The Scattering. Kimberly McCreightЧитать онлайн книгу.
you and I both know, Dad, if I was the Outlier, that would make me damaged, not special.”
“Gideon.” My dad clenches his jaw tighter and stares down at the counter. “You are special exactly as you are.” My dad is trying, but he is so mad it doesn’t even sound believable. “And Wylie, Gideon is upset at me so he’s taking it out on you. There is nothing wrong with you.”
“Unless that other guy is right, and it’s some kind of illness,” Gideon says, resting a hand on the back of his chair like all of a sudden he has no plans to go anywhere. “Then, technically, there would be something wrong with her.”
My dad closes his eyes as his nostrils flare—he is really angry now. It’s obvious he told Gideon something, probably offhandedly, that he now is regretting.
“What illness?” I ask. I have no choice. My anxiety isn’t going to let a whole “illness” thing just go.
“I’ve spoken with numerous experts,” my dad does on, all calm rationality now. “And I’m glad because I think it has given me a more complete picture. However, there is one very persistent immunologist who seems set on convincing me that HEP is the result of a disorder that is itself the result of an infection.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“There are a few viruses that could theoretically cause psychological symptoms, and in my exploratory studies some of the Outliers I found had various mood disorders. Not only anxiety, but a whole range of issues: addiction, anorexia, cutting, depression, antisocial and criminal behavior.”
“You’ve finally found your tribe, Wylie,” Gideon says, pointedly eyeing the remnants of my hacked hair. It’s grown out, but not completely. “Sick, and sick in the head. And by the way, this immunologist Dad is trying to blow off is a professor at Cornell.”
“Yes, Dr. Cornelia has been associated with Cornell and he is on staff at Metropolitan Hospital in New York,” my dad says. “But, to be clear, his entire premise is suspect. It was by no means all of the Outliers in my exploratory study who exhibited behavioral or psychological difficulties. Not to mention that the other two original Outliers had no such issues whatsoever. So there may be some relationship between mood disorders such as anxiety and being an Outlier, but that relationship is certainly not straightforward cause and effect.”
I think this is supposed to make me feel better. It does not.
“Dr. Cornelia from Cornell?” is all I can think to say.
“Yes, it is a bit ridiculous. Dr. Cornelia from Cornell also has a very controversial book out about bioterrorism that he is actively trying to promote as well as a career in dire need of a restart.”
“Bioterrorism?” I ask, but Gideon and my dad are fixated on each other now.
“Still, it’s not like Dr. Cornelia is some random guy.” Gideon turns and looks at me. “And unlikely isn’t the same thing as impossible. Right, Dad? She could still just be sick, right?”
Gideon is trying to hurt me. The stupid part is how much it is working.
“No, not right. Dr. Cornelia’s theory does not adequately explain the HEP.” My dad slides the last pancakes off the griddle and onto a spare plate. Then he holds his spatula upright against the counter like some kind of staff. “Would you rather I lie and pretend that you are an Outlier, Gideon? Or that you could be? Because that seems insulting to your intelligence.” My dad exhales, hard. “Wylie is an Outlier, and you are not. Period. This does not mean that I love you any less. Or that you are any less special. You are simply special in a different way than Wylie is. That’s the truth, Gideon. What else do you want?”
“I want you to admit that she’s the only thing that matters to you now.” Gideon’s pointing at me. But at least he’s not looking at me, so I don’t have to feel the full force of his hatred. “Your kid and your research all in one place. What do you even need me for anymore?”
My dad winces. “Gideon, you know that’s not the way I feel.”
“No, Dad, I don’t know anything about the way you feel.” Gideon’s voice is quiet now, devastated. “That’s Wylie’s specialty, remember?”
My dad closes his eyes and lowers his head. As he passes out of the room, Gideon knocks hard into my shoulder, almost shoving me off the chair. I push myself back up as he storms to the foyer. My dad and I both flinch as the front door slams shut behind him.
WHEN MY DAD FINALLY OPENS his eyes, he tries again to smile. It’s no more convincing than it was before.
“That went well,” he says quietly, then motions to the dozen pancakes now stacked on the plate in front of him. “Please tell me you’re hungry.”
Without waiting for me to answer, he picks up the plate, walks to the garbage can, and presses the trash open with his foot. He reconsiders, though, letting the lid slam shut. Instead, he pulls out some plastic wrap and sets to covering each pancake, then stashing them in small groups inside the freezer. It’s amazing how fast this seems to buoy him. He may have no idea how to fix things with Gideon, but we now have enough pancakes to survive a nuclear winter.
“So this guy from Cornell who thinks being an Outlier is a sickness …” I begin, and then stop. Open-ended is more likely to get an honest answer.
My dad looks me right in the eye. I can feel him willing me to know that he is telling the truth.
“Dr. Cornelia is just looking to inject himself into something that he thinks will get him attention from the press.”
“What press?”
Despite all of us bracing for an onslaught of reporters and television cameras after what happened at the camp, the only real coverage was a thumbnail of an article in the Boston Globe, mostly about Cassie’s violent death at the hands of a cult. (The police had also officially deemed Cassie’s death a homicide, not that there was anyone around to prosecute anyway.) The article mentioned my dad’s research only vis-à-vis its connection to Quentin, who was described only as a “cult leader,” associated with The Collective, which—it turned out—was a national organization with various beliefs and branches, most of which did not appreciate being called a cult. They made that pretty clear in the online comments on the article. No one seemed to care about the Outliers or HEP, maybe because there had been no official, peer-reviewed study on the topic yet, maybe because science wasn’t as sexy as the word “cult.”
The only actual interest in my dad’s research came from one blogger—EndOfDays.com—who identified himself only as a “centrist” member of The Collective and who laid the blame for the deaths at the camp squarely at my dad’s feet. EndOfDays had decided that the Collective members were innocent victims caught in the deadly crossfire of scientific recklessness. My dad didn’t want us reading the blog. And so I hadn’t. Gideon, of course, couldn’t get enough.
“IT IS ONLY the maniacally egotistical who believe that they should insert themselves between man and the will of God,” Gideon was reading from his laptop at the dining room table. “It is an abomination to interfere with this sacred covenant.”
“What the hell is that?” Rachel asked. She was in the kitchen with my dad, helping with the dinner dishes. Since what happened at the camp, she’d been glued to us even tighter. It was aggravating, no matter how genuine her intentions (and I still wasn’t convinced). “Actually, forget I asked. I don’t care what it is—stop reading it.”
Rachel often used that overly familiar way with us like she was a member of our loud, no-holds-barred family and she was allowed to shout because it was all out of love anyway. Except we were not