One Wish Away (11 page)

”It wouldn't have been easy for me to throw you in jail; I have a daughter a little older than you. However, the rules are explicit and written for a reason. What we do here,” now it's his turn to gesture around the room, “cannot get out to the public. You thought the decisions we've made amongst ourselves were tough? Think if the whole world knew.”

My eyes glaze over as I think of the United Nations debating the next wish. Politicians, doctors, businessmen, lawyers, all yelling in different languages, pleading for their wishes to be granted.

The haze leaves my vision and I focus on my father, sitting in the StarCatcher chair, my aunt leaning over him, deep in conversation.

I look at Secretary Morgan, standing there with his arms crossed, eyes fixated on the dome. Clearing my throat I say, “It must be hard to sleep knowing that you're altering the world and that your opinion matters most.”

“You have some nerve.”

My jaw clenches. That did come out harsher than I wanted. I sneak a look at him. Relief washes through me at the smile on his face.

“Lyra.” He exhales loudly. “All we can do is our best. What feels right. Take in the knowledge and make the best decision. That's why I have all of you. I don't hold those meetings to make myself look good. I hold them because I know you are the best. And we can't make these decisions with anyone but the best.”

I know I'm not
really
lumped in with “the best”. At least not yet.

“Okay, we're ready,” Iris says as she stands next to us and turns to face the dome.

I move closer to Iris as the lights in the room dim and the machine makes a low humming sound. The humming rises to a moan and my aunt briskly walks out of the dome just before the rest of the lights turn off and the hemisphere enclosing my dad glows like half a sun in the middle of the solar system.

“Has he got a star already?” I yell.

“No, that's how the system gets ready. Kind of like clearing the slate to make sure there's nothing in the dome that will mix with the energy of the star,” Iris explains as she hands me a pair of safety glasses. “Put these on.”

Even out here, behind the glass dome, protected from the bright rays, I'm scared. The energy of a star is going to be captured in that small space? How could my father possibly survive that? What if something goes wrong? What if a bolt comes loose, or the programming is incorrect?

My father is in there.

I turn to look for reassurance, but as I meet the Secretary's eyes the dome goes dark and we are suspended in nothing.

It feels as though we've been thrust into outer space. But my feet are still planted on the linoleum and I hear both Iris and Secretary Morgan's breathing. I'd like to be able to ask what's going on. Has something gone wrong? But my voice has decided to hide in the black void.

So I listen to my breathing. I listen to my terrified thoughts. I listen to the low hum from the machine.

And I shriek as the brightest, whitest light I have ever seen explodes in the dome.

“He's got it!” Iris yells and grabs for my hand, squeezing it tight.

I squint and shield my eyes. The only time I've ever witnessed something this purely white was when our house was struck by lightning. This is like that, but even more powerful. Brighter.

“How does that not kill him?” I yell. It sounds as though the machine is growing, heating up, collecting more energy than it can possibly handle.

Iris bends down so she can talk into my ear. “It's because he's connected to the machine. It gives him a protective barrier from the energy surrounding him. If he were to remove his hands from the armrests… But he'd never do that.”

I manage to peel my eyes away from my father and focus on her. She's smiling, ear to ear, the light from the dome circles the pupils in her eyes, as if they are ready to burst with excitement.

I shift my gaze to the dome, but I'm not sure how much longer I can watch. The light is too bright, too pure, like looking at the sun.

Then the glow starts to fade, and it's as if the light has turned into millions of pixels, each one slowly disappearing. Like after a firework explodes, and the small particles of fire slowly sprinkle out of the sky.

“The wish is spreading,” Secretary Morgan whispers. There isn't a sound in the room, not even a hum.

We stand immobile and watch as every last pixel of light leaves the space. The final moments are the most peaceful I have ever felt. It's as if I can feel the earth taking in a large breath and exhaling its new reality.

I fixate on the last spec of light clinging to the left side of the dome. No one moves. It's almost as if no one breathes. And soon, darkness envelops us.

