“Then how do you explain that the one thing stolen from our house was my book bag, which contained a file detailing all of this and more?”
Mason looks away and smiles a little, then says, “Maybe you left it at school?”
“I didn’t,” I say flatly.
Mason’s phone rings again. He answers and talks for so long that I think of going upstairs and giving up. But I’ve come this far. When he hangs up, I try again.
“Mason, what did the lisp remind you of?” I ask.
He sighs. “It reminded me of the bus crash,” he says. “The local news interviewed an employee at a gas station a half mile from the bridge. Police were looking for the worn red truck that eyewitnesses said ran the bus into the lake. The gas station worker claimed to have seen the truck ten minutes before the incident. He said the driver stopped in to buy a lottery ticket. Apparently, the driver said, ‘I think it’s my lucky day.’ ”
Mason pauses; I look at him expectantly.
“The guy couldn’t describe the man other than to say that he had a lisp,” Mason says. He jumps when I inhale.
“Are you serious?” I say loudly.
“Daisy, calm down.”
“It’s not a coincidence,” I say. “What if God caused the bus crash, too?”
“Stop,” he says, startling me. “If that’s true, then the work I’ve done for eleven years is all for nothing. God would never—could never—purposely kill twenty-one people. Twenty children. It didn’t happen.”
“Fine,” I say. “But will you at least do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Ask David to look for the file on Case Twenty-two,” I say. “If it exists, he’ll find it. And if he finds it…”
I let the words hang in the air.
“Promise you’ll let it go if David doesn’t find anything,” he says.
“Only if you promise to do something about it if he does.”
Mason calls David and I make my way upstairs. Once there, feeling edgy, I pull out Audrey’s letter. Something about the smooth handwriting calms me: I’ve started reading it every time I feel upset.
Daisy—
Promise you’ll do two things for me.
The first is easy: Take my clothes. ALL OF THEM. Even if you throw them away, get them out of our house (but I have pretty good taste—haha!—so you should just keep them).
You’ve seen those people who can’t let go. They sob over old T-shirts that aren’t worth anything. My mom is a pack rat; she’ll obsess. My ugliest pajamas will break her heart. Take them, Daisy. Do it for me (and for your wardrobe D).
The second thing: Take care of my brother.
He tries to be this strong, tough guy, because I think that’s what he believes is expected of him. But he and I are so close…. This is going to wreck his world. I know he cares about you; I want you to be there for him.
There are so many other things to say, but I have to go to the hospital now. I hope you’ll never read this, but just in case, I want you to know that you are unique and beautiful and funny and I’m glad to have called you my friend. My best friend.
Love,
Audrey
Beyond the clothes thing, I can’t help but think that I’m not doing too well with Audrey’s other request. I text Matt and when, after thirty minutes, nothing comes through, I wonder if I’ve waited too long to reach out to him. I wonder whether he’s already gone.
Not six hours later, Mason knocks at my bedroom door and tells me that he’s flying to Washington, D.C., tomorrow. Cassie will stay here with me while Mason goes to the top about God’s recent exploits.
When I turn out the light, I picture Matt lying next to me, and the idea of him makes me a little less restless. Still, with bus crashes and faceless men in my mind, it takes me forever to fall asleep, which is why I sleep until eleven o’clock in the morning.
By the time I wake up, the house is quiet.
Everyone’s gone.
thirty-nine
As I crunch through a bowl of old-people cereal, I grow increasingly anxious about Mason’s trip to Washington. I drum my fingers on the table as I consider the possible outcomes.
Worst case, God will be found guilty of heinous crimes, no one will want to step in to run a dysfunctional program already in progress, and the world as I know it will crumble. The God Project will die; Revive will be the basis for a study with new, willing participants. Disgruntled bus kids will speak out; newspapers will accuse the government of hiding a superdrug; the government will lie about the drug’s existence. Revive will become nothing but a myth; no one will have access.
Not even me.
And with no program to keep us together, what will become of me and Megan? Or of me and Mason, for that matter? Where will I live?
Shaking off thoughts of homelessness, I consider the more positive scenario.
Best case, God’s actions will be easily explained and the program will continue as it has been. The rest of the bus kids and I will remain in the God Project for another nineteen years, after which point—assuming there have been no major issues—the FDA will approve Revive and make it available on a very small, controlled scale, probably first to the military. Carefully and quietly, it will trickle out to the public, and new lives will be saved.
Except I can’t shake the feeling that the best case isn’t that great. The past few months have been eye-opening for me; knowing what I do now about the program, will it ever really be the same? When I look through the files of those who didn’t respond to Revive, will I dwell on the fact that they weren’t given other lifesaving measures? When I visit Gavin in New York, will I be able to love his parents as much knowing that they took him from his birth mother? When I think of Audrey, will I always feel that I kept something monumental from her?
When I look into Matt’s eyes, will I ever feel like he’s safe?
With no right answer to comfort me, I shiver in my sleep shirt despite it being hot here in Hell, Texas. I get up, rinse my bowl in the sink, and decide to try not to think about Mason’s trip. He’s not even on the plane yet; his meeting’s not until tomorrow. There’s plenty of time to worry about him later.
For now, I choose to focus on Matt.
I check to confirm that he hasn’t responded to my email or text. Then, I dial.
“Hi,” he says, as if he was expecting me.
“Uh, hi,” I say, surprised. I thought my call would go to voice mail; I glance at the clock and realize it’s the beginning of lunch period at school.
We’re both quiet for a minute. I wonder whether he’s thinking of the last time we saw each other, because that’s what I’m thinking about.
“Where are you?” I ask. It’s too quiet in the background.
“In my kitchen,” he says. “Where are you? You haven’t been in school.”
“Texas,” I say.
“What? Why?”
“Long story,” I say. “Something’s going on with the program. I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?”
“Fine with me.”
Pause.
“Matt, I wanted…” I stop talking because I’m not sure what I wanted. Instead, I ask, “Did you get my email?”