I stared at my nearly completed design. Pride swelled in my breast. “I know.”
With a needle and thread, I made quick work of the stitches needed to sew Adam back together. I flipped my composition book open and examined the device measurements, using them to mark his chest where the holes were fitted in the plate. “There … there … and there,” I told Owen. “Now for the finishing touches.”
Owen’s hand shook as he took the small hand drill from me. He stared for a long moment before positioning the drill over the first hole. A bead of sweat quivered off the tip of his nose as he turned the crank and punctured the skin.
Four times he drilled the holes and four times he filled them with shiny, silver rims through which you could peek through and barely see the plate below.
“It’s perfect,” I exhaled.
Owen’s tongue spilled out of his mouth again. He heaved once and dropped the drill. His shoes pounded up the stairs. He pushed open the hatch door and crawled out into the open air, where I could hear him retching aboveground.
“You’re finished,” I told Adam.
Dazed, Adam sat up. He pinched his chin to his chest. “Can I see?”
I scanned the room for a mirror. When I couldn’t find one, I dumped out the surgical tray and handed it to Adam. I stood over his shoulder while he stared at the distorted reflection without uttering a word.
“See? Instead of new incisions, the wires will go here.” I touched the silver rims gleaming on his chest. Owen had even installed the radio transmitter so that the diathermy device no longer needed to be taped to Adam’s chest.
It was another breakthrough. Adam ran his finger over and over the length of the incision. Nearly perfect.
Nearly.
NINETEEN
Adam articulates primitive levels of distress at the lack of identity that stems from his memory loss. Teenage identity crisis with a twist. With more experiences, he’s showing more promising signs of self-expression.
The recharge process does not seem to be further damaging the nervous system. Rather, the damage to the neocortex and other brain structures appears to have occurred at death and the electricity post-reanimation may be having the effect of jump-starting physical sensation. Physical therapists use a similar process of “waking up” muscles after invasive surgery by using shock therapy.
But I’m not holding my breath.
*
The storm cellar door clanged open, and I climbed out of the hole in the ground and onto the surface, stepping into the yellow glow of the flood lamps, where moths were swarming. I took a deep breath of fresh air and wiggled my fingers, which were finally free of the blood-soaked gloves. Owen was sitting on the hood of his Jeep. Einstein lay curled up in the dirt next to his tire. He hopped off and dusted the back of his jeans.
Patches of color had returned to his cheeks, but there were sickly circles underneath his eyes. “Are you reviving him or torturing him for matters of national security?” His chuckle was weak.
I glanced over my shoulder, back down to the cellar laboratory’s depths. I’d tested the new device. It had worked, but it hadn’t stopped Adam from screaming the entire way through, all the way up until when I shut down the power.
The screen door to the house opened with a loud thwack, and Mom ambled unsteadily onto the porch steps. “Tor!” Sometimes when Mom drank, she reminded me of an angry toddler. “Tor!” Reluctantly, I looked back toward the house.
“What, Mom?” My body tensed at the idea that my mom might have heard Adam screaming, too. I looked at Owen, preparing to blame it all on him if necessary.
She craned her neck to look at the roof. “Don’t you hear that racket?” My heart thudded. “I thought I told you to fix that weather turner. I know I told you to stop that squawking, Tor.” A deep sigh of relief. The first hints of alcohol laced her words, turning them slow and lazy, a telltale sign. It was a Saturday, so she didn’t have to work at the law firm, and I knew she’d been nursing her first drinks early.
“It’s a weather vane and it’s just rusty. Mom, we’re busy out here. Owen and I are working.” The first sprinkles of stars gathered in the translucent sky.
Her lips pursed, forming deep lines around her mouth. What would my father think of her if he could see her now? She grumbled and glared at the roof again, where the metal rooster spun a quarter turn and let out a hair-raising screech. “Suit yourself.” She spat on the ground and disappeared behind the screen door.
“One of these days she’s going to figure out what a terrible daughter you are.”