Invisible Page 27

  I couldn’t tell from their expressions whether or not they’d found anything. “Thanks for meeting me, Dr. Neuberger.”

  “Bill, please.” He shook my hand, then indicated the shorter fellow beside him. “This is Dennis Hoffmeyer from Moorhead University. I called him after we spoke yesterday afternoon. This sort of thing is his field of expertise.”

  “Hey.” Dennis slid into the booth after Bill, and the waitress came over.

  “You didn’t tell me you were waiting for someone.” Leslie beamed at the two men. “Can I get you fellows anything? We’ve got the best pie in Black Bear, make it every day, seven, eight different kinds.”

  “Sure,” Bill said. “Coffee, and whatever pie looks good.”

  “Make that two,” Dennis said.

  “All righty.” She turned over two cups and filled them. “You change your mind about that chocolate silk, honey?”

  “I’m good,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “No problemo.”

  She moved off and I leaned forward. “Did you find anything?”

  “It’s still too early to say for sure. We did pick up some elevated readings throughout the plant. We took soil and water samples, too.”

  I let out my breath. “I forgot to mention that the wheat hasn’t been growing all around town.”

  Dennis looked interested. “We didn’t notice that on our way into town.”

  “I saw it from the air. It’s gradual, something you wouldn’t spot from the ground.”

  He turned to Bill. “We should check that on our way out of town.”

  Bill nodded. “Hard to imagine, though.”

  “But something could be seeping into the ground and preventing reproduction from occurring.”

  “You read anything about that in the literature?”

  “Something’s ringing a bell. I’ll go back and look.”

  They were fired up about this. That was good.

  Leslie returned carrying two plates of pie, lemon meringue jiggling with meringue. “The lemon’s out of this world.” She topped off my cup and winked at me. “I brought an extra fork in case you wanted to share. Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

  “Will do,” Dennis said.

  I waited until she’d walked over to greet two more customers. “Did you get that link I emailed you?”

  Dennis nodded. “I read it on the way over. It’s a preliminary finding. Its primary function is to suggest where research should be focused. I’ve emailed the research team to see if they’ve done any work in that area. We’ll see what they say. There may be data they haven’t released yet.”

  “Okay.”

  “Dennis is going to take the samples we collected back to his lab to conduct the chemical analysis,” Bill told me. “The EPA’s not funded to monitor nanotechnology.”

  “I can’t believe I had an opportunity like this right in my own backyard,” Dennis said. “Everyone’s trying to get research going in this field. Sunscreen manufacturers are notoriously secretive.”

  I wasn’t interested in the research potential. “How long will it take before you know something?”

  “I’ve got a few grad students who can help. Say, a couple of days.”

  Bill turned to Dennis. “I’ll be in your neck of the woods day after tomorrow. Why don’t I drop in, see what you’ve got?”

  Dennis forked off a bite of pie. “I should be in all afternoon.”

  Great. They were rushing the analysis, and following up quickly. I’d know something soon. Maybe within days. “My niece was wearing a mask when she spilled powder all over herself, just one of those disposable paper ones. Do you think she breathed in any of it?”

  “It’s possible,” Bill answered. “Those masks don’t filter out particles anywhere near that small. If the powder puffed up into her face, she might have taken some in.”

  “I’ll have her tested.” It didn’t matter what Frank said. Peyton would understand. I’d make her see how important it was.

  “Better hold off right now. We have to figure out what we’re dealing with, first. No sense in alarming her.”

  “But if she’s sick . . .”

  “I understand. But there’s no reason to believe a single exposure would have any ill health effect.”

  “Doubtful, really,” Dennis told him. “My guess is it would be prolonged exposure.”

  “If there’s a causal link,” Bill said.

  “Right.” Dennis turned to me. “Like we say, it’s too early to know what we’re dealing with.”

  “But we know it’s nano zinc,” I insisted. “That’s what Gerkey’s uses in their sunscreen.”

