Elixir (16 page)

It was dark outside, but at least there'd been some light from the street lamps and the stars in the sky. In here there was nothing except occasional shards of those same lights shining through the few scattered windows. I looked down and couldn't even see my feet clearly; they just looked like darker shadows. Keeping one hand
on the wall for guidance, I started to slowly shuffle down the corridor.

Even if I couldn't see much I knew this building, maybe better than I knew my own home. I'd spent hours and hours, day after day, walking these corridors. I was sure I could close my eyes and find my way around. I guess I'd find out if that was true.

My hand brushed past a closed office door, and then another and another. I thought through how many offices were between that door and the stairwell … actually, the stairwell was off another corridor. I'd have to shift to the other side of the hall and turn right.

As I continued to move it seemed to be getting easier to see. My eyes were adjusting to the darkness. I turned down the second corridor and found the door to the stairwell. I pushed against it and it answered back with a long, loud squeak. It probably seemed louder than it really was in the dead quiet. There were usually so many other sounds to be heard … including the noise from the dogs. The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stood up and my stomach did a complete flip. Why wasn't I hearing the dogs? I could usually catch their faint calls from there, but now I couldn't hear anything.

My legs wobbled and then buckled and I sat down hard on the bottom step. The dogs were gone. I was too late. What had I done? What had I been a part of? I'd taken away Emma's only chance. I'd destroyed what Dr. Banting and Mr. Best had spent weeks working on
in the lab. What would he think about his “Ruthie” now? But then I had a second thought. It was night. Maybe the dogs were just sleeping. Dogs slept, didn't they?

I grabbed onto the railing and pulled myself to my feet. Slowly, deliberately, I began climbing the stairs, my legs weak, my feet like lead. I turned at the first landing and climbed up to the second floor. There was still no sound. I couldn't hear the dogs or anything else. I made the turn for the third floor and started climbing again. I took a few steps—and in an instant the stairwell was bombarded by the sound of the dogs barking and wailing wildly! They were still here! I'd made it in time! But why had they gone so wild all of a sudden? Had some sound outside disturbed them? Or had someone just walked into the kennel? Had Melissa just walked in? Was I practically witnessing her stealing the dogs? I stood stone still, frozen in place on the steps, unable to go back, unable to go forward. But I had to go forward. I had to.

I climbed the last few stairs, and then without hesitating grabbed the door and pulled it open. The sound of the dogs flooded over me. Looking to the end of the corridor I saw the door to the kennel. It was easy to see because there was a crack of light shining beneath it. That meant someone had to be in there. Or maybe they just left the lights on for the dogs for some—

I heard voices … or I thought I heard voices. They came again, just audible over the noise of the dogs, and
then there was a ripple in the light beneath the door, as though someone had walked between the lights and the door.

There was no question now. Melissa was in the kennel. She and her friends were taking the dogs, and with them Dr. Banting's research. And Emma's faint hope for life. I was too late.

And then a red-hot feeling came to the pit of my stomach. It wasn't fear or upset or regret. It was anger. Anger at myself for allowing this to happen. Anger at Melissa for doing this. Anger. And that anger stiffened my backbone and flowed down into my legs and feet and I marched down the corridor. I grabbed the handle and threw open the door.

“You leave those animals alone! They're not yours and you have no right to—”

Dr. Banting and Mr. Best stared back at me in shock.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“
RUTHIE, WHAT IN GOD
'
S GOOD NAME
are you doing here in the middle of the night?” Dr. Banting exclaimed.

I opened my mouth to try to explain, but what could I possibly say? I felt myself get all woozy and weak and dizzy and I thought my legs were going to give way. Dr. Banting rushed over and for a split second I thought he was going to strike me, but instead he swept me off my feet as I started to collapse. He carried me over to a chair, setting me down. The tears came pouring out and I began shaking and sobbing and convulsing and I knew that even if I wanted to talk I couldn't.

“I'll get her a glass of water,” Mr. Best said.

