The Adoration of Jenna Fox (4 page)

Maybe it was the shine of Mother's
eyes.

Maybe it was Father's smile that
tried too hard.

Maybe it was something deeper inside
me that I still can't

name.

The Accident.

Like a title. A stop sign. A wall.

It separates me from who I was and who I will
be.

I can't ask and they don't offer.

It's a hushed agreement.

Perhaps the only thing

we have ever

agreed upon.

Inside

"We're here."

Lily's voice is soft. Different. The landscape
I warned to memorize has
ribboned
away behind me, and
I now find myself sitting in a parking lot that I don't remember driving to.

"Jenna."

That voice again. The soft one of Lily's I
barely recognize. How long have we been driving? How long have I been staring
our the window and seeing nothing? It sinks in, like sharp teeth in my skin,
just how much I still need to know. My fingers grip the seat. I need a word.
Curious.
Lost. Angry.
Which one?
Sick?
Is that it? I grasp for a word that
isn't there.

"Jenna."

Scared
The softness of Lily's voice makes it surface.
I am scared.

I turn my head to look at her face, wondering
at this change in her. "Why do you hate me?" I ask.

She doesn't answer. She studies my face. Her chest
rises, and her head tilts slightly. "I don't hate you, Jenna," she
finally says. "I simply don't have room for you." Harsh words, but
her voice is tender and the contradiction is a stony reminder that I am missing
something vital. I know the old Jenna Fox would have understood. But the timbre
of Lily's voice calms me just the same. I nod, like I understand.

"Come in with me," she says gently,
and she gathers packages from the back seat. I follow her across an empty
graveled lot.

A tall whitewashed building, blinding bright
against a cold blue sky, appears to be our destination. My eyes ache from the
glare. "What is this?" I ask.

"The mission. San Luis Rey. I've been in
contact with Father Rico for years. We finally get to meet." We enter
through a heavy wooden door in a long white wall. The entrance leads to a shady
enclosed cemetery. "This way," Lily says, like she has been here
before and knows the way. I look at wilted flowers, notes, and stuffed animals
that lie on graves and tombstones and feel a brief moment of envy at the
remembrances. I see one marker that dates back to 1823, the numbers almost
weathered away. Over two hundred years later and still remembered.

I wonder how Lily knows a priest in an ancient
mission so far from Boston. We reach the end of the cemetery and come to the
great wall of the church which borders it. Lily pulls open yet another large
wooden door, and this time we slip into cool blackness and the sweet smell of
burning candles, mustiness, and age. My eyes adjust and I see a domed painted
ceiling, and
then
a gilded crucified figure. Christ.
Yes, Christ.
I
remember. Lily bends a knee as she crosses in front of the altar and lifts her
hand to her forehead, her heart, and then each shoulder with movement that is
so swift and natural it is over as soon as it begins. This I don't remember.

I stop and stare at the gilded figure. My eyes
travel to the
altar
and then the baptismal font. There should be a
feeling, I think. The room itself demands it, but no feeling is in me. I close
my eyes. I'm instantly caught up in a scene playing behind my lids, and I feel
cool drops of water on my forehead. Lily's unlined face looms, years younger,
and then a man, smiling. He takes my whole body into his hands and kisses my
cheek. I see my own hand wave before my face, as small as a butterfly, an
infant's hand. I open my eyes. My baptism. I remember it. How is that possible?

Lily waits across the room poised at another
door, expecting me to follow.

"Did my grandfather have black hair?"
I ask.

"Yes," Lily answers. "You
probably saw him in the videos. He didn't die until you were two."

I never saw him in the videos. "How did he
die?"

"The
Aureus
epidemic. We had plenty of warnings that something like that could happen and
it eventually did. It took him and twenty million people with him."

"And that was just in this country,"
I say.

Lily's eyebrows raise. It is her first glimpse
at the facts my brain chooses to hold on to. Her fingers tighten on the iron door
handle. "By then most antibiotics were useless," she says.
"Somewhere along the line, we took a giant step backward. When I was a
child, there were only a handful of vaccines; now there's a vaccine for nearly
everything because we've engineered ourselves right into a corner. That's
progress?" She looks at me, and a crease deepens between her brows.
"Sometimes we just don't know when we've gone too far." She opens the
door to leave, and a shaft of light cuts across the floor.

"Is that why you gave up being a
doctor?"

She stops and turns.

"Because you couldn't save him?" I
add. I am only curious, but I see her transform instantly. If she was bitter
before, she is stiffness and rage now.

"And
that
would be none of your
business," she answers.

"They have laws now," I say.

One corner of Lily's mouth turns up. It is not
a smile. "Yes. They do. Entire acts passed by Congress. Scientists can't
burp without someone forming a committee to investigate them. Some even go to
prison. That in your head, too?"

"No."

"Didn't think so. I don't think they'd
want you to know about that. The problem is, some people think they're above
the law. There are plenty of good reasons why we have so much regulation."

"Like?"

She seems almost amused by the tone of my
challenge, surprised, maybe, that I would even question her. I watch her draw
up, becoming larger than the Lily I have seen, looking like she is prepared to
take me on and a dozen others, too, if necessary.

"Engineering corn to resist pests wiped
the original species from the face of the planet. Laws are too late for
that," she says, her eyes drilling into me. "And a simple thing like
overusing antibiotics created a strain of bacteria so deadly it killed my
husband and a quarter of the world's population. So that is
—"

"Were you?" I see the circular
thought she meant to hide from me.

