Michael Crichton – Prey

I always believed it would be the same with these manufactured molecules-they’d have to be debugged again and again before they worked right. And if Xymos wanted “flocks” of molecules working together, they’d also have to debug the way the molecules communicated with each other, however limited that communication was. Because once the molecules communicated, you had a primitive network. To organize it, you’d probably program a distributed net. Of the kind I had been developing at MediaTronics. So I could perfectly well imagine them doing programming along with the manufacturing. But I couldn’t see Julia hanging around while they did it. The fab facility was far from the Xymos headquarters. It was literally in the middle of nowhere-out in the desert near Tonopah, Nevada. And Julia didn’t like to be in the middle of nowhere. I was sitting in the pediatrician’s waiting room because the baby was due for her next round of immunizations. There were four mothers in the room, bouncing sick kids on their laps while the older children played on the floor. The mothers all talked to each other and studiously ignored me.

I was getting used to this. A guy at home, a guy in a setting like the pediatrician’s office, was an unusual thing. But it also meant that something was wrong. There was probably something wrong with the guy, he couldn’t get a job, maybe he was fired for alcoholism or drugs, maybe he was a bum. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t normal for a man to be in the pediatrician’s office in the middle of the day. So the other mothers pretended I wasn’t there. Except they shot me the occasional worried glance, as if I might be sneaking up on them to rape them while their backs were turned. Even the nurse, Gloria, seemed suspicious. She glanced at the baby in my arms-who wasn’t crying, and was hardly sniffling. “What seems to be the problem?”

I said we were here for immunizations.

“She’s been here before?”

Yes, she had been coming to the doctor since she was born.

“Are you related?”

Yes, I was the father.

Eventually we were ushered in. The doctor shook hands with me, was very friendly, never asked why I was there instead of my wife or the housekeeper. He gave two injections. Amanda howled. I bounced her on my shoulder, comforted her.

“She may have a little swelling, a little local redness. Call me if it’s not gone in forty-eight hours.” Then I was back in the waiting room, trying to get out my credit card to pay the bill while the baby cried. And that was when Julia called.

“Hi. What’re you doing?” She must have heard the baby screaming.

“Paying the pediatrician.”

“Bad time?”

“Kind of…”

“Okay, listen, I just wanted to say I have an early night-finally!-so I’ll be home for dinner. What do you say I pick up on my way home?”

“That’d be great,” I said.

Eric’s soccer practice ran late. It was getting dark on the field. The coach always ran practice late. I paced the sidelines, trying to decide whether to complain. It was so hard to know when you were coddling your kid, and when you were legitimately protecting them. Nicole called on her cell to say that her play rehearsal was over, and why hadn’t I picked her up? Where was I? I said I was still with Eric and asked if she could catch a ride with anybody.

“Dad…” she said, exasperated. You’d think I had asked her to crawl home.

“Hey, I’m stuck.”

Very sarcastic: “Whatever.”

“Watch that tone, young lady.”

But a few minutes later, soccer was abruptly canceled. A big green maintenance truck pulled onto the field, and two men came out wearing masks and big rubber gloves, with spray cans on their backs. They were going to spray weed killer or something, and everybody had to stay off the field overnight.

I called Nicole back and said we would pick her up.

“When?”

“We’re on our way now.”

“From the little creep’s practice?”

“Come on, Nic.”

“Why does he always come first?”

“He doesn’t always come first.”

“Yes he does. He’s a little creep.”

“Nicole…”

“Sor-ry.”

“See you in a few minutes.” I clicked off. Kids are more advanced these days. The teenage years now start at eleven.

By five-thirty the kids were home, raiding the fridge. Nicole was eating a big chunk of string cheese. I told her to stop; it would ruin her dinner. Then I went back to setting the table. “When is dinner?”

“Soon. Mom’s bringing it home.”

“Uh-huh.” She disappeared for a few minutes, and then she came back. “She says she’s sorry she didn’t call, but she’s going to be late.”

“What?” I was pouring water into the glasses on the table.

“She’s sorry she didn’t call but she’s going to be late. I just talked to her.”

“Jesus.” It was irritating. I tried never to show my irritation around the kids, but sometimes it slipped out. I sighed. “Okay.”

