Curing

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Curing

She was dying. There was nothing I could do. We were staring at the sky. There was a shooting star.

There was an Eminem song playing in my head, so that my brain did not have to focus on reality. Lose Yourself.

She murmured her wish. Like she wanted me to hear it.

Mother… child...hope ...you

These four words are the only ones I remember.

It had been one of her good days. She had recognized me.
But then the twitching began. Usually it would stop, but 12 hours later, it showed no signs of abating.

The doctor turned towards me and cleared his throat. He looked around to see if there was someone else beside a sixteen year old to have “the talk” with.

I didn’t feel like talking much.

My mom’s battle with this disease, which didn’t even have a proper name, was finally over.

I was so tired.

Nine years later

I believe in logic.

I’m not a genius, but after losing my mom to Carrion’s disease (yes, it has a name now), logic was my sanctuary. I’d always been naturally inclined towards science. In school, I had gotten numerous scholarships but no friends.

I was always out of place. The geek in school. The kid in college. The prodigy who got a PhD in genetics at 19.

When the time for my post doctorate came, I had to choose a specialization. I didn’t even pause to think about the answer.

Finding a cure for Carrion’s became an obsession.

I still remembered her last words. Like she was trying to tell me that she hoped that no child should have their mother stolen by this disease.

I started my fellowship at a prestigious university. I didn’t expect to make friends. Logic dictates that patterns continue.

However, here everyone hated me. Younger than them by 10 years, I was a constant reminder to scientists of a lost youth.

It actually suited me since I got the lab all to myself. Whenever I entered they would remember they had to take a chromatographic reading or something like that. Sometimes I used to enter when they were in the middle of an experiment, just to watch them flee. Life’s little joys.

I enjoyed solitude. Not that I had a choice really.

Things were meandering along well. I had isolated the gene that was related to Carrion’s. I had to establish biochemical principles to find a cure.

But then he showed up.

Charles Carter.

He was everything I was not. Charming, good-looking and popular.

We walked in different worlds. Until he walked in on mine.

I’m not the romantic type. Romance is not supported by logic. But for the first time in my life, I felt a strange warm feeling. I couldn’t account for it. Probably just gas.

But charm is a funny thing. Unquantifiable. I wonder if it has a gene. I fell in love.

We started working together on finding a cure. His charisma got a lot of people interested in our project. He would meet with them while I stayed back. For obvious reasons. There is a strange freedom in living life without logic. I began to take risks in my work. It was paying off. My mother would have been overjoyed.

Happiness is equal parts exciting and equal parts scary. It gives the annoying feeling that you don’t deserve it. Professionally and personally, I flourished. My mother’s wish was coming through. I had read an astronomical fact: The nearest star to us is 4.25 lightyears away, that's why wishes take at least 9 years to come true.

It’s been nine years. Wishes do come true it seemed.

It was all going swimmingly well. I couldn’t stop smiling. My old friend logic sat sulkily in the corner of my brain.

But as if nature’s timer had gone off, it went horribly wrong. I had a bout of pneumonia. I was alone again. Charles had to finish our work. I insisted. But he was sweet enough to visit. I helped as much as I could.

A month later I went back.

They laughed at me openly. One of them maliciously offered a journal.

Groundbreaking work in Carrion’s disease
By Charles Carter

My life’s work stolen by the one illogical thing I have ever done.

Logic teaches you that if you can’t alter something, accept it. I knew I wouldn’t be believed. He had been working alone for the last month. He had met with all the sponsors. Everyone would believe the charismatic man rather than the awkward, aloof girl.

I didn’t try. I won’t give them the pleasure. I’ve moved on from worse things.

Eight months later

He got the Nobel prize but not the noble one.

Certain events in my life had made me more approachable. I even had a friend. I had started work on the genetics of the phenomena that people in common language called love. So far in my life I had ignored it, been thwarted by it, but I also found it. This time logic gracefully took a backseat to unconditional love.

Charles took something of mine; I took something of his.

I caressed my bump. Now I knew what my mother had wished for.

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Thanks to the wonderful editors @thewritersblock