Blaine lay on the bed in a hospital gown and stared at the ceiling. It was another morning of a seemingly eternal Groundhog Day.
Though it’s probably only been two. Maybe three.
He mentally tacked a set of Post-It notes on a wall in his mind and tried to connect them.
One: I managed to get the bag of tablets from my jeans before they insisted on this hospital gown and stash it behind the toilet. One tick for hope.
Two: For some reason they’ve no idea about the Cure. No idea how to control my condition. They won’t know how much I can fake. Two ticks for hope.
Three: So long as the fevers don’t spike too badly, I won’t have to use the tablets. I can save them to help me escape. Three ticks for hope.
The light blazed directly over him. Its whiteness blended into the sterile white of the walls. If he stared at it long enough, he could close his eyes and watch the negative on the back of his eyelids. Besides the large mirrored half-wall, there was no glass in the room—just fishbowl-like surveillance.
Four: Given my medical history, they’d never guess how good my hearing is. Supersonic, Dad calls it. Or my sense of smell. And they discuss everything in front of me as if I’m mentally impaired.
He remembered all the times his mother had tried to redirect the talk in front of his wheelchair by people who assumed he had zero IQ. In the main her efforts had been futile, and he’d received quite an education! Some days his thoughts had been more like dreams, as if his brain couldn’t be bothered operating fully conscious. But the information still went in, filed for later reference.
Blaine had a theory about this ability. He had a mitochondrial disorder and mitochondria were the powerhouses of the cell. If they weren’t working properly, it made sense that the body had to conserve energy where it could. Instead of shutting down completely, his brain went into ‘standby mode’. But even post-therapy, as if born of habit, his mind still subconsciously absorbed enormous quantities of information and then regurgitated it later for ‘processing’. Even when he was practically asleep. It was bizarre, but certainly an advantage when planning his escape.
He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and listened. He could hear faint sounds from some equipment nearby. Familiar sounds. He tried to identify them.
Dad’s work … Blaine’s dad was his company’s hygiene specialist and there was a quality assurance lab near his office. Many times Blaine’s wheelchair had been parked in the corner of his father’s office during the pre-gene therapy years. He’d grown accustomed to those distant laboratory sounds—sounds just like the ones he was hearing now.
Even while undergoing intense post-treatment rehabilitation, Blaine had occasionally gone with his dad on school holidays. Assisted by a walker, he’d eventually gotten to see the lab! Well, from the door, where his father pointed out different staff members and equipment.
He’d never admitted it to his friends, but it was kind of cool hanging out at his dad’s work. And the surprise visits mum would delight in, because she couldn’t wait to show off each quantum miracle as, one by one, his speech, mobility and general bodily function normalised.
But Dad had surprised them both the day Blaine ditched the walking frame and toddled into a run for the first time. Having secretly enlisted the neighbours, being Sophie and Jett’s family, they’d arrived home to find the house spilling over with people and the lounge room so full of balloons they were drifting out the door and down the hall. His wheelchair was on display with a huge ‘For Sale’ sign on it. The party went on for hours. Every time he popped a balloon, someone gave him a gift. It was wild.
Blaine felt tears forming in his eyes. Even though a part of him cringed each time his mother retold the story, he understood his parents’ excitement. At the time it’d been one of the best days of his life. But seriously? He’d been sixteen! What sixteen year old does stuff like that? But what sixteen year old defies a genetic death sentence and lives to tell the tale?
A very blessed one.
His parents said stuff like that to him every day. Blaine hammered the back of his head against his pillow, as if this action could knock the words from his head. He was always blessed. Always a gift from God. Just like they were always praying.
He didn’t resent his parents’ faith, he just wasn’t sure where he fit with it, or it with him. In reality his life had never been his own to decide. He definitely believed there was something. A spiritual realm. God. But until recently he’d never had the option of exploring it for himself. To test it. Prove it. And how would I do that anyway? He frowned at the ceiling.
Re-focus. He had to learn more about the facility and work out a plan. Concentrating on his surroundings, he heard a gusty drone rise above the constant hum. Possibly a fume cupboard? Definitely something with fans.
A sudden tink sounded even closer. Glassware. Could the lab be on the other side of the wall? In all his time spent in post-treatment observation, he’d never been anywhere near a lab.
Blaine smiled. Lab thoughts reminded him of when he’d been caught hacking into his father’s online scientific journal subscriptions. He’d merely wanted to understand his condition and treatment more thoroughly, but he’d never seen his father’s eyes so wide as when he’d realised what his son had done. This devious use of intellect had seemed more of a shock to his parents than they could handle.
Rather than a reprimand, Blaine had been encouraged to enrol in online courses and take extra-curricular science activities through school. It didn’t hurt that Sophie had been mad set on doing science at university, and had eagerly explored the world of gene therapy with him. Until she left ...
Wait, that’s five ticks! I know a heap more than they think I do.
His nose twitched. A new smell. Was it coming through the air ducts? The faint fragrance was a slight alleviation to the pervasive sterility. Blaine sniffed at the initial fruity-citrus top notes and tried to identify the heart and base. Adept at ‘perfume speak’, he knew it would be easy.
His mother, a Le Rêve representative, often trialled the products at home before hosting a party. Blaine had been her captive audience over the years. Fruity, floral, oriental, woody—he could nearly detect the notes as well as a sniffer dog.
Another deep breath perfused his lungs with mid-note geranium and vanilla, under which swelled a rich base with woody undertones ... He inhaled again. Patchouli? It was all he could do to stop the tear that dotted the corner of his eye. He was certain he could smell his mother’s signature perfume.
Wishful thinking. The tear slid down his face, but he crushed it into his skin with his palm. He was nearly eighteen, not a cry-baby preschooler!
His brow creased and he turned his nose towards the door. He was puzzled as the aroma grew stronger. Moments later Melissa Hartfield opened the anteroom door, lab coat, gloves, mask and face shield in place.
She’s wearing Mum’s signature!