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  This is what I saw when I finished my speech and looked out at the audience: my father, leaving. He stood up and edged his way out of his row. Then—walking so rapidly up the aisle that it was just short of a run—he left. My father walked out, while Dr. Wyatt stayed, clapping mildly and politely with everyone else.

  You’d have thought I’d be relieved—there was now no possibility of having to introduce my father and Viv. But I wasn’t relieved. I felt weirdly chilled.

  CHAPTER 7

  AFTER OUR CLASS had flung their caps into the air—except for me; I fitted mine carefully above Viv’s brow instead and, laughing, she was the one to hurl it aloft—the ceremony was officially over. Viv and I descended from the platform into the swarm of our fellow graduates’ families and friends. Viv was immediately engulfed by her mother’s embrace, while Bill, her mother’s shy boyfriend, simultaneously wielded his video camera and hid behind it.

  Mrs. Fadiman was sniffling. “My baby. You were so mature, so beautiful! And that thing you said, about facing life with kindness and courage, you can’t possibly know that already, sweetheart, yet it was so true. Heads all around us were bobbing away in agreement, did you see? Oh, Vivian Elizabeth! You made me so proud, I thought I would die.”

  I hung back. I knew that shortly Mrs. Fadiman would be all over me, too. And also that she, like Viv, would soon be craning her neck, looking for my parents. Wanting to congratulate, to crow, to share. Wanting all the normal things.

  I had kept an eye out during Viv’s speech and afterward, just in case my father came back. He had not. But Dr. Wyatt’s eyes stayed fixed on me throughout. Viv spoke forcefully and well, but he did not even once glance her way; I could feel his gaze on me even when I myself was watching Viv. When the caps sailed through the air, I looked at him directly again and saw him nod at me; saw him smile approvingly. Then, as everyone else applauded and yelled and whistled, he, like my father, got up from his chair in the audience and strode away.

  Leaving me . . . groping.

  Okay. There was some history between my parents and Dr. Wyatt, some joint past. That I already knew. There was the letter’s mention of Dr. Wyatt: He had somehow facilitated my father’s test for Huntington’s. And now my father had looked at Dr. Wyatt half an hour ago and become angry—angry enough to walk out on his son’s graduation as soon as his son had finished speaking. Why?

  I remembered the single time my mother had with sanity mentioned Quincy Wyatt’s name to me, years ago, when I had studied his work at school. The little scene had come back to me with extraordinary vividness when I had read the letter. We used to know him, my mother had said, at dinner. Before you were born, when we were graduate students.

  My father had interrupted. He had taken her out of the room to talk. His voice had been low, but I have sharp ears. I don’t want to hear his name, Ava, and I don’t want Eli hearing it, either. It’s dangerous. Bad enough he lives so near; bad enough Eli is studying him at school.

  My mother had been impatient. Oh, Jonathan. You make too much of it.

  And you promised we would never speak of it, or him, once it was over.

  My mother had sighed, but said, Okay. Fine. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose.

  Whatever had happened long ago . . . my father was angry about it. But my mother hadn’t been. And Dr. Wyatt wasn’t.

  Did you know my mother?

  Nice woman.

  I felt my shoulders move uncomfortably as, finally, the obvious explanation occurred to me. Had my mother once had an affair with Dr. Wyatt?

  For a few seconds I couldn’t draw breath. You think you’re sophisticated. Mature. But some things . . .

  “Eli!” Mrs. Fadiman abandoned Viv and moved to embrace me. It was a huge relief to be distracted. Also, there was no way not to like Viv’s mother, no way not to respond to the outpouring of approval she always directed toward me.

  Impulsively, I picked Mrs. Fadiman right up off her feet—she was even shorter than Viv—and whirled her around in a circle. She laughed the twin of Viv’s giggle, and I laughed back down at her and whirled her again.

  On my side, the laughter was partly manic. I knew my ugly explanation had to be right. Whether I liked it or not didn’t matter. It had to be dealt with, if I was going to work at Wyatt Transgenics.

  I could confront my father and ask. I could even quit the job at Wyatt Transgenics, if he really wanted me to. I didn’t want to do that, though. I wanted the job. But how could I take it if doing so really would cause my father pain?