“We've cured AIDS,” the deep voice on my right says.

“We've
eliminated
AIDS,” Iris corrects.

Someone flips a switch and the room welcomes a fluorescent light. Exceedingly dull compared to what I've just witnessed.

Aunt Stephanie walks into the dome and helps my father off the chair. He appears fine. I break away from the Secretary's grip once Dad's around the dome.

“Kiddo.” He grunts as I run into his arms full throttle. “You weren't worried about me, were you?”

“Um, yeah, I was.” I bury my head in his shoulder and listen to him laugh. I'm not sure I want to witness any more wishes. They can't be as amazing as the first and I'm pretty sure my nerves have as much energy running through them as that star we captured.

He looks tired. Are there more wrinkles on his face? He's sweating like he's run a marathon.

“I think work is done for the day. Ready to go home?”

I nod and follow him to the exit.

“Great job, Dr. A!” Iris shouts. She spins on her heel and heads for the dome, her heels clicking against the floor.

I turn just in time to see Dad collapse.

“We should take you to the hospital.”

“For the tenth time, Lyra. I'm fine. I tripped over that piece of metal. You saw it, I know you did.”

I did see the tool he said he tripped over. But I don't know. He wouldn't tell me the truth if he was feeling ill. This project is far too—

“Lyra! Watch out!” My father clutches the passenger door as I swerve out of the way of the black spec of a rodent. “I should drive,” he mumbles.

The animal came out of nowhere. I watch it disappear over the side of the road in my rearview mirror. “No. You fainted. Or collapsed. Or whatever the hell happened—”

“Your first time behind the wheel shouldn't be when you're distracted.”

“Well,
you're
not driving. I may not have my full license yet but I do know you should be conscious when you're behind the wheel.”

“We should have had your aunt drive,” Dad says, then goes silent and looks out the window.

She had another meeting this evening, a discussion with colleagues overseas. Apparently it's difficult to reschedule something like that.

I rub a fake itch on my nose with my sleeve as a cover to grab a quick glance at Dad. I want to believe him, but I know my father. Nothing comes between him and his work. Not even his health.

It's not like he was unconscious when I got to his side. He was even half laughing, mumbling about watching where he was walking.

“I'm sorry. I'm just worried, that's all.”

“I know.”

“You really are brilliant, Dad. It's the most incredible thing.” I clear my throat and force my voice to relax, meeting his eye out of the corner of mine. “I guess you take after your daughter.”

He smiles, crooked teeth and all, and I unglue my hand from the steering wheel and grab for his, giving it a little squeeze.

“Both hands on the wheel, young lady.”

I laugh, putting my hands back at ten and two.

I need to get home. Not only because I want to get my father to bed but because I want to scour the internet and look for what's different now. Are health care costs down? Families happier, healthier, more whole? It's what we spent the past three weeks hypothesizing.

Now it's time to see if we were right.

*

Our seatbelts click open and I sprint around the car, protesting to my father he should let me help him.

“Please stop worrying about me. I'm fine. Tired, but fine.” He closes the passenger door and walks to our front porch.

“Okay,” I say to myself as I watch him disappear inside. Apparently we're done talking about this.

I tiptoe to the windows next to our front door and watch as Dad makes his way up the stairs. The light turns on in his bedroom so I assume he's made it. I release a heavy breath into the night air and curl a finger around my hair, trying my best to relieve the tension in my muscles, the worried thoughts in my head. It's not working.

I pull my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and head across our lawn to the tree house. Text or call?

Call.

“What took you so long?” I hear from the other end and a little of the tension vanishes. “Has the world been changed? I don't feel any different.”

“Come over and I'll tell you all about it.”

“Be right there.”

I bring the browser up on my phone and am about to put in a search for AIDS when I notice a car across the street I've never seen before.

Hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I can't miss the goose bumps forming on my arms. We've lived here for as long as I remember. Julie and Nick Turten have lived in the brown house with the tan shutters longer than we have.

