Living Proof Page 7

  “It’s so crowded in here,” he said lamely, soon regretting it.

  “Yeah, I have to get going anyway.” She started walking toward the exit, and he followed her outside. The unusual fall heat was like a furnace blast after the air-conditioned bookstore, and at once, he recognized another opportunity.

  “Man, I should have ridden my bike here,” he remarked. “It would have been so much faster to get home in this heat.”

  “You bike? I do, too, though I should go more often.”

  “I’ve been trying to go more also,” he lied. “I need the exercise, since I just sit at my desk all day.” He paused, and then, as if it had just occurred to him: “Hey, would you like to go together sometime? Maybe in Central Park?” His mouth was dry; he glanced down at his sneakers, waiting for her inevitable response—if only he could stay in this exact moment, before the cards toppled, he could tell Dopp he’d lived up to the plan.

  “Sure,” she said. “I sometimes go for a ride after I get off work, when the air is cooling.”

  “Great.” He grinned.

  “When do you want to go?”

  His mind made a quick calculation: Let a few days pass so as not to seem pushy, but don’t waste time. “How’s Friday at seven?”

  “Okay. Oh, wait.” She winced. “I have something Friday.”

  “What about the weekend?” he asked, praying he didn’t sound desperate.

  “Hmm.” She paused. “I think that might work. How’s Saturday morning, nine A.M.? It shouldn’t be too hot then.”

  Oh no, he thought, an early riser. “That’s perfect.”

  He withdrew his silver cell phone from his pocket, a finger-sized slat of plastic with a black sensor on one side. She took it out of his hand and waved her own similar phone in front of his.

  “There you go,” she said, handing it back. “Call me Friday to confirm.”

  “Will do,” he said, slightly taken aback at her directness.

  “Nice meeting you.” She waved and turned to walk south on Broadway.

  “See you in a few days,” he called.

  Then he turned around to hide his disproportional elation in case she looked back. The seven blocks to his apartment passed in a blur of buildings and pedestrians and cabs, a backdrop to the feeling of accomplishment that radiated inside him. He wished he could report to Dopp immediately, but also relished the anticipation of delivering the news tomorrow morning. The case had sparked an enthusiasm he hadn’t felt since he was a reporter: that of a face-to-face challenge. Maybe God really had been watching him tonight; perhaps this was even His plan all along: to allow Trent to use his reporting and information-gathering skills for a more honorable purpose.

  But one thing is sure, he thought with a wry smile. I need a bike.

  * * *

  Hunched over metal handlebars and seated on a hard wedge, Trent pedaled on his new street bike—$320 that Dopp had gladly told him to expense to the department. The shiny metal spokes in his wheels glinted in the sunlight as he rode. He was one block away from the designated meeting spot of Central Park West at Seventy-second Street, and two minutes away from being late.

  Through his sleep-crusted eyes, he was surprised to discover that the world had a tranquillity this morning that he missed when he rushed to work during the week or to church on Sundays. Drops of dew on the grass glittered like strewn gems. The absence of traffic lent the air a pristine sweetness, and the only remnants of the bustling streets he usually navigated were lone joggers or other bikers. Encouraged by the lack of cars, he swerved into the middle of the road and peddled hard over the crunch of gravel, leaning forward to compensate for the pavement’s incline.

  Tightening his grip on the handlebars with his right hand, he removed his left—the bars wavered slightly—and glanced at his new watch. It looked foreign on his wrist, unlike his other watch, a black titanium ode to sleekness. This one had a white circular face with roman numerals and a brown leather band that said old-fashioned elegance. The stiff band was secure around his wrist. Good. Dopp had promised him it looked classy, though Trent thought it just looked old. But then again, that was the point.

  When he looked up, he saw Arianna ahead, standing next to an electric blue bike in gym shorts and a tight zip-up jacket, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Her hair was again pulled back in a long ponytail. They exchanged waves and he jumped off his bike, wheeling it toward her. As he neared, he could not help noticing the curve of her breasts under the jacket.

  “Hey,” he said, stopping in front of her. “Hope I’m not late.”

