'm stopped by this new thought. What if I had
never had the chance to collect and build new memories? Before I can think what
I am saying, I hear myself whispering "thank you" to the air. I
am
thankful, grateful, in spite of the cost, to be here. Have I forgotten the
hell I traveled, or are these new memories a cushion softening its sharpness?

I return
Walden
to the center of my desk
and take my dust cloth to my closet to drop it in the laundry bin. Claire will
probably be home soon. I glance at the corner of my closet. The key. Almost
forgotten. I am chilled again, remembering Father's face when I mentioned it. I
bend down and pull back the corner of carpet. It's still there and I snatch it
into my fist like it might disappear. I walk to the top of the stairs and lean
over the banister.

 "Claire? Lily?"

Here! Jenna!
I startle, almost dropping the key.
I freeze on the landing. Listening. But the house is quiet. Was it only a voice
I remember?

I grip the key, stepping on the first stair. I
already know what is in Mother's closet. Only computers. But it
was
dark.
Maybe there was something else I didn't notice. What would Father be afraid for
me to see? Something pounds within me, something at my core, but I know it is
not a heart. I take another step, and another, until I am standing at Mother's
door.

After the strides we have made, the tender
moments we have shared, is this betrayal? I look over my shoulder, back down
the long empty hallway. "Mother?" My voice is strung tight. Hearing
it deepens the pounding within. The walls of the hallway pulse with the
stillness. I push open her door.

The room is bright, airy, nothing to be afraid
of. I walk in, hearing the awkward shuffle of my feet on the floor.
Jenna.
I
stop. My breath catches again, and my nails dig into my palm. I step closer to
the closet. I remember the worried flash of Father's eyes again, and I thrust
the key into the lock, turning the bolt, throwing the door open.

The table is still there.

And the computers.

And the faint green glow.

This time I find the light switch on the
outside wall and I push it on. I walk in. The room is ordinary. The walls
plain. I look at the floor, the ceiling, under the table. There is nothing else
in here but the three computers. Mine is still in the middle, one of the bolts
still loose. I step forward and almost touch it but pull back.

I don't remember having my own computer in
Boston. But I must have had one because my name is clearly marked on the side
panel. The computer is large and oddly shaped, not like any I have ever seen, a
six-inch square with two ports, both unused. There is no monitor. This has to
be it. This is what they don't want me to see.

I stand there, staring, trying to decide. Trust
them. Or trust a whisper inside of me.

If I could get it loose, I could connect it to
my
Netbook
upstairs and see what it contains. I reach
down and touch my fingertips to my name.
jenna
angeline fox.
My fingers tingle. Why here?

The other two don't have labels. Maybe they are
mine, too? I lay my hand on the first one.
Now! Hurry!

I jerk away. My head pounds. I touch the second
computer, wondering at its purpose, and then I squat.

There
are
labels. Faint and hastily
scrawled with a pen.

L. JENKINS, and K. MANNING.

What?

My knees buckle and I fall to the floor. What
are
— How— Why did— My thoughts trip and cut one
another off. I stand up and step back, looking at the three oddly shaped boxes.
Why would Mother and Father have
their
computers? I run from the closet
down the hallway to the kitchen, where Lily keeps a drawer of basic tools. I
rummage through for a screwdriver. There is no question now. I know who to
trust. I find a large flat screwdriver and run back across the house to
Mother's room. Mine first. Then the others. I'll connect them all to my
Net-book. I'll upload the contents and see for myself. I'll upload—