  But maybe it wasn’t true.

  “Stop! Enough! You’ll make me dizzy!” Mrs. Fadiman was still laughing. Carefully, I set her back on the ground. She reached up and patted my cheek, said, “Young man, you need to shave,” and then, looking around, added, inevitably, “By the way, where are your parents? Viv said they’d be here today.”

  My mouth opened automatically to speak, but nothing came out at first. “Um,” I managed finally. “My parents . . . my father was here, but . . .”

  “He had to leave early, after Eli spoke,” Viv inserted quietly.

  She was standing two feet away. My eyes met hers—one moment of complete clarity and understanding—and then she looked away. She added doggedly: “There was—um, a family emergency. A cousin, isn’t that right, Eli? A cousin who was in a car accident this morning, and Mrs. Samuels is with her at the hospital, and Mr. Samuels went to join her.”

  Too much, Viv, I thought.

  “Oh, my!” exclaimed Mrs. Fadiman. “How terrible!”

  I managed to nod. By force of will I tried to make Viv look at me again. If she would just look at me.

  Mrs. Fadiman said something else. I wasn’t sure what it was. I spoke randomly. “She’s going to be okay, my cousin. It’s just that she needed, um . . .”

  “Emotional support,” Viv said.

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Fadiman. “But what a shame, to miss any part of your graduation. Bill will have the video, of course, and we can make copies, but it’s not the same.”

  Viv had a smile pasted on her face. I felt the cloud of lies above our heads and knew that she felt it, too.

  I knew then that this could not go on. Not if I wanted to keep her. But if I told her—well. I’d lose her, eventually, anyway. Either way. The truth was approaching like a train bearing down on a track to which I’d been tied.

  All at once. Out of nowhere.

  I caught Viv’s eye again. I tried to tell her, silently, that my games were over. That soon, when we were alone . . .

  It seemed she understood me. Her brow smoothed out. She tried to smile.

  I tried to think of what I might say.

  My mother is insane. It’s a genetic problem called Huntington’s disease.

  It is untreatable and incurable.

  There’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll develop it, too.

  Now can we please not talk about this again, or at least not until you’re ready to break up with me? Which, by the way, you should do before you get too attached.

  Because listen, Viv. This—you and me—isn’t forever. When you fall in love and mate for life, when you have children, it won’t be with me. I won’t let it be. I know better than to hurt you that way.

  I looked at Viv as I thought these things. She had never been more beautiful to me. And I realized that I knew exactly how she would react if she did know . . . and that I couldn’t allow it.

  I know better than to hurt you that way.

  “Hello, hello!” came a booming voice. “There you are, Eli ! ”

  And then suddenly, in front of us, his arms full of flowers, was Dr. Quincy Wyatt. “Hail the graduates!” he said, and pushed the flowers into the arms of an astonished Viv. “First rate,” he said, turning to Viv’s mother. “Just a first-rate valedictory speech from your daughter. Happy to meet you. Happy to meet any friends of Eli’s.”

  He beamed upon us all. “May I take everyone out to an early dinner? To celebrate?”

  CHAPTER 8
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  BUT I ENDED UP having dinner alone with Dr. Wyatt, while the Fadiman contingent—with visible regret once they realized that the stranger with the flowers was the famous Dr. Quincy Wyatt, my new employer—kept to previously made plans. He took me to a small French bistro north of Harvard Square called Chez Henri. It was early, just after five o’clock, and we were the only diners in the restaurant. That felt strange to me, but it didn’t seem to matter to Dr. Wyatt. He ushered me expansively into the dining room, employed his cane to point out to the maitre d’ the table he wanted, and then spent sixty concentrated, silent seconds with the wine list while I watched.

  I tried to assimilate the fact that I was there at all. Dr. Wyatt couldn’t be this interested in every new laboratory assistant that Wyatt Transgenics hired. It was—it had to be—my mother he was interested in. His old lover?

  What if he asked me about her? And yet . . . earlier, at my job interview, he’d seemed somehow to know about her current condition. There had been sympathy in his face.

  Was he sorry for me? Was that what all of this was about? Just general pity because he knew about my mother’s illness?