  “Is it too early for you?” She smiled, but he couldn’t see whether her eyes were friendly or mocking behind her black sunglasses.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Then let’s get going,” she said. “What path do you usually take?”

  He blinked. “The main one.”

  “The big loop, you mean? I know a better one, less crowded. Follow me.”

  He exhaled as she swung her leg over her bike and pushed off with the other foot. He did the same, wobbling behind her. A job that comes with a workout, he thought. A surprise perk.

  Twenty-five minutes later, he was just beginning to break a sweat, relishing the cool wind on his perspiring forehead and the comfortable exertion of his legs. But when he looked over at Arianna, she was standing on the pedals, pushing left foot, right foot, coaxing her body to keep up with him. The asphalt path she had taken him on was one for only the fittest riders; there was no respite from the upward slope, and although it was minor, Arianna looked like she was climbing a mountainside.

  “You okay?” he called over his shoulder.

  “Fine,” she gasped, motioning for him to keep going.

  Trent reduced his edge, pedaling more slowly to match her pace. They barely exchanged words—her lungs were busy enough. Trent felt strangely satisfied; the physical challenge had morphed into a competition in his mind, erasing any worry that she could outpace him. But just then, he glanced up to see her black hair flying in the wind, her tanned legs pumping the pedals as she stood, gliding past him. I will take you down, he thought. A surge of might invigorated his muscles, and he pedaled faster, harder, until he quickly gained a few yards on her.

  “Hey,” she panted from behind. “I didn’t know we were racing!”

  He slowed down to let her catch up. Enough, he thought. There was work to be done, the tough job of getting to know each other. “Water break?” he suggested.

  “Please.”

  They both dropped their feet to the ground, skidded to a stop and dismounted. His shoulders found relief in his straightened posture, but his legs felt hot and rubbery. Arianna turned off the asphalt to a dirt path lined with trees, and he followed her single-file until it opened to a grassy patch with a few oversized rocks. They withdrew water bottles from the holders on their bikes and stood drinking; she stopped after every few sips to catch her breath.

  “I told you I needed to do this more often,” she said, wiping her lips. “How did you get so fit?”

  “Well, thanks,” he said modestly. “I’m afraid it’s easier for men, or so I’m told.”

  “It’s true. Nature two, women zero.”

  “Two?”

  “When you’ve seen as many labors as I have…” She trailed off, shaking her head with a smile.

  “Right. Another reason God must be male.”

  “Or so I’m told.”

  He wasn’t sure what she meant, so he said nothing as she unzipped her jacket and threw it to the grass on top of her bike. Then with a gesture, she led him to the rocks. He lagged behind her, carefully watching her bouncing ponytail. With the slightest nudge from his right pointer finger, he slid the metal knob on his watch down a millimeter until it clicked into place. Then he joined her on the smooth boulder, sitting on her right and leaning back on his hands as she was. Before he could direct the conversation, she spoke.

  “So how’s your novel coming?”

  He gritted hi
s teeth.

  “Look, I’m terrible at small talk,” she said. He noticed she did not seem apologetic.

  “Me, too,” he said. “My novel’s going okay. Sometimes I get stuck.”

  She nodded sympathetically. “The creative process is painful. I paint, and it’s always a choice between colors and strokes. Sometimes I have no clue how to choose.”

  “It’s like that, but with words,” he said, and went on before she could reply. “So if you’re the creative type, what got you into medicine? The money?” Shouldn’t have led the question, he thought. It was the first rule of reporting.

  She shook her head with a glance that told him his assumption was clichéd. “Once you get to know me, you’ll see that that’s the last reason I would pick a lifetime endeavor.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, for one thing, I was lucky enough that money wasn’t a factor. My parents were both successful bio professors who told me that the only criterion for my career was to do something I loved. So I figured I would end up doing research like them, since their work intrigued me so much.”

  Trent’s heart knocked harder, set off like a giant church bell by that key word. “But you didn’t end up a researcher.” The word slurred off his tongue, as if uttering it might tip his hand.