But that's not their car.

They could have gotten a new one. However, I'm fairly certain I know them well enough to know they would never get a red Porsche.

A light flicks on in the Turtens' living room. A pint sized human sprints into view and jumps onto the couch. The Turtens don't have kids.

Maybe they're babysitting.

Seeing a child lurking in my neighbors' house seems to have defrosted my limbs. I sprint to my house and race into the kitchen. Luckily whenever I'm bored I bake, so I have a fairly new batch of cookies-out-of-a-box-mix sitting in the fridge. I throw a bunch onto a plate and without them sliding off, sprint to the Turten's driveway.

I'm not sure what I'm going to accomplish here but instead of the “sneaking around in the bushes” form of spying I'm going to try for the “I think you're my new neighbor. Here, have some cookies at nine o'clock at night” method.

Whatever. They're harmless. This is suburban Arizona.

Unless they're government spies or something. Clever to bring a kid along. Make me feel safe.

A dog barks a few houses down and a small squeal leaves my lips.
Get a grip, Lyra
.

One more step and the floodlight over the garage turns on. I throw up my free hand to shield my eyes and am about to abort my mission when a young lady, much younger than Julie Turten, opens the door.

“Lyra? What are you doing over here? Don't you have some ultra-important calculus exam to study for?”

The plate of cookies falls out of my hands; glass and crumbs cover the driveway. My face is stone, unable to erase the dumbfounded expression.

“Lyra? Are you okay?”

The woman, who can't be more than thirty, rushes down to meet me, careful to avoid the mess I made.

“Honey, you're white as a ghost. What's wrong?” Her eyes leave mine briefly as she looks at the destruction. “Were you bringing us cookies?” A grin grows on her face, concern still in her eyes.

This woman knows me. But I have no idea who this woman is.

“I… uh…”

“Sweetie?” There's no smile left, just an extreme amount of concern. This woman knows me so well she cares about me.

“Lyra?” It's a guy's voice. One I would recognize anywhere. My heart beats again as I hear his feet crunch up the driveway. Both the woman and I turn to look.

“Darren!” the woman says and I practically wet myself. “Haven't seen you in awhile.”

“Hi, Mrs. Weber,” Darren greets her in his easygoing way. Then he turns to me. “I called up to the tree house, but you weren't there.” He takes in the mess on the ground. “Are those cookies?” He laughs and pulls the cap off his head, fluffs his hair and puts it back on.

“Yes,” I manage. “I… uh… I was bringing over some welcome cookies for the…” What was her name again? “Webers.”

“Welcome cookies?” Mrs. Weber tilts her head and her eyebrows scrunch together.

“Well, you know. Because you just… came… back–”

“From Hawaii!” she finishes and rests a hand on my shoulder. “Oh dear, that was actually last week but this is so very thoughtful of you.” She rests a hand on her chin, taking in the remnants of dessert. “Whenever you feel like baking for us, please do. The girls love dessert and I'm afraid I don't bake because I'd eat it all and it would go right to my hips.”

“Okay,” I find myself saying as I turn robotically and walk stiffly down the driveway.

I hear Darren and Mrs. Weber exchange a few words and then feel an arm around my shoulder. “You're going to have to explain the logic to me.”

“Oh, I will. Once I figure out what the hell is going on.”

“What do you mean?”

I let him guide me across the street and breakaway from his grasp to climb into the tree house. Once we're both up the ladder and Darren's freaked out eyes are on me, I let loose.

“I have
no
idea who that woman is.”

“Who? Mrs. Weber? She's only lived there for, like, well, at least five years. Ever since you and I started hanging out.”

“What happened to the Turtens?” Maybe they moved away recently and I didn't realize it. But no, I saw them working on their lawn yesterday. I think…

And I
know
the Turtens lived there two years ago. They came across the street to attend my middle school graduation party. I know because they were two of the few people there.