Life First: (Dystopian series, book 1) Page 6

How could any woman forget the man she loves dropping to one knee and proposing? A guy who said you were his whole world, and he didn’t want to go another moment without everyone knowing, without making you his wife. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that night.”

  “Do you have an answer for me?”

  I grimace. It had been hard enough not to say yes at the time. This feels like double jeopardy. “I think I gave you an answer,” I say as gently as possible.

  “You said to ask you later.”

  “I said to ask me when things were more settled,” I correct. I had tried to explain this to him, then. It wasn’t the right time for him to ask me. It was all about needing to be with me because there was a crisis ahead. That’s never a good reason to get married. I want him to want to get married because he wants to spend a lifetime with me, not because he’s afraid he’s going to lose me during surgery. “I just think now’s not the best time to make decisions like this.”

  He raises his voice. “And when is a good time, Kelsey?”

  I purposely keep my tone low so he doesn’t feel like I’m shouting at him. “When this part is over, when there’s calm and we can make rational decisions.”

  He sighs, looks at me briefly, then returns his eyes to the road, shaking his head. “I don’t know why you believe I can’t think rationally now, that I’ll somehow change my mind if there’s not a crisis.”

  I bite my lip, and try to think of a response. He’s right. I am worried he’ll change his mind. Luke is wonderful in many ways, but sometimes he’s ruled by the emotion of the moment. I wonder if he’ll still feel the same when the moment of my jeopardy is over. I don’t want to say yes if he’s going to regret it later. “I don’t think you’ll change your mind,” I say, though not as convincingly as I’d like it to sound.

  “Kelsey, this refusal to say yes when I know you want to, is … very... frustrating. I’m not deluded with worry. I’m not going to change my mind once you’re safely ensconced in Peoria and never show up. I really wish you would just say yes, and then we’d both feel better.”

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe my reluctance is just my own anxiety, my own issues. I mean, he hasn’t changed his mind in the three weeks since he found out. Why would he change his mind, now? Why can’t I just tell him yes? I turn to him. “I love you, Luke, with all my heart. Can that just be enough for today, please?”

  He glances at me, then the road. The answer in his eyes is clear. It’s not enough. But, he looks back again, and smiles — same eyes, eyes that clearly say it’s not enough — and says, “That’s fine, Kelse. That’s enough for now.”

  I smile back, turn to my window and close my eyes. I’m not sleepy, but I don’t want to talk any more. Something about getting engaged while on the run from the law feels wrong to me. Like it’s about doing everything for the wrong reasons, and I can’t bring myself to say yes, even though I know it hurts him. Too much principle. I wonder if maybe I should just abandon my principles altogether, give up my kidney, like Luke suggested, and tell him yes.

  “Kelsey,” he says softly.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not gonna ask again, but I do have a question.”

  I feel weary of the question, but he deserves to be heard. “Yes,” I respond, trying not to sound as ambivalent as I feel.

  “Are you reluctant to say yes because your father doesn’t like me?”

  I wonder if I look as deer-caught-in-the-headlights as I feel. I have no idea where that came from. “No, this has nothing to do with my father.”

  He shrugs, and stays focused on the road. I start to say something more, to defend my position, but think better of it. I wonder if maybe there is a kernel of truth in what he’s suggested. Not that my father’s opinion matters above all, but he doesn’t like Luke.

  That isn’t entirely Luke’s fault. Luke works for Dr. Grant, and my father harbors an unparalleled hatred for Dr. Grant. So he naturally distrusts anyone working for the man.

  Also, Luke is very unlike my father in some key ways. Luke likes to fly under the radar. He is low profile and tries to keep his life private, which is the antithesis of my father, who attempts to be an open book to his public.

  Luke has attended a few pro-choice rallies. Being at the occasional rally probably matters less to my father than the fact that Luke was in the background of a photo that appeared in the newspaper. Pro-choice is not something my father wishes to be associated with.

  I remember when I first told dad I was dating Luke Geary. He gave me the fatherly look that said, “I don’t know about that, about my baby dating some strange guy.” I waited for him to have Luke checked out — investigated by someone on his staff. Waited for him to speak to me about my beau.

