‘There must be intense public interest in this place,’ says Luke, sitting, too. He peels off his windbreaker, which is bright orange, like that of a crossing guard, and tosses it over the back of the chair. ‘How many people work here?’
‘There are twenty-two labs. Each one is run by a faculty lead and has at least three additional members, sometimes up to ten: staff scientists, professors, research associates, lab and animal techs, postdocs and masters students and fellows. The larger ones have administrative assistants, like the Dunham lab – she’s studying nerve cell signaling in Alzheimer’s. Of course, that’s not to mention the facilities and janitorial staff. Total? About one hundred and seventy employees, most of them scientists.’
‘And all of you are doing antiaging research?’
‘We prefer the term longevity.’ Varya squints: though she chose a shaded portion of the atrium, the sun has moved, and the surface of their metal table beams. ‘You say antiaging and people think of science fiction, cryonics and whole-brain emulation. But the Holy Grail, for us, is not just to enhance life span. It’s to enhance health span – the quality of late life. Dr. Bhattacharya is developing a new drug for Parkinson’s, for example. Dr. Cabrillo is attempting to prove that age is the single greatest risk factor for developing cancer. And Dr. Zhang has been able to reverse heart disease in elderly mice.’
‘You must have your detractors – people who think the human life span is already long enough. People who point to the inevitability of food shortages, overpopulation, disease. Which is not to mention the economics of increased life span, or the politics of who is most likely to benefit from it.’
Varya is prepared for this line of questioning, for there have always been detractors. Once, at a dinner party, an environmental lawyer asked why, if Varya was so concerned about the preservation of life, she did not work in conservation. In this day and age, he argued, countless ecosystems, vegetation, and animal species are on the brink of extinction. Was it not more pressing to reduce carbon dioxide emissions or save the blue whale than it was to tack another ten years on to the human life span? Besides, his wife added – she was an economist – increased life expectancy would cause Social Security and Medicare costs to balloon, putting the country even deeper in dept. What did Varya think about that?
‘Of course,’ she says to Luke. ‘And that’s exactly why it’s so important for the Drake to be transparent. It’s why we host tours every week, why we allow journalists like you in our labs – because the public keeps us honest. But the fact is this: any decision you make, any study you do, there are going to be certain groups that benefit from it and certain groups that don’t. You have to choose your allegiance. And my allegiance lies with human beings.’
‘Some would say that’s self-interested.’
‘Some would. But let’s follow that argument to its logical conclusion. Should we stop searching for cancer cures? Should we not treat HIV? Should we cut off access to health care for the elderly, dooming them to whatever comes their way? Your points are valid in theory, but everybody who’s lost a father to heart disease or a spouse to Alzheimer’s – you ask any of those people, before and after, whether they would support our research, and I guarantee you that what they would say afterward is yes.’
‘Ah.’ Luke leans forward and clasps his hands, resting them on the table. One of his jacket sleeves droops to brush the floor. ‘So it’s personal.’
‘We aim to reduce human suffering. Is that not as much a moral imperative as saving the whales?’ This is her trump card, the line that silences acquaintances at cocktail parties and the inevitable argumentative question asker at each public lecture. ‘Your jacket,’ she says, flinching.
‘What?’
‘Your jacket is on the floor.’
‘Oh,’ says Luke, and shrugs, leaving it right where it is.
29.
The sky is powdery with dusk by the time Varya leaves the lab. When she is halfway across the Golden Gate Bridge, the main cable lights prick to life. She arcs through Land’s End, past the Legion of Honor and the mansions of Seacliff, and pulls into visitor parking on Geary. Then she signs in at reception and walks the outdoor path to Gertie’s building.
Gertie has been a resident at Helping Hands for two years. In the months after Daniel’s death, she stayed in Kingston while Mira and Varya discussed options. But in May of 2007, Mira returned from work to find Gertie facedown in the backyard, having collapsed on her way from the garden. Gertie’s left cheek was pressed to the dirt, a glassy circle of drool beside her chin. There was blood on her right arm from where she’d scraped the chicken wire fence. Mira screamed, but she soon discovered Gertie could stand on her own and even walk. After a CT scan and a blood test, doctors labeled the incident a stroke.
Varya was furious. There was no other word for it; there was barely even sadness – just rage so blinding she felt dizzy as soon as she finally heard Gertie’s voice.
‘Why,’ Varya demanded, ‘didn’t you call Mira? You could stand. You could walk. So why didn’t you go inside and call Mira – and if not Mira, then me?’
She pressed her cell phone to her ear. She was dragging her suitcase through SFO, soon to board the plane that would take her to Kingston.
‘I thought I was dying,’ Gertie said.
‘You must have soon realized you weren’t.’
Silence stretched on, and in it Varya heard what she already knew to be true, the source of her rage in the first place. I hoped I was. I wanted to. Gertie didn’t have to say it. Varya knew. She also knew why – of course, she knew why – and yet it seemed unbearably cruel to think of Gertie leaving her now, of her own volition, when they were the only two left.
Within weeks, Gertie experienced complications. She became easily confused. Her left arm went numb, and her balance was worse. For six months, she lived in Varya’s condo, but a series of dangerous falls convinced Varya she needed round-the-clock care. They toured three different facilities before deciding on Helping Hands, which Gertie liked because the building – painted cream and robin’s egg blue, with yellow awnings over each balcony – reminded her of the beach house the Golds used to rent in New Jersey. Also, it has a library.
When Varya enters her mother’s room, Gertie stands from a faded armchair and wobbles to the door on her soft ankles. The staff at Helping Hands suggested she use a wheelchair at all times, but Gertie detests the contraption and finds any excuse to get rid of it, like a teenager leaving her parents behind in a crowd.
She clasps Varya’s upper arms. ‘You look different.’
Varya leans down to kiss her mother’s delicate, velvety cheek. For most of her life, Varya hid her nose by keeping her hair long. But now her hair has gone silver, and last week, she had it cropped close to her skull.
‘Why the black clothing?’ Gertie asks. ‘Why the hair like Rosie’s Baby?’