"What?"

"Above the law. When you were a doctor.
Did you ever
—"

"Yes." I watch the stiffness of her
muscles drain away. "And I live with that every day of my life." She
turns to leave.

"Lily," I say to stop her,
"did my grandfather
— Did you— Was I
baptized?"

"When she was two weeks old," she
says as she walks out the door. "We were her godparents." She is gone
and never looks back to see if I followed.

Father Rico and Lily sit in the shade of a
pepper tree and swap stories. We have already toured the remnants of the
ancient mission garden where the two of them excitedly examined gnarled roots,
weeds, and what appear to be anemic orange trees that are bearing the tiniest
of pale fruit. Father Rico proudly proclaimed it the first nursery in
California, but the treasure for both of them lies in the seeds and DNA that
are left behind.

Their voices rise and some words drift across
the expanse of the courtyard.

"Pure."

"Unadulterated."

"Original seed."

"Untouched DNA."

If I strained I could hear it all, but I don't
really need more details than what Father Rico has already given me. He and
Lily are both members of the World Seed Preservation Organization, a group
committed to preserving original species of plants. Apparently there are few
pure species left, due to bio-engineering and cross-pollination. The wind, it
seems, isn't discriminatory in which kind of plant pollen it blows. Engineered
pollen blows just as easily as the original kind and infects all traditional
plants in its path. Now I know the deeper meaning to Lily's greenhouse. She and
Father Rico seem to see bioengineered plants as a time bomb, much like the
Aureus
epidemic. Their network of seed enthusiasts are out
to save the world. Saviors. Lily saved me once. I wonder how often she thinks
about that.

Lily regularly glances my way to make sure I
haven't wandered away or started a conversation with anyone. Occasionally
someone passes through the courtyard, mostly other priests, but I remain quiet.
Lily told me to. "Your mother would want it that way," she says.

I see a boy, taller than Father Rico, across
the courtyard. He approaches them. His hands are dirty, and he swipes away long
cords of black hair spilling in front of his eyes with his forearm. He is . . .
pleasant looking. I think that's the word. He talks to Father Rico, nods his
head, and then glances over at me. I see Lily's face. She has noticed and sits
up straighter like she is ready to spring. I think he is going to walk over to
me and I look away to discourage him. It works. He says a few more words to
Father Rico and goes back the way he came, and I am immediately angry with
myself for being so quick to please Lily and Mother. It won't happen again.

Go
to Your Room

Mother sips orange juice at the
counter, looking over a list of tasks for the day. Lily grates cheese over a
bowl of eggs. I sip my nutrients, which are tasteless. I swig down the last of
them in a quick gulp and ask, "Was I a history buff?"

Mother barely looks up from her list. "A
what?"

I decide to rephrase Mr. Bender's question.
"Did I like history? Was it my favorite subject?"

Mother smiles and looks back at her list,
making a few changes. "Hardly," she answers. "I'm afraid history
—and math for that matter—were
tutorworthy
for you." She is absorbed again in her
planning.
Tutorworthy
? I must have had an excellent
tutor.

I push my empty glass away and announce,
"I'm going to school today."

Mother drops her pencil and stares at me. Lily
stops beating her eggs.

"I assume I didn't graduate during the
year I was in a coma, so I still need to finish, right?"

Mother hasn't spoken. Her mouth is open and her
head shakes slightly, like my words are ricocheting around inside. Somehow, I
find it amusing.

"There's two village charters within
walking distance
—I checked the directory on the
Net—and the Central Academy is just a short drive."

"You can't drive!" The words shoot
out of Mother, and then she says more calmly, "School is out of the
question. You're still recovering
—"

"I'm fine
—"

Mother stands.
"I said
school is
out of the question. Period."

I hesitate, but then stand, too. "And I
say it
isn't."

Mother is shocked into a marble stance. Neither
of us speaks. Finally she looks away. She sits back down. She picks up her
pencil. She is calm, smooth, practiced, the mother who seems to know where we
are going before I do. "Go to your room, Jenna. You need to rest. Go.
Now."

I am seething. Outraged. Incensed.
The
words.
They're finally bubbling up in torrents just when I need them.

But the
will.
It is waning. Mother says
I should go to my room. Go to your room, Jenna. Go to your room.

I do.

The rage is doubling, multiplying, filling my
vision like a black cloud. I can hardly see as each step brings me closer to my
room.
Go to your room. Jenna.
And I am. I am. I collapse on the last
stair and rock back and forth silently. What world have I woken up to? What
nightmare am I in? Why am I compelled to do as Mother says even when I have a
desperate need to do something else? I rock in the dark hollow of the landing,
feeling like I am back in the silent vacuum where my voice is never heard. If
Jenna Fox was a weak-willed coward, I don't want to be her at all. I hug my
arms, trying to squeeze away the world. I hear a sharp voice. It is Mother. She
is angry. At me? I did as she asked. I lean near the banister to listen. Lily's
voice is angry, too.

"When will you admit you made a
mistake?"

"Stop it! You of all people should
understand! If it weren't for in vitro, I wouldn't be here. You always called
me your miracle. Why can't I have one, too? Why do you get to decide when the
miracles will end?"

"It's not natural."

"Neither was I! You needed help.
That's all I wanted
—"

I hear a strange noise. A sob?

"Claire."