  “Let’s wait and see what our analysis reveals.” Bill pushed his plate away. “Speaking of which, we’d better hit the road.”

  “You’ll let me know what you find out?”

  “You bet.” Dennis fished a business card from his shirt pocket. Reaching across the table, he handed it to me. “Nice to meet you.”

  Bill set some money on the table. “Good call, by the way. Sunscreen. Who’d have thought it?”

  FORTY

  [PEYTON]

  THE SPERM WHALE AND GIANT SQUID DESPISE EACH other. The giant squid wraps its powerful arms around the sperm whale in a choking hold, squeezes hard with its biting suckers. The sperm whale cranks open its enormous mouth and all its teeth to bite the squid in two.

  No one’s ever actually witnessed the battle. Scientists have only pieced it together from the aftermath: the gaping bloody wounds on the sperm whale’s body, the undigested squid beaks lying in its belly. The sperm whale, upon catching sight of the giant squid, will leave its usual swimming zone and dive deep, deep, deep after the squid, chasing it all the way to the bottom of the ocean. The giant squid will race away from the sperm whale, its only enemy. Everyone else in the ocean is terrified of the giant squid.

  At some point, the giant squid turns to face its opponent. What happens after that is anyone’s guess. They’re well matched in size and fierceness. It’s hard to say who would win in a fair fight. But my bet’s on the sperm whale. Anything with that much purpose and determination eventually has to succeed. It’s just a matter of time.

  Peyton spread the pages out on her bed, the tests, the doctor’s reports, the pamphlet her mom brought home the first week that showed what she could and couldn’t eat, the map to the old dialysis center in Fargo, a ruffle of parking vouchers. She sorted carefully through them for the test results from when her mom had been tested for a match. She pressed it flat and studied it. There. Her mother’s blood type was O.

  She opened her notebook. She’d make it like a family tree. She could glue little pictures of everyone on their specific branch, and color-code the various alleles as they fell through the branches. She’d need poster board and fake leaves from the craft store. Her mom would have loved that. She would have said, Peyton, you’re so creative.

  She shook a box of colored pencils onto her bed. She wrote on one branch, Julie Carlson Kelleher, followed by her blood type. On the branch beside it, she wrote her dad’s name but left the blood type blank. She angled a little limb between her parents’ branches, connecting them. That’s where she wrote her own name. Now she needed her blood type.

  The basement was cool and dark. The boxes where Dana had gone through her things were still sitting on the floor where she’d left them the other night. Peyton was surprised her dad hadn’t said anything to Dana about picking up after herself. He liked things tidy.

  The box of her baby things was on the top shelf where her mom had put it, beside the one containing stuff from when her mom and dad had dated. It’s just junk, Mom, Peyton had protested, handing her mom the big black marker to write on the outside. It’s memories, her mom had corrected. Everyone needs those.

  She hadn’t said it but Peyton knew she only meant happy memories. Peyton’s mom had been good about throwing away the bad ones.

  Peyton set the box on the floor. The first thing lying inside was her stuffe
d bunny. She lifted out his limp form, his ears and legs floppy, his threaded-on eyes pulled loose from the fabric so he looked cross-eyed. She pressed her nose against his belly, inhaling deeply, the way she used to. She sneezed. He was just dust now.

  Here were some drawings she’d crayoned in elementary school. A self-portrait looking very serious, wearing a triangle dress. A poem to her mom for Mother’s Day, a misspelled version of “Roses Are Red.” A purple poster-paint handprint for Father’s Day. A handful of greeting cards, a rattle shaped like a clown that must have been important to her, a fleecy blanket, a bib. She pulled out the blanket, yellow and soft. For some reason, she remembered it, remembered refusing to sleep without it clutched beneath her chin.

  Back in her room, she studied the index card she’d unearthed. It still had tape on it from where it had been fastened to her hospital bassinet. IT’S A GIRL! Just below that was written in heavy black writing, B+. So that was her blood type. She sat on her bed, then frowned.

  Something was wrong with the small tank on her dresser.