  He’d mentioned both my parents, back at the interview. I wondered: Why hadn’t he asked me where my father was today ? Had he seen my father leave? Or maybe he’d assumed my father was with my mother at the nursing home?

  Wherever my father was, I knew he would be wondering where I was, too. I knew he would be angry. Wanting an explanation. And spoiling for a fight about my new job and about Dr. Wyatt.

  Before coming to dinner, I hadn’t called my father or left him a message about where I was going or what I was doing. I - wouldn’t call now, either. Let him stew. He’d walked out on my high school graduation . . . and even though I hadn’t been sure I really wanted him there, even though I was glad to sidestep his meeting Viv, it still wasn’t right of him to have walked out.

  No. Actually, I just didn’t want to tell him I was with Dr. Wyatt when I should have been with him. I was vaguely ashamed. But it wasn’t my fault.

  The waiter arrived with water and a bread basket. “Something to drink?”

  I was about to ask for a Coke, but Dr. Wyatt waved the wine list. “We’ll have this 1995 Brunello di Montalcino.” He turned to me. “It’s a nice Italian red.”

  “Uh, sure,” I said after a second. I didn’t want to appear unsophisticated, and if the waiter didn’t notice that I was under the legal drinking age—and because of my size, people did tend to think me older than I was—I wouldn’t mention it. It was only wine. Still, I wasn’t sure I wanted to drink ever again in my lifetime. I hadn’t had any alcohol since the night I had fought with my father, polished off his dusty bottle of scotch, and then emailed Dr. Wyatt.

  Luckily the waiter had already provided big glasses of water.

  “An appetizer?” asked the waiter.

  “Let’s try the coconut shrimp,” said Dr. Wyatt. “And a plate of the frogs’ legs. Oh, and maybe the blue cheese, pear, and walnut salad. Two plates and serving spoons so we can both try everything.”

  The waiter departed. I hoped I’d be allowed to choose my own dinner. I said to Dr. Wyatt, “Uh, I might not have any frogs’ legs.”

  “Of course you will. You should go through life seeking out new and different experiences, especially when you’re young. It broadens the mind. What? What’s that expression? What are you thinking?”

  I shrugged. “It’s just that, well, you hear that a lot. About the importance of a broad mind. We hear it all the time at school, for example.”

  “So?”

  “So—well, Viv and I—you met Viv today—had this conversation recently. Isn’t it possible that there are times when you’d want people not to have broad minds? When it would be an advantage to be, oh, narrow and provincial?”

  Dr. Wyatt leaned forward. “Such as?”

  “Well, suppose it’s wartime. If orders really need to be followed, then it would not be helpful for soldiers to have knowledge, say, of the enemy’s culture. That knowledge would just make you feel terrible about what you have to do. And in some cases, it might make you question your orders—might make you disobey.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Wyatt said. “It’s one reason why military training de-emphasizes individuality and emphasizes the importance of the team, the group, and of the order of command. Following orders has to be made instinctual and automatic.”

  “Right,” I said. The wine arrived and Dr. Wyatt went through the tasting ceremony with the waiter, who then deftly poured a glass for each of us. The whole process took time, and I found myself thinking that I couldn’t remember how long it had been since I’d had an intellectual conversation with an adult.

  Once upon a time, I’d talked with my parents this way, of course, but no longer.

  Now I felt the words and ideas gather pressure inside me. Finally, the waiter left. Dr. Wyatt steepled his hands on the table and leaned toward me.

  “So,” he said. “You interest me greatly, Eli. Soldiers—you were saying . . .”

  “That soldiers are better off without too much broadening,” I said. “Or, at least that’s what we would think. But I’ve wondered—listen, do you like science fiction?”

  Dr. Wyatt nodded. “Most people in the sciences do.”

  “Okay, then, you have to have noticed that you just keep seeing book after book, movie after movie, TV series after TV series, with robots or androids or genetically created hybrids of some kind or other. Right?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “And they’re always created with the idea that because - they’re not human, they’ll be terrific, sort of, servants and will do whatever is asked of them. They’ll follow orders exactly and they’ll perform perfectly.” I gulped some of my water.