Dr. Banting was on his knees in front of me. “There, there, Ruthie, don't worry, it's all right.… It's going to be all right.… Whatever's wrong we can help fix it.… Don't worry.”

I looked at him. He was being so nice and kind. He didn't know what I was part of. It would have been easier—more right—if he had hit me, if he yelled at me. I started sobbing even louder and the dogs responded by barking more intensely.

“Here, take this,” Mr. Best said. He handed me a glass of water. I took a sip and then another and another. It did seem to wash down the sobs.

“Now, Ruthie, does your mother have any idea that you're here?” Dr. Banting asked.

I shook my head.

“Is she at home?”

I nodded. “Sleeping.”

“I know you're troubled about us using the dogs for research,” Dr. Banting said. “I'm so sorry it has upset you so—”

“That's not it,” I whispered, cutting him off.

He gave me a questioning look.

In one uninterrupted breath I told him about Melissa and the putty I'd put in the door and their plans to come tonight and take the dogs and how I realized I couldn't let that happen and how I was coming to try to stop them. And then I began crying again.

Through the tears I waited for his reaction. Now he should yell at me, or call the police, or even hit me. I'd understand if he hit me; it was what I deserved.

Dr. Banting stood up and started pacing the length of the kennel, back and forth, back and forth. I could tell by
the way he was walking that he was angry. He had every right to be angry. He stopped walking and stood right over me. I looked up.

“Ruthie, what you did today, helping those people, was wrong, very wrong,” he said sternly.

“I know,” I said, my voice hardly a whisper.

“And it was very brave.”

“Brave?” I asked, not believing my ears.

“You believed that it was right to free these animals and you took action to follow what you believed was right … despite the potential consequences. Do you realize that your mother would be dismissed if your actions were discovered?”

“But they
were
discovered,” I gasped. “Is my mother going to lose her job?” How would we survive?

“Only Charlie and I have discovered what you did, and we're only going to tell one person … your mother, when we drop you off home.”

I felt a wave of relief and gratitude sweep over me.

“And what you did tonight, coming here, to try to correct that wrong, was very brave. I'm proud of you.”

“How can you be proud of me?” That couldn't possibly be true.

“It took a great deal of nerve to come here in the middle of the night to try to stop it from happening. You burst in thinking they were here and you were going to try to make them go away and leave the dogs alone. That took incredible courage.”

“But I was the one who left the door open in the first place. They couldn't have even gotten in here if it wasn't for me. It's all my fault. I wanted to be a hero, but I made a mistake. My father would be so ashamed of me.”

“No, he wouldn't,” Dr. Banting said. “He'd be glad that you're trying so hard to stand up for what's right, even when it's confusing. And it's not your fault. Those protestors believe in their cause, but they manipulated your emotions and your feelings. That's what they do. They stop people from using their heads.” He paused. “But you overcame their manipulations and you made it right,” he said. “Now we'd better get you home. If your mother wakes up and finds you gone, she'll be beside herself.”

“I'm afraid this isn't a good time to leave,” Mr. Best said. “I think Marjorie is close to the end. If we don't try to intervene now, she won't last.”

“I understand. Ruthie, you're going to have to stay with us for a while.”

“I can go home on my own,” I suggested.

“No, you can't,” Dr. Banting said. “It's the middle of the night. It's not safe for a young girl to be out on her own, and I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you. You just wait. It shouldn't take long.” He turned to Mr. Best. “Could you prepare the injection, please.”

“I'll prepare it, but I don't know how pure it is,” Mr. Best responded.

“It's all we have, so it will have to do. You prepare the injection and I'll prepare the subject.”

Mr. Best left the kennel. Dr. Banting walked over to one of the pens. There was a dog inside, lying on its side, not moving. It didn't even look like it was breathing. He undid the latch and reached in. Despite its size, he picked it up effortlessly, cradling it in his arms. The dog was limp and lifeless and it didn't respond or react. Dr. Banting carried it over to a metal table in the middle of the room and gently laid it down.