  The baby fish were just hanging there in the water, not pulsing around the way they had that morning. Fish didn’t just rest, not unless they thought it was nighttime. Peyton’s bedroom, though, was flooded with daylight.

  When Mr. G answered the phone, there was chatter in the background. Not work chatter, but home chatter, a child piping up in the background, saying “Daddy.”

  Mr. G said, “Hold on, sweetie,” to his little girl, then to Peyton, “Hey, what’s up?”

  “I’m sorry.” This was his cell number, the one he’d given her for when she was watching his fish while he was out of town. The one she was supposed to use if there was an emergency. She was pretty sure this qualified, even if it wasn’t an emergency with his fish.

  “It’s okay.”

  “My endlers had babies this morning.”

  “Hey, that’s awesome. How many in the drop?”

  “Six.”

  “The mothers get any?”

  “I don’t think so. But by the time I found them, they’d already consumed their yolk sac.” Which meant they’d been at least a couple of hours old. “So there might have been more.”

  “Still. Six live fry is great. Congratulations.”

  “I don’t know. When I left for school, they were swimming all over the place. But now, they’re barely moving.” A tiny tail flickered and one drifted slowly to the bottom, nosing the glass.

  “Huh. You check the water temp?”

  “Seventy-eight.”

  “I know you conditioned the water and fed them, right? So what about the filter?”

  “I’m using my old one.”

  “Well, maybe that’s the problem.”

  She turned the tank to study the cylinder. “It looks okay.”

  “But you can’t be sure. Tell you what. Stop by tomorrow after school. I’ll give you the one I bought for Melinda that she hasn’t used yet.”

  “Dad!” Melinda protested in the background, and Mr. G laughed. “It’s for Peyton,” he told her. “Her fish had babies.”

  “You think they’ll be okay until then?” Peyton asked. It wasn’t as though she had a choice. The pet store had already closed for the night.

  “Absolutely.”

  She frowned at the little silver fish, wavering in the water, their double sword tails looking deflated, like they had nowhere to go and no reason to try. “Thanks.”

  “It’ll be good timing, actually. I might have a lead on a clownfish.”

  He’d been looking for months, ever since last September when his female died. “That’s great,” she said.

  “Dad!” Melinda called, and Mr. G laughed again. So much easy laughter. “I better go, Peyton. Looks like I have a tea party to attend.”

  Peyton waggled her fingers at the endler babies. None of them were floating. Even so, it might not be a good idea to have the tanks so close together. The mommies and daddies wouldn’t want to watch. She propped up a notebook between the two tanks.

  The back door slammed. Her dad? No, Dana, standing in front of the refrigerator with a bunch of grocery bags on the table behind her. She wore her hair loose today, though the smile on her face was tight. “Hi.” She pulled out a container of leftovers, pried off the lid, and dumped its contents into the trash.

  Peyton’s family never threw away leftovers. Never. “Everyone’s saying you called the EPA.”

  Dana paused in mid-reach. “I had to, Peyton. Brian wouldn’t let me in to do the testing myself.”

  He’d let her in the first time. What had changed between then and now? “Did they find anything?”

  Dana let the refrigerator door fall shut. “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Peyton felt small and scared. “Can they fix it?”

  Dana turned and looked at her. “They can’t take back the particles that have already been released, but Brian can make sure the plant doesn’t release any more.”

  “Is it too late?” Is it too late for me?

  Dana hesitated. “It’s a simple blood test. I can take you after school tomorrow.”

  Peyton couldn’t go after school tomorrow. She had to get that fish filter. Even so, she didn’t want Dana to be the one to deal with this. She wanted her dad to decide whether there was anything they needed to do. “It’s okay.” She looked around at the groceries sitting everywhere. There was a lot of it, enough for two families.

  Dana was watching her. “It’s all organic. I got a bunch of different things. I also bought bottled water. We have to stop drinking from the tap.”

  “You think the whole town’s poisoned?”