  “Perfect soldiers, yes.” I thought Dr. Wyatt’s smile was a little indulgent.

  I said, “Yeah, soldiers, a lot of the time. We’re—Viv and I are fascinated with that. But—the thing I want to say—in the end, it doesn’t matter what job it is we’ve imagined that these created beings will perform. The fact is, it never works out.”

  “Never?” said Dr. Wyatt quizzically.

  “Never,” I repeated firmly. “We dream about the perfect, narrow-focused creature, we say it’s what we want. But then something always goes wrong—or right—in these stories, and the robots always develop independence and individuality and don’t want to obey anymore. Always. From Frankenstein on.”

  “Hmm,” said Dr. Wyatt. “You mean that they’re searching for free will?”

  “Well, yes,” I said. “What Viv says is that these creatures actually develop a soul. Every time we try to imagine that ideal robot or whatever, that soulless creature, we fail. At some deep level, Viv thinks, we humans believe every being must have a soul. Or, I guess you’d say, we humans believe that every humanlike creature must have free will—or whatever you want to call that unique something that makes us human.”

  “But I don’t personally think that,” said Dr. Wyatt. “I concede that most humans like to believe in free will. Or call it a soul, if you must. But free will is an illusion. All human decision-making can ultimately be traced back to material causes. One set of neurons fires instead of another—and so we go left instead of right.

  “Now, the decision-making process is certainly more complex in humans than in other animals, but I don’t really think there’s any sharp dividing line distinguishing human moral choices from the kind of daily choices that are made by any animal.” He shrugged. “Free will? The soul? Something unique in humans that separates us from animals? It’s a fairy tale we’ve invented to shield us from reality.”

  His eyes sharpened on me. “Obviously, from what you’ve said, your girlfriend has some vested interest in believing this sort of thing. Many people do, and so what? But what about you, Eli? You’re a rational being. You have some grounding in science, and not just science fiction written by—excuse me—nineteenth-century hysterics like Mary Shelley. What do you thi
nk? Does free will—the soul—some basic human essence—exist ?”

  I hesitated. Was he insulting Viv? But no—he didn’t know her. This was an intellectual discussion only—and a fascinating one. What did I think?

  I looked him right in the eye. “I think that, as a species, we visit this topic in fiction over and over not because—or not only because—we’re obsessed with the human soul. I think that just gives us a framework for discussion. The real reason is because, as a society, we’re on the verge of making the creation of life, by humans, reality. We’re trying to find ways to talk about it with people who aren’t necessarily able to understand the science—because we all have to participate. As a species, I mean. We all have to decide what’s best to do.” I wanted to add, what choices to make, but then I remembered that Dr. Wyatt had just said he didn’t really believe in moral choice. Just in neurons.

  “Aha,” said Dr. Wyatt. Then he smiled. “I see. Well, you and I needn’t use the made-up worlds of fiction in order to talk about humans creating life.”

  “Robots are real,” I said. “Cloning of animals is viable. Human cloning—it’s going to happen.”

  “Yes. Exactly! We’re living in the most exciting period of human history. Incredible control, incredible power over our own destiny, is almost within our grasp. There’s a wonderful world ahead—new mysteries unlock to our eyes every day. God created man?” His chin jerked up. “So what? We are going to be able to do that, too. And eventually—it will all take time—we’ll do a better job at it.”

  I stared at him. Of course the idea wasn’t new—but hearing it . . . hearing it from Quincy Wyatt . . . hearing it aloud . . . Do a better job than God?

  “There’s just so much wrong,” Dr. Wyatt added quietly. “Disease. Suffering.” His eyes were intense, but I had the sense he was looking inward. His voice was low. Sad.

  “There so much wrong, Eli. There’s so much human pain and anguish in this world that I believe needn’t happen at all.”

  CHAPTER 9

  IT WAS 9:30 WHEN I returned home from dinner, usually a time at which my father could be found in the living room, his feet propped on the coffee table as, simultaneously, he watched television and read. Tonight, however, the apartment was silent and almost completely dark. Almost. There was a sliver of light beneath the door of my parents’—my father’s—bed-room at the far end of the hall.