“Is it … is it … dead?” I asked.

“Not yet, but close. It's in a diabetic coma. It's on the verge of death. This is the end stage of diabetes. The blood sugar levels have built up, the clog loses consciousness, stops breathing, and dies. It's hardly breathing now. Its respiration rate is down to only five or six breaths per minute.”

At that instant the dog took a loud breath and its chest rose up.

“I'd say it's no more than five minutes away from death. The breaths in the last few minutes become exaggerated as the body struggles to gather in enough oxygen, in a last desperate bid to survive. No matter the living creature—dog or mouse or human—we all strive to live.”

I crossed the room and walked to Dr. Banting's side. The dog just looked as though it were sleeping. It was a beautiful dog with long black fur. “Could I … could I pet her?”

“Marjorie would like that. I don't know what she can or cannot feel at this point, but I feel sure it would offer her comfort. Sometimes all a doctor can offer to a dying patient is comfort.”

I gently stroked her head. She felt warm and soft. I didn't know what exactly I'd expected, but somehow this wasn't it.

“Here's the insulin,” Mr. Best said. He held a large hypodermic needle. I had to fight not to look away. Dr. Banting took it from him.

“Have you looked at Margorie's last blood test?”

“Extremely high blood sugar levels confirm she's in diabetic coma, on the verge of death,” Mr. Best replied.

Dr. Banting held the needle in his hand. He squirted a little bit of the liquid, white and murky, into the air. He and Mr. Best exchanged a long, serious look. “I hope this time is the charm,” he said. Then he leaned closer and placed the needle against one of the dog's paws. It was as though I could feel the sharp needle myself as it went in, but Marjorie didn't flinch.

“The coma is so deep she's not even responding to pain,” Dr. Banting said, glancing over at me. “She's almost gone. If this doesn't work, nothing will.” He emptied the syringe into her paw.

“It won't be long now,” Dr. Banting said.

“Until she dies?” I asked.

“Until she dies, or she doesn't,” Mr. Best replied. “If this works we'll know very quickly.”
Dr. Banting took the needle and placed it on the counter. He turned to me. “As I said, everything wants to live. It is the most basic instinct. But sometimes some must be sacrificed so that others can live. I did not want to operate on this dog. I did not wish to risk her death, but I had no choice in order to try to find life for so many others. That's something those anti-vivisectionists don't understand.”

“I understand … at least, I do now,” I said. “You're doing this for Emma.”

“Emma?”

“Mr. Rogers's daughter … the man who visited you today.”

“I never met her,” Dr. Banting said. “It's too hard to look into the eyes of someone who's hoping you can save her life.”

“She doesn't have that hope,” I said. “She thinks she's going to die.”

“She's probably right,” he admitted. “From what her father told me about her condition, she has less than two months before she deteriorates and becomes as Marjorie is now.”

I looked down at the dog. She seemed to be asleep. She looked so peaceful. At least Emma would be at peace soon. No more suffering. She wouldn't be hungry any more. The waiting would be over.

Something touched me and I started. Marjorie was licking my hand! Her eyes were open and she was licking my hand!

“Dr. Banting … Mr. Best … look!” I gasped.

Marjorie lifted her head up off the table as though she were trying to see what I was so excited about.

“My goodness,” Dr. Banting said, his words barely a whisper.

“She's reviving!” Mr. Best exclaimed. “She's coming out of the coma!”

Marjorie struggled to roll off her side and then she stumbled to her feet. She was wobbly and unsure, and Dr. Banting wrapped his arms around the dog to stop her from falling off the table.

“Is she … is she going to … be okay?” I asked.

Dr. Banting nodded. “She's going to live,” he said softly as he ruffled the fur on the top of her head. “And more important, that little girl, Emma, now has a chance to live as well.”

“You can save her life?”

“There is no reason to believe that what works with a dog wouldn't work with a human,” Dr. Banting said.