Love Over Matter (12 page)

Haley says what I’m thinking. “I
thought you said she was a spy.”

“
I said no such thing. And
don’t you go pinning that one on me. That was Uncle Sam, all the
way. The Ruth Dawson I knew was a good-natured young lady with a
keen mind and a quick wit. Beautiful inside and out.”

Sounds like George,
I think. I hug his hoodie tighter around me. “So
. . . the name . . . ?”

“
Smullen, David or Donald.
I don’t recall which, for sure. I’d check Columbia first. The
anthropology department. If he’s still there, he’s probably chair
by now.”

I survey the living room. “Do you have
a computer?”

“
What do you think we are,
cave people?” Of course we’ve got a computer.” He gives a
disgruntled huff. “The thing’s even got its own room, for Pete’s
sake.” He hobbles to his feet without me having to ask. “Well,
what’re you waitin’ for? I ain’t got all night.”

chapter 10

Eleanor Rabinski should be cloned. Or
martyred. Not only did she drag herself out of bed at 10 p.m. to
prep a guest room for five stray teens, she also stirred up a batch
of the most delicious chocolate chip pancakes this world has ever
known, complete with quivery gobs of almond-flavored cream
(amaretto whip, she calls it). Needless to say, with a belly full
of such yumminess, I slept like a Sherpa after a trek through the
Himalayas.

I slink up behind Ian in the
Rabinskis’ office, my hair towel dried following a lukewarm shower.
“You find anything yet?”

When Mr. Rabinski told us
(indignantly, I might add) that he owns a computer, he failed to
mention that the machine in question is twelve years old, at least,
and operates at sloth speed. “Believe it or not, I did.” Ian
swivels the robot-head monitor to face me. “Dr. David Smullen,” he
says, poking at the screen, where a picture of a genteel-looking
middle-aged man greets us. “He’s a professor of history and
anthropology.” He scrolls the screen along so I can appreciate the
full biography we’re viewing. “And look: he’s got like seven or
eight books published—and a bunch of research articles
too.”

I always knew George was smart; I just
never expected this. “Wow,” is all I can say.

“
So what do you want to
do?” Ian asks.

“
How much time do we
have?”

“
Until?”

I’m lucky my parents bought the excuse
Rosie cooked up yesterday. They may not be so receptive next time.
“It’s pretty close to here, right?” I ask about Columbia. “I mean,
I’m sure I spotted a couple of signs during our drive.”

“
If you give me ten
minutes, I can Mapquest it. Or we can just use the GPS.”

Haley and Opal wander in and flop down
on a frilly daybed tucked against the wall. “When are we leaving?”
my sister asks, her tone a cross between bored and
annoyed.

My eyes dart for the door. “Shh!
Someone might hear you.”

“
They know we’re leaving,”
she shoots back. “Sheesh.”

“
Don’t be rude, Haley,” I
say.

Ian fiddles with the keyboard for
another minute, a number of the keycaps stuck or outright missing.
“Is Rosie okay?” he asks absently.

“
Sure,” Opal
replies.

As if on cue, Rosie flits into the
office, looking dewy and refreshed. “What?” she says, noticing our
overt stares.

“
We’re gonna get out of
here soon,” I inform her, “so we can try to find George’s father
before we have to head home.”

She bites her lip. “I should probably
call your parents again, don’t you think?”

Haley twirls her hair, blows a giant
bubble. (Where did she get that gum?)

“
I wouldn’t,” I
say.

A clip-clop sound echoes
through the hallway. I turn, expecting Mr. Rabinski, but instead
Eleanor peeks in. “Anything I can do for you before my walk?” she
asks. We murmur a round of
thanks but no
thanks
. She gives us a broad, jolly smile,
her eyes crinkling at the edges. “I left a pitcher of tea on the
counter. You’re welcome to it. If I don’t see you again, it was
nice meeting you all. And good luck with your search.” With a flap
of her arm, she exits, stage left.

Ian powers the computer down, and the
five of us traipse off to the living room, where Mr. Rabinski is
hard at work solving the Jumble, the daily newspaper folded neatly
on a tray table in front of him. “You find what you were looking
for?” he asks, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses poised to coast off
the tip of his nose.

