The Girl Who Chases the Wind

Chapter 8: The Darkest Places

Kathryn said a few things under her breath but set up the contraption quickly and asked, “Can you get on okay? I’ve already scheduled a fabrication session. They’re getting tired of your hijinks as well.”

Flexing her arms, Greenie tossed herself in one powerful heave onto the contraption. The straps sealed around her body, creating a bottom like a knitted chair with support for her broken legs. Slipping her hands through a part of the device, she was able to control the legs to turn herself around. Brushing her fingers over another part rolled the wheels forward.

I offered quickly, “See you around…I guess. Thanks for your time.” I could’ve said it better, but I still wondered how Greenie saw me. She was talking to me, but it was clear she wasn’t anywhere near trusting me. Then, she turned slightly and offered me a little surprise.

“Sometimes, when I let them, they call me Mari. If we see each other again, use that name. I’ve always thought Greenie was a stupid name anyway. Like some cartoon candy mascot.” With that, she rolled along the track and away from me with the nurse following beside her. Not long after that, they were out of sight.

I stayed a while after as the wind picked up a few times. Mari. Perhaps not her given name but one she had chosen for herself, like mine. I felt like the name had some meaning I should’ve recognized with all the books I randomly leafed through. I hadn’t thought to bring a baby name book. I’d probably have to make the sacrifice of a public local online search.

I made my way back after picking up my bag. The wind was lighter when I left the track. Appropriate. I ate a bloated, nearly-bursting burrito with a full breakfast stuffed in it at the cafeteria before seeking out the men's, which was fortunately vacant.

I put in a call to Dr. Feldon’s receptionist before venturing over to his office. I soon found out he was already in.

“He didn’t leave last night. He’s been busy. Plenty busy.”

I raised an eyebrow, though it was pointless over the phone. I could’ve walked a little further and been able to converse with the receptionist face to face but the phone did offer a little mystery about her expression.

I noted, “If he needs to postpone time with me…I’m willing to wait.”

Her voice vanished from the phone and she eventually put me on hold. Hold, rather quaint, especially with voice bots. Instead, I was treated to the bane of some random classical music I’d never be able to correctly name without looking up. Sliding the call to the side, I checked to see if any of the many resources I’d loaded onto my phone’s memory for connection-free times had anything on Mari.

I hit upon a few random encyclopedia entries. Some famous people, some old movies, some referrals back to some other names. I focused on the meaning of “beloved” along with it as a diminutive of Marie meaning “bitter” (that one got a smirk from me). I also noticed there was a Basque goddess with the name.

My limited on-phone data said she was a goddess of the weather who associated with another god which was some sort of snake made of fire. Or which made fire. Mythology can be weird. She was seen as a being of red flame. Seemed like it would be more appropriate for Lily.

However, her article did characterize her like the wind quite a lot and there was a note about her being a figure of the androgynous who brought together male and female aspects in equal quantity.

Probably reading too much into it all but it killed some time before the receptionist got back to me. Dr. Feldon would apparently see me but their tone suggested that he wasn’t in the best of moods.

I approached his door with apprehension and knocked softly four times before he called me in. Even through the door, I could tell his voice, with the roughness of ice usually, had been muffled to tracks in the snow.

His desk was layered with mostly handwritten papers in orderly lines like scales on a fish. I took my seat across from him and began with a respectful nod and patient pause allowing him to speak first.

His gaze wore something different than the day before. I wondered and hoped as I tried to show as little nervousness as possible.

In his own time, he began, “Elisabet Salo. She was so young. Santavuori disease. She was supposed to be flown in from Helsinki last night for special treatment. Her parents finally approved, after years of denial…but too late.”

I scooted up in my chair and responded, “I’m sorry.” I could’ve said more, I could’ve led into another question. But those two words seemed both insubstantial and enough for the moment.

Dr. Feldon selected, seemingly at random, a paper from his desk as he asked, “Are you? Why? You didn’t give little Elisabet her disease. It was a combination of genes she inherited. Very rare combination. Only a dozen or two like her in the world. Her brain cells accumulated enzymes and lipids usually seen in cirrhotic livers and with old age. At age one they thought she had a…mental retardation but soon she had seizures and tremors. She never had a childhood. Just a series of doctors and people who came to take care of her.”

I folded my hands in my lap. I could say plenty about my own life, but I had no words in that moment.