“I’m really hungry now, Dad.”

“Get your brother and get into the car,” I said. “We’re going to the drive-in.” Later that night, as I was carrying the baby to bed, my elbow brushed against a photograph on the living-room bookshelf. It clattered to the floor; I stooped to pick it up. It was a picture of Julia and Eric in Sun Valley when he was four. They were both in snowsuits; Julia was helping him learn to ski, and smiling radiantly. Next to it was a photo of Julia and me on our eleventh wedding anniversary in Kona; I was in a loud Hawaiian shirt and she had colorful leis around her neck, and we were kissing at sunset. That was a great trip; in fact, we were pretty sure Amanda was conceived there. I remember Julia came home from work one day and said, “Honey, remember how you said mai-tais were dangerous?” I said, “Yes…” And she said, “Well, let me put it this way. It’s a girl,” and I was so startled the soda I was drinking went up my nose, and we both started to laugh.

Then a picture of Julia making cupcakes with Nicole, who was so young she sat on the kitchen counter and her legs didn’t reach the edge. She couldn’t have been more than a year and a half old. Nicole was frowning with concentration as she wielded a huge spoon of dough, making a fine mess while Julia tried not to laugh.

And a photo of us hiking in Colorado, Julia holding the hand of six-year-old Nicole while I carried Eric on my shoulders, my shirt collar dark with sweat-or worse, if I remembered that day right. Eric must have been about two; he was still in diapers. I remember he thought it was fun to cover my eyes while I carried him on the trail.

The hiking photo had slipped inside its frame so it stood at an angle. I tapped the frame to try and straighten it, but it didn’t move. I noticed that several of the other pictures were faded, or the emulsion was sticking to the glass. No one had bothered to take care of these pictures. The baby snuffled in my arms, rubbing her eyes with her fists. It was time for bed. I put the pictures back on the shelf. They were old images from another, happier time. From another life. They seemed to have nothing to do with me, anymore. Everything was different now. The world was different now.

I left the table set for dinner that night, a silent rebuke. Julia saw it when she got home around ten. “I’m sorry, hon.”

“I know you were busy,” I said.

“I was. Please forgive me?”

“I do,” I said.

“You’re the best.” She blew me a kiss, from across the room. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said. And she headed off down the hallway. I watched her go. On the way down the hall, she looked into the baby’s room, and then darted in. A moment later, I heard her cooing and the baby gurgling. I got out of my chair, and walked down the hall after her.

In the darkened nursery, she was holding the baby up, nuzzling her nose.

I said, “Julia… you woke her up.”

“No I didn’t, she was awake. Weren’t you, little honey-bunny? You were awake, weren’t you, Poopsie-doopsie?”

The baby rubbed her eyes with tiny fists, and yawned. She certainly appeared to have been awakened.

Julia turned to me in the darkness. “I didn’t. Really. I didn’t wake her up. Why are you looking at me that way?”

“What way?”

“You know what way. That accusing way.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything.”

The baby started to whimper and then to cry. Julia touched her diaper. “I think she’s wet,” she said, and handed her to me as she walked out of the room. “You do it, Mr. Perfect.”

Now there was tension between us. After I changed the baby and put her back to bed, I heard Julia come out of the shower, banging a door. Whenever Julia started banging doors, it was a sign for me to come and mollify her. But I didn’t feel like it tonight. I was annoyed she’d awakened the baby, and I was annoyed by her unreliability, saying she’d be home early and never calling to say she wouldn’t. I was scared that she had become so unreliable because she was distracted by a new love. Or she just didn’t care about her family anymore. I didn’t know what to do about all this, but I didn’t feel like smoothing the tension between us. I just let her bang the doors. She slammed her sliding closet-door so hard the wood cracked. She swore. That was another sign I was supposed to come running. I went back to the living room, and sat down. I picked up the book I was reading, and stared at the page. I tried to concentrate but of course I couldn’t. I was angry and I listened to her bang around in the bedroom. If she kept it up, she’d wake Eric and then I would have to deal with her. I hoped it wouldn’t go that far.

Eventually the noise stopped. She had probably gotten into bed. If so, she would soon be asleep. Julia could go to sleep when we were fighting. I never could; I stayed up, pacing and angry, trying to settle myself down.