“
Yup,” says Ian. “All
set.”

A brief silence ensues. “So
. . . I guess we’ll be going now,” I say. I clear my
throat. “Thanks for everything. We really appreciate
it.”

At once, Haley and Opal confirm,
“Yeah.”

“
Whatever you do,”
instructs Mr. Rabinski, “stay mum about the Russians.” He makes a
twisting gesture across his lips. “The less anyone knows the
better.”

I’m figuring that if Dr.
Smullen knows anything about George, he’s also in on the whole spy
caper thing (maybe not
in on it,
in on it—but at least marginally aware). “Will
do,” I agree.

Rosie takes the lead out the door,
followed closely by Opal and Haley. Ian and I linger a bit longer,
exchanging uneasy glances until finally I say, “Okay, well
. . . see ya.”

Mr. Rabinski simply grunts in
reply.

* * *

The toughest thing about sneaking into
Columbia was the parking—or lack thereof. “I’d better not get
towed,” Rosie says, throwing an anxious glance at the Bunny Mobile,
which is parked inches off the bumper of an armored vehicle, within
the buffer normally allotted to a fire hydrant.

“
You should be fine,” says
Ian, clapping a reassuring hand over her shoulder. Strangely
enough, she doesn’t flinch.

Following a vigorous jaunt, we come
upon a maze of gorgeous stone buildings sending Columbia hopefuls
in conflicting directions. “Okay, what now?” asks Haley.

I turn to Rosie, the only one among us
with real-life college expertise. “Let’s just find the anthropology
building,” she says, sounding nonplussed. “His office should be in
there—or at least close by.”

We venture into the
labyrinth, its pristinely kept grounds and intricate masonry
mimicking an Italian piazza. “This is so . . .
neat,
” I say, struck not
only by reverence for this Ivy League institution but by the
likelihood that, within a matter of minutes, we’ll be face to face
with George’s father, the Y-chromosome contributor to my best
friend and secret love’s existence.

After another extended
stroll—and much
ooh
ing and
aah
ing over columns and statues—it becomes clear that the
“anthropology building” doesn’t exist. Luckily, Ian recalls a bit
of text from Columbia’s website suggesting that anthropologists are
corralled in a spot called Schermer-something.

Five minutes later, we’re striding
through Schermerhorn’s hallowed halls, rubbing elbows (and hips and
ankles) with genuine Columbians. Yet Dr. Smullen’s office eludes
us. “Maybe we should ask someone,” Opal suggests.

Because it’s summertime, the halls are
relatively deserted, our fellow travelers appearing in staggered
bursts like fireworks on the 4th of July. “Go ahead,” says Haley.
“Hit up the next person we see.”

As luck would have it, the next person
we see is . . . Dr. David Smullen, a ceramic coffee mug
in one hand and . . .

There’s no delicate way of saying
this: George’s father has a hook-arm, a fact that was definitely
not highlighted in the brochure.

Ian and I swap panicked, confused
looks as the doctor zips past us. “That was him, right?” I
whisper.

Rosie says, “Huh?”

Ian doesn’t bother answering. Instead,
he spins around and hightails it after the doctor. “Excuse me,
sir!” he calls. Dr. Smullen gets off another step or two before Ian
repeats, “Sir!”

Finally, the doctor stops, eyes us
with the same penetrating gaze George employed when he was
determined to get to the bottom of something. “Hmm?”

“
Are you Dr. David Smullen,
the anthropologist?” Ian asks needlessly. The proof of the man’s
connection to George is as obvious as the freckled nose on his
face.

“
I am.”

To quote Haley:
What Now?

Ian extends a hand as if to shake but
withdraws it when the hook-arm situation dawns on him. “Do you have
a minute,” he asks with a head bob at the rest of our crew, “to
talk to us?”

“
Regarding?”

A brilliant idea (if I do
say so myself) practically bonks me over the head. “He’s a huge fan
of your work,” I say, stepping into the conversational fray. I dig
deep for a book title or two. “
In
Absentia
;
Boys to
Men.
He’s sort of obsessed with them,
really.”

