Part 15 (1/2)
”She's right for herself. Not for me. I'm not going to fall again.”
”What are your parents like?”
Caleb hesitated. He wanted to just pound the blacktop of Baseline until they reached Flagstaff; they were almost near the preserve, and he longed for quiet.
”My dad's a lawyer, very rational.” For no reason he could fathom he added, ”He has a mustache.”
”Well, you need to be very rational to have a mustache,” June offered brightly. ”You have to trim it just right every day.”
Caleb's laugh echoed through the hills. ”He used to take me out running with him, when I was eight, nine. We went so far.”
”You must have had some great talks.”
”We never talked”-Caleb wiped his nose-”when we ran.”
They were offered an opportunity to plunge into backcountry along a single track trail. It was more humid, and insects swirled around them in spirals. He took her hand and dashed past buckeyes as thin as they were, their bark in undulating shades from milk chocolate to stout. A moose drank in a creek, steam pouring from its wide nostrils.
June gripped his hand and they ran faster, leaping over branches, lost in the world. When they were far from any path or tail, he pulled her into him and kissed her.
He had gone ten years without touching anyone alone. Even after these months with June, the rawness of it felt alive. She reached for his shorts, and they fell onto the ground. She whispered into his ear.
”Please.”
He looked down at her wide eyes. He supposed it was the most erotic word he could imagine.
Afterward he stared through the branches at the open sky. Regardless of whether he ever heard from Shane again, he understood that this life which he had built for a decade was finished now. There seemed to be no way back to its isolation and purity. Separating from it was going to be as traumatic, he knew, as anything he had ever experienced.
They followed along the black hardtop of Baseline back to the city and picked up June's things. After Caleb jogged back to O'Neil's, June walked through town, back to the park, and down toward the base of South Boulder Peak. A joyful peace settled inside her. The old wood house seemed to greet her from its clearing, the slabs of wood experienced and confident as grandparents. She retrieved her daughter from her housemates and took her out back into the field's fallen leaves.
”I love you. I love you,” she kissed into Lily's hot neck, spinning her around. ”I love our life.”
June reveled in the distant music from the house, the singing juncos and pipits on the branches. Maybe it was a good thing that Shane had not gotten back to them. Secretly she felt relieved to not have to leave here; she didn't think she could ever live in any other place again.
Touching her forehead to Lily's, they both smiled spontaneously, as if they had been sharing the exact same thought.
8.
When his cell phone rang, Shane was feeding the baby. He reached across the kitchen counter and fumbled with it. His heart skipped when he heard Prajuk's high-pitched voice.
”I am in the Marina. Can you meet me?”
Shane went to tell Janelle, who was in the kitchen pumping milk. The breast pump, which Shane had antic.i.p.ated with curiosity, had proven to be disconcerting; he preferred not to see it in action.
Janelle saw the look on his face and arched her eyebrows.
”Quick work thing,” he explained.
”We're going to my parents' at ten.”
”I just need an hour.” His face brightened. ”I'll take Nicholas.”
The bounty of a morning alone lit Janelle's eyes like a hit of meth. Shane put together a balmy bottle and stuffed it, along with a pack of wipes and a diaper, into his shorts' pockets. Then he lifted the warm boy into a Baby Bjorn.
Outside, other parents, pus.h.i.+ng awkward strollers, large coffees spilling from their cup holders, initiated an empathetic eye contact with him. But Shane's empathy lay with the babies. This is our time to be loved without inhibition, he wanted to tell them, and it does not last very long. Future spouses and children might love them, but would they kiss away saliva from their chins? Would they tell them in the gentlest of voices that they were perfect? Across the street he saw a heavyset, middle-aged man in a stained green sweater. Someone, Shane thought, had cradled him once, kissed his sleeping cheeks. We may be loved, but we are never loved this way again.
Beyond the green grounds of Fort Mason wisps of sails moored to the piers floated as seagulls in the sky. Ahead, a girls' soccer game was in effect. Ten shrieking eight-year-olds in white and pale blue uniforms, ten Chinese girls in yellow and red. The American parents held steel coffee mugs; the Chinese favored styrofoam. They sat, as always, on opposite ends of the field. Shane noticed Prajuk on an old bench, in running shorts and maroon Adidas, his thin legs extended, ankles crossed.
”You live around here?” Shane asked, sitting beside him.
”No. I run here on weekends sometimes. This is your little guy?”
”Nicholas.”
Looking at the baby's face, Prajuk could see mostly Chinese features. Caucasian genes, he thought not for the first time, are the most easily overwhelmed in all of human history.
Prajuk saw every living being in terms of its genealogy. Genes, to him, were a diabolical puzzle in which one had to discover each piece, and was never shown the picture he was trying to complete. That his work led to the saving of lives was a good thing, but it was not what woke him up in the morning; the magic to Prajuk was the unveiling of life's blueprints, the piecing together of this puzzle. And so thinking about Shane's infant with alpha-one ant.i.trypsin deficiency, Prajuk was moved less by the image of a baby struggling to breathe than by the notion of solving for another piece. Diseases were Easter eggs to him; he detested leaving one that he had spotted uncollected.
When Prajuk spoke, he stared straight ahead at the soccer game. ”Do you know what a mast cell is, Shane?”
”I don't, no.”
”Mast cells are like skunks in the lungs. Touch them, and they release a chemical spray that causes an acute inflammatory response. This thing is a good defense against viruses. But in asthmatics, IgE antibodies float around the bloodstream and bind to their mast cells, making them spray constantly. Like riding a skunk. The inflammatory response is constant. We give asthmatics steroids, which force the lungs to contract. They neuter the response, but they do nothing to stop the IgE antibodies from binding to the mast cells. So the body is initiating one action, and the steroids are fighting it. This is traumatic for the body, as you can imagine, like pressing on your gas pedal and brake pedal at the same time. The enzyme protein we found, this thing teaches the antibodies to stop attaching themselves to mast cells in the first place. This is why it will revolutionize asthma treatment.”
Shane recalled something Janelle had explained to him years ago, while they were slightly stoned on hydroponic: the only solution to disease is to teach the body to heal itself, the way you teach a child to solve problems himself.
”That's Airifan,” Shane guessed.
”Airifan would not help infants with alpha-one ant.i.trypsin deficiency, because their problem is not mast cells. But this enzyme also switches on the gene that instructs the liver to produce alpha-one ant.i.trypsin. In a different formulation, however, it would reverse the problem. It is just a matter of producing it.”
”What kind of a matter,” Shane asked quietly, ”is that?”
”I put this thing, this protein, in a vector. If you help me in the lab, I can come after work and maybe do a few runs a week. I can make two milligrams of a new formulation, a treatment, each run. This baby, she will need thirty to fifty milligrams to have enough for ninety years of life.”
Shane was speechless. He waited tensely for Prajuk to go on.
”You understand this thing is a fireable offense. A career-ending offense.”
”No one would know,” Shane whispered.
”What about the baby's mother? And your brother? They could never tell anyone they have this drug.”