He continued, “Her parents learned about us from a doctor in Finland. And they did some research. And they found articles about us….articles written by those who, if I were a different sort of man, I would gladly have punched in the face. As I am, I have spent so much time trying to speak to people past the filter of what they may think and write about me...only for the chance to save more lives. It is exhausting.”

His eyes returned to the piles of papers on his desk. My eyes drifted around him as I told him, “Those aren’t the kinds of articles I want to write.”

Feldon spread a hand across the edge of his desk as he asked me, “But is it the kind of article you are writing about me?”

I fussed a little with my notes and offered sincerely, “I don’t know yet. I’ve just known you for one day. I have seen some amazing things and met some remarkable people. All I know for certain is that I want to see more.”

He pushed some papers away and out of their neat little piles as he told me, “Of course. And I thank you for your open mind. Oh! One thing I forgot…”

Drawing a paper from underneath some others, Feldon produced a single form which he pushed to the edge of his table with a pen. He explained simply, “Something I forgot from your little procedure before.” His attention was on the piles of papers on his desk. I noticed.

I picked up the form and read it quietly. The top was littered with the small-font legal language of the worst online agreements. It didn’t even have divided sections or line-breaks. My eyes soon settled on one part in particular and I recited it for Feldon, “The patient agrees to waive all rights of possession to tissue samples taken in the course of the procedure for any and all purposes the undersigned organization decides to undertake with the sample, be they experimental, stem culture, or other….you took a tissue sample?”

Thinking back, I wondered about the anteater and some of Feldon’s behavior during the procedure. My gaze, recently relaxed with his little story about Elisabet, tightened with concern.

Feldon lowered his head and told me, “Yes. I saved a tissue sample. We do it with all patients for stem cultures and producing the best possible lines. Most of it is for research purposes. We don’t often get normal healthy tissue except from amongst our staff. So every little bit, every little donation, furthers our research.”

I listened to his voice. He spoke solemnly and without wavering. Which could just mean he was a better liar than I realized.

I brushed my cheek and said sharply, “I decline. You may not have my tissue.” For emphasis, I ripped the paper in half in front of him and added, “If you’d asked me when you took it…perhaps. But this way….no.”

He sent back a soft nod and told me, “Fair enough. My fault for putting you on the spot. But please consider a donation to our cell lines before you leave. It would help very much for a diversity of cultures. So very much.”

I couldn’t keep a frown as I told him, “I’ll consider it but don’t try to clone me…or something.”

I meant it as a joke, but Feldon focused his steely demeanor as he said, “I promise I won’t. Each person is unique and worth saving, but not….at the expense of another life.” I raised an eyebrow, but Feldon set his hands down and tried on a smile as he asked me, “I am sorry to digress so. I am left with many somber feelings this morning. But we should continue the tour.”

Raising a hand, I asked him, “Before that though, I was just thinking your personal bio is a little slim. I know where you’re from originally and what medical projects you were involved in here in the states. But there’s not a lot about you before moving here from Europe.”

If he wanted to deflect the issue as irrelevant, I had the perfect response about how it benefited the ranch and the Mantlemay Project to keep open and calm about his past. He tensed, so I knew there was something under the surface. However, it could just be bad memories.

Pushing a few of his papers on his desk away into deeper piles, he said, “What would you like to know?”

I asked about his early life and got the impression of moving a lot, from Soviet territory to Austria at the end of the First Cold War. His mother died when he was young. Not much mention of his father. Enough material to work with. I could emphasize tragic circumstances.

Then, I went back to something in my notes as I asked, “Could you tell me about May Feldon, your late wife?”

A heavy wariness was obvious around his gaze. I looked away from his eyes and folded my hands. I was about to retract my question when he slowly began, “She was the very stars in the sky brought to Earth. Warming, beautiful, and like nothing and no one you’ve ever met. A laugh to chase away all frowns. A cleverness to leave you thinking long after she’s left the room. A heart that mends all others before itself.”

Briefly, Feldon mentioned children dead along with his wife. He referred to the conflict which drove him from Europe, a regional civil war around when I was born which I’d only seen briefly mentioned online, and which destroyed his family. His wife was killed trying to shield their children and others from a rebel sniper.

He lamented, “I was on rounds with the wounded. She was almost sent to my hospital. I would’ve seen her one last time. When I found out…it was already too late….I…” He took a long breath before adding, “There is more. But there is always hope found in the darkest places.”