  He started with the hard stuff. “He works with that Dr. Grant,” my father said. The implication was clear, though he decided to spell it out in case I’d missed it. “You know, Grant has more stillborns than the average doctor. Some people say he’s not helping those babies on purpose.”

  I’d been ready for that question, of course. “Dr. Grant only works with high-risk pregnancies, Dad. He’s going to have more deaths than other doctors,” I said, trying to add a positive spin. “He mainly does research, now. He’s got the support of the governor for his research, so he can’t be all that bad. And, most importantly, Luke works for Dr. Grant. He’s not Dr. Grant.”

  My father seemed unmoved. “Just because Dr. Grant knows the governor doesn’t mean he’s good. A lot of radicals hang out with that Grant fellow. Has this boy tried to convince you to attend a pro-choice rally?”

  I laughed. “Dad, we hardly ever talk about the pro-choice movement or Dr. Grant.”

  “No Dr. Grant, no pro-choice? What is it that you talk about?”

  Part of me wanted to say, “No talking, all sex.” But, that little joke would have gone over like a lead balloon. Not to mention, it would have put the s-word out there with my father, and that’s something that was outside both of our comfort zones. “Lots of things, Dad. We have classes together, and we see movies. He’s very sweet. You’ll like him.”

  Dad didn’t. I’m not sure what it was. But, the two didn’t get along. I got the sense my dad felt like Luke was an invader trying to stage a coup.

  In the end, my father and I came to an understanding. We didn’t talk about Luke, and Luke and I didn’t flaunt our relationship publicly. My father believes controversy swirls around Dr. Grant, so he didn’t want some issue with Luke or the doctor to pop up during his campaign because people knew we were dating. It seemed easy to just do as he wished.

  For Luke’s part, he prefers anonymity, at least in his personal relationships. He’s quite content that most people see us as nothing more than two acquaintances. Our hot passion for each other is reserved for each other, and no one else. Er, at least it was until I’d been ordered to give a kidney and decided to flee the country. Suddenly Luke wanted to declare his love for me to the world and get married. That’s another reason I can’t say yes. It’s too sudden a change from where we’ve been.

  I sneak a peek at Luke as he drives, then turn back to the window. I need more time, yet I know ultimately I’ll say yes. So does Luke. At least I’m pretty sure he knows what my answer will be. I just want things to be more settled.

  “Luke,” I say tentatively.

  “Mmmhmm.”

  “Since you’re driving me all the way to Georgia anyway, maybe you could just come to Peoria with me now. Then, maybe we could get settled in together.”

  The quiet seems to shout at me as he stares diligently ahead, occasionally checking the rearview mirror. “Is it the two months, Kelsey? Is that affecting your answering me?”

  Touché. Good question. I’m not sure. The two month delay in Luke coming to Peoria was not the original plan. The first couple of times we discussed me fleeing, it had been the two of us going. Then, suddenly, with little explanation, it changed to him coming in two months. He suddenly thought it would be safer if he came later. Part
of me feels like he’s punishing me for not telling him yes. Like he’s making me wait because I’m making him wait for his answer. But, that’s not Luke’s style. He wouldn’t treat me like that. He knows I’d prefer he come now. So, gut-check time. Is the two month delay part of the reason I refuse to answer his proposal?

  I look over at him and he looks briefly at me. In that minor glance when he takes his eyes off the road, I see how desperate he is for me to say it is indeed the two months, that I will tell him yes if he will come with me today. I swivel my head to look out the window and watch the fields flitter past as I search my soul for the answer.

  It isn’t the two months. I know that in my heart. It isn’t his delayed arrival that makes me want to wait to answer him.

  “No, it’s not the two months,” I tell him, trying to explain things in a way that won’t hurt his feelings. Actually, to explain things in a way that won’t further hurt his feelings. I turn back to face him, even though he watches the road. “I think we could feel settled sooner if we went together. The delay is really about letting things calm down, Luke.”

  Luke swallows, then says nothing. He drives with the singular focus I would expect of a brain surgeon. Finally, in a calm, measured voice, he says, “Kelsey, I still think it’s safer for me to wait, OK? I can make sure things are settled here. You’ll be fine for two months. You can stay at the Grant House, and then look for a more permanent place.”