When I finally came to bed, Julia was fast asleep. I slipped between the covers, and rolled over on my side, away from her.

It was one o’clock in the morning when the baby began to scream. I groped for the light, knocked over the alarm clock, which turned the clock radio on, blaring rock and roll. I swore, fumbled in the dark, finally got the bedside light on, turned the radio off. The baby was still screaming.

“What’s the matter with her?” Julia said sleepily.

“I don’t know.” I got out of bed, shaking my head, trying to wake up. I went into the nursery and flicked on the light. The room seemed very bright, the clown wallpaper very yellow and burning. Out of nowhere, I thought: why doesn’t she want yellow placemats when she painted the whole nursery yellow?

The baby was standing up in her crib, holding on to the rails and howling, her mouth wide open, her breath coming in jagged gasps. Tears were running down her cheeks. I held my arms out to her and she reached for me, and I comforted her. I thought it must be a nightmare. I comforted her, rocked her gently.

She continued to scream, unrelenting. Maybe something was hurting her, maybe something in her diaper. I checked her body. That was when I saw an angry red rash on her belly, extending in welts around to her back, and up toward her neck.

Julia came in. “Can’t you stop it?” she said.

I said, “There’s something wrong,” and I showed her the rash.

“Has she got a fever?”

I touched Amanda’s head. She was sweaty and hot, but that could be from the crying. The rest of her body felt cool. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

I could see the rash on her thighs now. Was it on her thighs a moment before? I almost thought I was seeing it spread before my eyes. If it was possible, the baby screamed even louder. “Jesus,” Julia said. “I’ll call the doctor.”

“Yeah, do.” By now I had the baby on her back-she screamed more-and I was looking carefully at her entire body. The rash was spreading, there was no doubt about it. And she seemed to be in terrible pain, screaming bloody murder.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m sorry…” I said.

Definitely spreading.

Julia came back and said she left word for the doctor. I said, “I’m not going to wait. I’m taking her to the emergency room.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?” she said.

I didn’t answer her, I just went into the bedroom to put on my clothes.

Julia said, “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, stay with the kids,” I said.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she said. She wandered back to the bedroom. I reached for my car keys.

The baby continued to scream.

“I realize it’s uncomfortable,” the intern was saying. “But I don’t think it’s safe to sedate her.” We were in a curtained cubicle in the emergency room. The intern was bent over my screaming daughter, looking in her ears with his instrument. By now Amanda’s entire body was bright, angry red. She looked as if she had been parboiled.

I felt scared. I’d never heard of anything like this before, a baby turning bright red and screaming constantly. I didn’t trust this intern, who seemed far too young to be competent. He couldn’t be experienced; he didn’t even look as if he shaved yet. I was jittery, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I was beginning to feel slightly crazy, because my daughter had never stopped screaming once in the last hour. It was wearing me down. The intern ignored it. I didn’t know how he could.

“She has no fever,” he said, making notes in a chart, “but in a child this age that doesn’t mean anything. Under a year, they may not run fevers at all, even with severe infections.”

“Is that what this is?” I said. “An infection?”

“I don’t know. I’m presuming a virus because of that rash. But we should have the preliminary blood work back in-ah, good.” A passing nurse handed him a slip of paper. “Uhh… hmmm…” He paused. “Well…”

“Well what?” I said, shifting my weight anxiously.

He was shaking his head as he stared at the paper. He didn’t answer.

“Well what?”

“It’s not an infection,” he said. “White cells counts all normal, protein fractions normal. She’s got no immune mobilization at all.”

“What does that mean?”

He was very calm, standing there, frowning and thinking. I wondered if perhaps he was just dumb. The best people weren’t going into medicine anymore, not with the HMOs running everything. This kid might be one of the new breed of dumb doctor. “We have to widen the diagnostic net,” he said. “I’m going to order a surgical consult, a neurological consult, we have a dermo coming, we have infectious coming. That’ll mean a lot of people to talk to you about your daughter, asking the same questions over again, but-”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t mind. Just… what do you think is wrong with her?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Forman. If it’s not infectious, we look for other reasons for this skin response. She hasn’t traveled out of the country?”

“No.” I shook my head.

“No recent exposures to heavy metals or toxins?”

“Like what?”

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