  “No. I love biology and I loved studying how the body works on the molecular level, but the appeal of practicing medicine won out. Research can be so tedious and with no guarantees of any success. With medicine—”

  “But research can be exciting, right?” Trent interrupted. The bell clanged frantically in his chest. “If you discover something big?”

  “Sure, if,” she said.

  “Did your parents?”

  “My dad did once.…” She trailed off, looking wistful, and Trent remembered that he had read her father’s obituary in The Times. As his sensitivity battled curiosity, he decided not to prod her. Instead, following a reporting technique, he let the silence prolong into awkwardness so she might feel obligated to elaborate. She did not. He waited.

  “Anyway, as I was saying,” she said, “with medicine, I’m constantly doing hands-on problem solving and seeing results. It’s very satisfying, although I respect scientists to no end, and if I had been born with more patience, who knows.”

  Trent could see she was about to ask him a question, so he cut her off.

  “So why reproductive medicine, then? Doing risky IVF treatments and all that?” His heart beat faster, a warning that he was veering into a dangerous zone. Most men probably had no idea about in vitro fertilization, he realized; why would he? “I don’t know much about it,” he added, “but I bet it feels great to help people have kids who can’t.”

  She nodded. “It’s pretty amazing what we can do today—even beyond IVF, we can finally do a full genetic screening of any embryo before we implant it, basically guaranteeing a healthy baby.”

  “Really? Wow.” Trent seemed surprised but knew she was talking about a technology called PGD—preimplantation genetic diagnosis. And he knew more than just the name; he remembered the controversy precipitated by the department shortly after he started working there, when PGD had made the news: In May of 2025, scientists figured out how to use the technique to screen all twenty-three pairs of chromosomes in a five-day-old embryo, leaving no diseased strand undetected. While most commentators hailed the progress as a boon to future generations, Dopp and the others had warned the media about eugenics, doctors playing God, and discrimination against genetically inferior EUEs.

  “Yes,” she said. “And there’s no happier place to be, most days, than in the delivery room. I wouldn’t trade my job for anyone’s.”

  She beamed at him. He had seldom seen people discuss their work with that expression—it was the kind of unreserved flow of happiness he associated only with sex, and even then, he often felt guilty for feeling it. Or felt he should, anyway.

  She was looking at him thoughtfully. “What do you love about your work, Trent?”

  He paused, caught off guard. The possibility of drawing his answer from his current job didn’t cross his mind. But before he could reply, her cell phone trilled in the front pocket of her backpack, at the foot of the rock.

  She hoisted it up and unzipped the pouch. “Excuse me,” she said, looking at the caller ID, “I have to take this. Hello? Hey … From the injection last night?… How swollen?… Well, don’t panic, I’ll swing by now and check it out.… Bye.”

  When she closed the phone, Trent was studying his watch. The second hand ticked around the blank white face, a poker face if he ever saw one.

  “Sorry,” she said, “but I should get going. My cousin’s having surgery in a few days, and she’s having some trouble with her medication.”

  “What kind of surgery?”

  She looked at him a little sharply.

  “Sorry,” he blurted. “I’m just really interested in medicine and science. I don’t know much about it.”

  She brightened. “No, it’s okay, I didn’t realize you were interested in it.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’d love to talk more about it sometime.” Like what kind of research interests you most.

  She laughed and he grew embarrassed.

  “What?” he said, aiming for a playful tone. “Something wrong with that?”

  “I just never hear anyone say that. I’m usually the nerdiest one in the room.”

  “Well, maybe not anymore,” he said, recovering with a grin. “I would actually really benefit from some biological knowledge for this section I’m writing soon. But it’s so easy to get lost in all those textbooks.”

  She stepped off the rock, putting a hand on her hip in mock frustration. “Well, why didn’t you say something earlier? I could talk about this stuff for days. We could meet up again for another bike ride and then chat some more if you’d like.”

  “Great. That would be perfect,” he said, rising and walking with her across the grass. “What’s your schedule like?”

  “Well, I never go into the clinic on nights or weekends. If anything, I’ll get called into the hospital for a delivery, but usually I work normal business hours. I also have a prior commitment on Sundays and some weeknights. Let’s see.”