  I take a deep breath. “You’re right,” I lie. Then, I turn back to face the window. “I’m gonna rest a little, if you’re OK driving?”

  “I’m great,” he lies, too, adding false enthusiasm. “Get some rest.”

  Chapter 11: A Promise Kept

  Three Years Ago

  As I stood outside Dr. Grant’s room at U Hotel, I wondered if I’d made a mistake agreeing to meet him.

  Dr. Grant had the answers I wanted. He knew how my mother had died. I admit, I should have known more. It wasn’t because I hadn’t wanted answers; it was because my father hadn’t given me any. I’d gotten the most basic explanation at the time: my mother’s doctor had failed to diagnose a heart condition and she died. She was four months pregnant at the time.

  Beyond that, my father said nothing about it. He wanted to move on. Our society has seen enough death to know that moving on is best, that you can’t linger with those who have passed. So we don’t. My father never explained exactly what happened. I had always wondered whether she had suffered. Had she thought of me in the end? Had she known it was coming, that death was near, or was it sudden and completely unexpected, laughing with her doctor one moment and dead the next?

  These were things I could never ask my father. First, he hadn’t been with her when she died, and second, even if he knew, he wouldn’t tell me. He’d tell me to move on and live life. Life First and all, you know. The dead are gone.

  Dr. Grant was different. He might tell me. That’s why I’d agreed to meet him. I thought he felt guilty, and I could use that to my advantage. Use that to find out more about my mother’s last day. Perhaps it was wrong of me to try to use him for this information. But, I thought, as her killer, he owed me whatever information he had.

  So I went to Dr. Grant’s hotel expecting he would usher me in and stammer through an apology. Expecting I would ask him my questions, and he would give me answers to ease his conscience. It hadn’t occurred to me how those answers would impact me. Part of me wishes I had thought about that. But if I had, I never would have gone.

  I stood in the hotel hallway an extra minute, debating whether I could do it. Finally, I knocked on the door of room 224. He opened it fairly quickly, looking pleased to see me, if not a little surprised. Perhaps he thought I wouldn’t show. I had certainly thought about it, but my thirst for knowledge beat out my trepidation.

  Dr. Grant’s suite was furnished in the typical indistinct, yet comfortable-looking, hotel decor. There was a sofa, two chairs across from it, separated by a table, a desk in the corner and a television. A closed door probably led to the bedroom. Dr. Grant offered me a seat, and I chose one of the chairs.

  “I’m glad you came, Kelsey,” Dr. Grant said, still standing, as if waiting for some movement or action or speech I would give. Whatever he was expecting, I couldn’t provide. I simply nodded in acknowledgment and waited for him to say more.

  “I guess you’re wondering why I asked you here,” he said, as he perched on the sofa.

  “You want to talk about my mother’s death,” I said flatly.

  He shook his head and offered a nervous laugh. “I guess that was pretty obvious, huh?” Sighing, he looked down at the floor, then back up at me. “I just didn’t think I’d ever get this chance, Kelsey. I wanted to talk to you soon after, but your father was adamant that he wanted to be left alone, that he didn’t want anything to do with me.”

  That could not have been a surprise to him. You kill a man’s wife, and then expect him to sit for tea with you? I wondered if I had made a mistake. Wondered if Dr. Grant was just one of those self-absorbed people who only sought to help himself. Someone who wanted to ease his conscious by seeing me, not caring if dredging up old wounds was good or bad for me. Yes, that perfectly summed up Dr. Grant, I decided. A selfish person. I suppose I knew that coming in. I had come for selfish reasons, too.

  He flashed a friendly, nervous smile, then leaned forward. “What do you know about your mother’s death?”

  I was caught off guard by the question. I crinkled my brow as I tried to decipher why he’d ask. Maybe he knew my father hadn’t told me all the particulars and wanted to know where he should start. Palms pressed tightly together in my lap, I met his eyes, then answered. “Just that she had an undiagnosed heart condition that caused her to die.”