  The door banged and there was her dad, cellphone to his ear. “They’re overnighting the replacement part.” His gaze skimmed the kitchen and came to rest on Peyton. “I’ll check it in the morning. Just leave it. You better hit the road. Gerkey’s not paying overtime until we have all three lines up and running.”

  That sounded harsh. It was strange picturing Mr. G as a boss, making those kinds of decisions, ordering people around.

  “Right. See you tomorrow.” Her dad pushed his phone back into his pocket and turned to Dana. “You cost us a day’s work.”

  Here they went again. Peyton picked up a box of macaroni and cheese. There was a cartoon drawing of a little girl with pigtails on it, who looked unreasonably, undeservedly giddy. She wanted to throw it through the window.

  “Don’t blame me. Blame Brian. This is his fault.”

  “Nothing’s ever your fault, is it? What the hell is all this?”

  “We need to switch to organic food, Frank. No more using water from the tap.”

  “What’s this we? There’s no we.”

  “Fine. Then you and Peyton.”

  “I think I can manage to take care of my own child.”

  “Like you did your wife?”

  Jab, jab, jab. Peyton couldn’t stand it anymore. She snatched up a jar and hurled it at the wall. Glass exploded against the wall, a spray of bright red liquid.

  Dana gasped. Her dad reached out but Peyton pushed him away.

  “Get out,” she told Dana, standing there frozen. “Just get out.”

  Her dad was there, his hand on her shoulder. “Peyton,” he said, and Peyton shook her head furiously.

  Dana looked so slight, and the way she was standing there, balanced on one foot, her arms crossed, reminded Peyton painfully of the way her mom used to stand when she was talking on the phone, completely absorbed in the conversation. Peyton blinked hard and looked away.

  “I’ll leave in the morning,” Dana said.

  Peyton should have felt powerful; she should have felt victorious. So why didn’t she?

  Her dad sat on the back deck long into the night, watching the moon as Peyton watched him through her window blinds, lifting the glass to his mouth over and over and over again.

  FORTY-ONE

  [DANA]

  THE PHONE CALLS STARTED THE NEXT MORNING.

  Still early, the pearly wash of sun sli
pping along the counters and pooling on the floor. I was the only one up, so I lifted the phone from its cradle. At my soft “Hello,” there was only silence and then a click. A dial tone burred. Probably a teenager.

  The rich smell of coffee hung in the air. Holding my cup close, I breathed deep. In an hour, I’d be packed and ready to go. I’d try one of the hotels along the lake. I hoped my credit card could withstand the charge. It wouldn’t be for more than a night or two. Surely the EPA would have their results by tomorrow. They’d take action, and I could head back to Chicago and the trouble that awaited me there.

  The wall was dented where Peyton had hurled the jar of spaghetti sauce. It would need patching, re-wallpapering.

  The phone rang again, startling me. Hot coffee slopped down my fingers. I wiped my hand on a dishtowel and snatched up the receiver. “Yes?” Hissed, impatient. It had to be the same caller. Another pause during which I felt the presence of the person on the other end, then the click. Dial tone.

  Uneasy now, I stood by the window. Golden light filled the flower beds along the garage, overgrown, more weed than flower, but still some pink blossoms peeped out. Peyton would be all right. The EPA was all over the plant. They’d keep her safe.

  Still, I hadn’t slept the night before.

  The phone shrilled. I jumped.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Frank grabbed the receiver. “Who is this?” he demanded. A moment passed, then he raised his bloodshot gaze to mine. Pajama bottoms that tied at his waist, the buzz of whiskers along his cheeks, he looked old, worn down. Hanging up the phone, he said, “They hang up on you, too?”

  “Just leave it off the hook.” When the EPA got their results, Frank would take Peyton to the doctor. Surely he wouldn’t deny the truth then.

  The creak of the front screen door. Someone was on the porch.

  “The newspaper?” I said, and he shook his head, already moving.

  A fat white envelope sat wedged between the wooden frame of the screen door and the doorjamb. Something was scrawled across the front in large, bold black letters.