  It was like dangling aces in front of an underage gambler: He had to restrain himself from asking what kept her so busy. Back off, he reminded himself. You’re not a reporter anymore. And it’s only the first meeting.

  “I think next Tuesday might work, depending on how my schedule works out. Let’s talk in a few days. You have my number.” She stopped and turned to him, crossing her arms, but her tone was light. “By the way, I’m happy to chat and bike, but I can’t date you, if that’s what you’re here for.”

  He smiled at her bluntness, unsure how to react. She really did like being direct. Maybe it was a social flaw, but it could also be a huge plus, if he maneuvered correctly.

  “Hey, I’m fine with just hanging out, working out, whatever. I recently got out of a relationship, so I’m not looking for that right now. Just good company.” And your trust.

  “Fine. As long as we’re on the same page.”

  What’s your reason? he wondered. But he said nothing and she offered no explanation.

  No matter, he thought. Eventually, you’ll tell me everything I want to know, and you’ll think it was your own idea to do it. May God help us both.

  SIX

  Thank God it’s raining, Trent thought as he waited on a bench near the fountain in Washington Square Park: his umbrella was an excellent facial shield. The sky was a sopping gray sheet overhead. College kids scurried past, guarding books under their arms. Nobody seemed to find it odd—amidst the twenty-four-hour chess players in one corner of the park and ever-present drug dealers in another—that Trent was sitting outside in a mild storm, apparently doing nothing. But he was watching a specific brown door on the south edge of the park. He was far enough away to remain unobserved by those who passed through the door, but close enough to distinguish th
eir faces. It was 5:15 P.M. on Monday, the twelfth of December. Where was Arianna?

  Just over a month had passed since their initial bike ride, with regular rides once a week, and lately, every few days—opportunities shrouded in the guise of workouts. He wondered why she took him on such difficult roads when it seemed she struggled to keep up, but when he suggested as much, she shook her head defiantly and pedaled harder. Meanwhile, her clinic had passed the December 1 inspection, to no one’s surprise. The embryo count remained inexplicably stratospheric, and Dopp’s encouragements to patience were fading. Trent inferred that he would lose his chance at the case if he didn’t make significant headway soon. He also knew they had limited time to continue regular bike rides, as the weather often threatened rain that would too soon become snow.

  But the task of building trust was arduous. He lugged his patience around like a stone block, slowly stacking the base. As he and Arianna cooled off after their rides, they shared basic aspects of their pasts. It was simpler to keep his as truthful as possible.

  He told her about growing up an only child—a rarity they had in common—on Long Island, with his still-married parents and his dog, a black Lab. Skateboarding after school, eating home-cooked dinners, camping with his family in Maine. His was a childhood that had not known adversity. In his most rebellious stage in high school, he had tried smoking marijuana. It lasted a month; he’d quit after his mother found the plastic bag in his sock drawer, a gram of ziplocked sin. Instead of reacting angrily, which would have been easy for him to combat with defensiveness, she told him that she was disappointed in him.

  Two years later, he had moved into the dorms at Hofstra University, fifteen minutes away. After graduating with a degree in journalism, he moved to a studio apartment near his childhood home, and began writing for their local newspaper, the Long Island Post. Eventually he made a name for himself and moved on to the biggest Island paper, writing high-profile stories. But it wasn’t satisfying enough. So at age thirty-three, he moved to his current apartment in the city at Seventy-third and Columbus and—here, he fudged—began writing creatively and freelancing on the side. For three years, though, the freelancing had taken up more time than he expected and sidetracked him from his creative pursuits. Now, finally, he was focusing on his novel. His savings, he said, would last several years—long enough to finish and publish the book, if all went as planned. If not, he told her he could always fall back on journalism. In his crafty mind, his improvised life plan seemed well thought out, and she did not appear to disagree. The past he painted for her was like a Monet: sweeping brushstrokes that provided enough information to understand the whole, but omitted key specifics, like the devoutness of his upbringing. It was the major detail he left out, so as not to alienate the daughter of two scientists.