  Disappointment flooded his face. Not quite a frown appeared, but the lines of his mouth turned downward and the expectant look he had in his eyes just moments before disappeared. It was as if I’d given the wrong answer completely.

  “That was the public story, Kelsey. The true story of what happened to your mother is something very few people know: me, Dr. Rice, your father.”

  What he was saying was ridiculous. A public story? My father wouldn’t tell me a public story. Why would he make up a public story? And if he made up this story for the public, why would the doctors go along with it? This wasn’t making any sense, and part of me wanted to get up and go, get away from this man who had so wronged me already by taking away my mother. Wanted to leave before he could wrong me again by spinning some lie. But, the other part of me, the part that started leaning in closer to him, to appraise him, to hear him better, wanted to know what the Hell he was talking about.

  “I can see you doubt what I’m saying, Kelsey,” he said, opening his eyes a little wider, trying to appear honest, trying to gain my confidence. “I’ll explain everything.”

  His eyes were calling to me, trying desperately to make some type of connection, but all I could return was a cold stare. He sighed, then began. “I was new to the practice the year your mother was pregnant with your brother,” he said. A brother. I hadn’t known the baby was a boy. I would have had a little brother if they hadn’t died. It was strange news to hear. A wave of sadness and regret washed over me at learning the gender of the brother I would never know. Dr. Grant hadn’t noticed my little emotional upheaval and was continuing on about how he was seeing a number of Dr. Rice’s patients, including my mother.

  “Your mother’s symptoms, the fatigue, the ill-at-ease feeling, the constant malaise were typical in some respects, yet atypical in others,” he said, pausing, as if remembering. “We did all the normal tests, changed her vitamins, boosted her iron, but nothing seemed to help. So, I did a few extra tests and read some old journals, and finally, I figured it out. Your mother had a condition we hadn’t seen in more than a century. They thought it had been eradicated — that people who had survived the pandemics had genetic immunity. So, no one even looked for it anymore. But, I was sure your mother had pre
-eclampsia.”

  Whatever he said, I had never heard of it. It was an odd word. “What is it?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like: the state you’re in before eclampsia sets in. Eclampsia is a pregnancy-related disorder that causes convulsions and seizures that can result in severe brain damage, coma or death. Pre-eclampsia just lets us know we need to treat the mother before she goes into full-blown eclampsia. There’s only one cure for pre-eclampsia: deliver the baby.”

  My mother was barely four months pregnant when she died. “No baby could survive that early.”

  “I know,” Dr. Grant said, matter-of-factly. “I told Dr. Rice my conclusion, and he thought I was an overzealous, ambitious young doctor who wanted to make a name for myself by rediscovering a dead disease. He said I’d have to make strange and far-out diagnoses on my own time, once I took over the practice. I told him I wanted to go to the health board, so they could make a decision, so we could deliver the baby, and save your mother.”

  Dr. Grant scowled indignantly and shook his head at the memory before continuing. “But, Dr. Rice refused. He said it was a ridiculous diagnosis and consulting the board would make him and me look ridiculous. Besides, he said, if it was pre-eclampsia, there was an 85 percent chance she would survive another week without intervention. We admitted her so we could keep an eye on her, and six hours later, she had the fatal seizure.”

  A fatal seizure. Not heart failure. I didn’t understand. “Why? Why would they lie about it?”

  Unfazed, Dr. Grant immediately answered. “Well, for several reasons, Kelsey. In the end, Dr. Rice realized he’d made a grave mistake and didn’t want to end his career on that note. Also, your father wanted to believe it, wanted to believe he’d done all he could, I think.”

  “My father? What does he have to do with this?” I spat. “He didn’t misdiagnose her!”

  His amber eyes went wide — startled, unsure. My accusatory tone caught him off guard. He spoke quietly, as if by tamping down his voice he could tamp down my anger. “I called him,” Dr. Grant said slowly. “He was out of town, in Chicago on business. I wanted him to back me on this, to help Maya. She wanted to go before the board, to get permission to birth the baby, even though doing so meant your brother would die. Your father was very influential. I figured if I could get him on my side, Dr. Rice would go to the board, and we could induce labor, save your mother.”