Dr. Smullen gives Ian a skeptical
squint. “You read anthropology texts? Recreationally?”

Ian manages to simultaneously shrug
and shoot me a withering glare. “Well, sure, but that’s not the
only . . .”

The doctor checks his
watch, an expandable metal number strapped around his plastic
forearm. With a frown that breaks my heart (
man,
I miss George), he says, “I’m
running late for a lunch meeting. Perhaps we can discuss this at
another time?” He smiles briefly, then resumes his purposeful
stride, leaving us in the dust.

After a couple of seconds
of shocked silence, Haley says in an accusatory tone, “What
was
that?
”

“
I didn’t see
you
doing anything,” I
snap back.

Opal and Rosie ignore us, dash off
after the doctor as if they’re swooning tweens in pursuit of the
hottest new boy band. “We’ve gotta make a plan,” Ian tells me as we
follow along. “So . . .”

Honestly, I don’t know what
we were thinking coming here. Other than informing an already
burdened guy (I mean, the mother of his child is a deported
spy
and
he’s
missing an arm) that his son—a child he may or may not even know
existed—is dead, I’m not sure what we’re going to
accomplish.

Except . . .

“
I just think George would
want his father to know him. Like, some stuff about him: his
favorite color”—green, obviously: see hoodie—“what bands he
liked”—The White Stripes and some obscure ‘80s group called Tears
for Fears—“what he wanted to be when he grew up”—a geologist, or a
chef, or an auto mechanic—“stuff like that.” By the wounded look in
Ian’s eyes, I figure I’ve hit a nerve. Sometimes I forget he was
George’s friend too. “Sorry,” I say.

Up ahead, the trio of Dr. Smullen,
Rosie, and Opal exits Schermerhorn and keeps on trucking. “Pick up
the pace, people,” Haley says, pulling away from Ian and
me.

At the moment, speed walking is not in
my repertoire of skills, my mind racing with George-related
anecdotes to spring on his father if I’m lucky enough to get the
chance. “Go ahead,” I tell Haley, who needs no further
encouragement to jog off.

The good news is that we’re not going
far. As soon as Ian and I hit daylight, the rest of our party slips
inside a building called Uris. When we catch up, I realize we’ve
tracked Dr. Smullen all the way to his meeting at a campus deli.
“Maybe we should go,” I say, feeling creepy about my (and everyone
else’s) stalkerish behavior.

Ian says, “You’re kidding,
right?”

Dr. Smullen breezes through the food
line, somehow managing to stack a tray full of goodies
one-handed.

I shrug. “Don’t you feel kind of
. . . wrong? Like we’re violating—I don’t know—George’s
trust or something.”

“
We’re never gonna be here
again.” Ian shakes his head. “This is our only shot.”

“
I know,” I say with a
sigh.

We join the line, score a couple of
bananas and a chicken salad wrap. By the time we cash out, though,
my appetite drops through the floor. Because at a table by the
windows, behind a koi-colored beam, sits the doctor’s lunch date.
Even back-to, the guy’s mop of dark hair, strong shoulders, and
easy manner proclaim the unfathomable.

And then he turns.

“
Oh my God. I can’t
breathe,” I think I say. “Help.”

Ian clutches my elbow, steadies me so
I don’t kiss the polished concrete. “There’s no
way . . .” he mumbles.

But there is.

The dearly departed George Alfred
Brooks, the boy I’ve spent my whole life loving and more than two
years mourning, has risen from the dead. And he’s staring right at
me with a big ol’ grin.

* * *

As it turned out, George
wasn’t staring at me; he was staring at his father, Dr. Smullen. As
it also turned out, George wasn’t George. He
was
(or should I say
is?
) the biological
equivalent of George’s clone, a.k.a. his identical twin. His name’s
Alex (short for Aleksey, a fact that brings to mind George’s birth
name: Anatoly). This I’ve gleaned from a bumpy introduction,
wherein the doctor graciously agreed to allow us (meaning Ian,
Rosie, Opal, Haley, and me) to dine with him and his
son.