Authors: Joanne Brothwell
CHAPTER TWO
ADRIANA SINCLAIR
I approached the medical lab, the huge metal letters GenMed glaring down from above the stark grey building. There were giant boxy mirrors every few feet, the effect like a giant, colorless Rubik’s cube. Cold pragmatism.
I reached into my purse and my fingertips brushed against Analiese’s yellow cotton t-shirt, the one she was wearing on our twelfth birthday, before everything between us went downhill. The fabric was soft, nearly sheer in places from years of wear. Her favorite shirt. Her lucky shirt. The one that helped her soccer team win the gold medal that season. The one she wore almost every day under her clothes to cover up and push down her new boobs. My matching shirt was long gone, but Analiese’s was still intact, tucked away in her room at mom’s house. I clutched the fabric tight and closed my eyes, squeezing against the permanent heat at the back of my eyes. An image of her, age twelve, in this exact shirt slid through my mind. She was carefree then, full of energy and ideas and plans for the future. Black hair flying in the wind, her wiry body would flit and jump and dance with all her exuberant energy. She would run up to me and do a pirouette a foot from my nose.
Maybe we could be rock stars, Adriana? Or maybe you could play guitar and sing and I’ll play drums?
But that was Analiese
before
.
I opened my eyes and scanned the exterior of the building for the doorway. Both the building and the landscape around it were bleak, concrete and treeless. I’d never been in this part of Stonewood, Colorado. Despite nineteen years here, I’d never seen this building. Analiese and I had never had a medical problem before. For the most part, Stonewood was like a big town in the middle of a picturesque countryside of behemoth mountain ranges and crystal clear lakes. The population was only one hundred fifty thousand, much of that made up by college students who repeatedly came at the start of the semester and left as soon as finals were written after second semester. The residents who remained were average people who went back and forth from home to work and back again. The crime rate was low and Analiese and I’d always felt safe living here. Until now. Now, everything was different. The stoic grey building bore down on me, like I was being crushed by a vengeful mountain god.
Yesterday, my twin sister’s life ended. For nineteen years we lived every day of our lives together, sharing each and every milestone. Each event was unalterably etched in my brain. Our first day of kindergarten wearing matching blue tights and navy dresses; my first kiss in grade seven; Analiese’s first crushing breakup two days after our sixteenth birthday; our first day of college last year.
It wasn’t all perfect. In fact, most of it after seventh grade was rough. Analiese was moody, temperamental, overly-sensitive. All because of Uncle Les. He destroyed her innocence, took it from her without so much as a blink. And after that, everything about Analiese changed, irrevocably. She looked different. She acted like a different person. Uncle Les didn’t just steal her childhood. He broke her spirit.
I should have realized something was terribly wrong when, at fifteen, she pierced her own tongue, or when she spray painted the word HATE in huge black letters across the back of her jean jacket. I should have noticed something when she started smoking, and doing drugs. But I didn’t. It took seeing the perfectly spaced cuts from her elbow to her wrist for me to realize how bad it was. And even then, I didn’t realize the half of it. I knew she was angry, full of rage. But I didn’t realize how much her anger and resentment was directed towards me. I became acutely aware that night, inside the camper, when she decided she wanted Derek, the boy I told her I had a huge crush on. After that, everything between us changed.
Now all that was left of her was an empty shell, a carcass that had once housed the most beautiful, damaged soul I’d ever known. One I almost willingly betrayed on the day of her death. I wished it had been me that died that day.
I looked straight up, to the top of the building. If I could figure out a way to get onto the roof, I could… avoid all of this. Avoid these pushy medical people and their insistent recommendations. Avoid my mother’s tortured expressions that belied her inner pain. Avoid
feeling
.
The same people who failed to save Analiese insisted I get my blood typed. Not only did they insist, but someone at the hospital even went to the effort of making me an appointment with the lab.
With a hollow chest, I stepped through the doorway into the building and was immediately greeted by a receptionist behind a brushed-metal desk. She wore a headset over a coiffed up-do of blond hair, and her French manicured nails tapped away at her computer keyboard.
Click-click, click-click
. When she saw me, she stopped.
“May I help you?” she asked. Her black eye makeup was drawn on to create a perfect set of cat-eyes.
“I’m here for genetic testing. My appointment is at ten thirty,” I said.
The woman looked at her computer screen and clicked the mouse.
Click. Click. Click.
When she saw what she was looking for, she smiled at me, a closed-lipped,
you’re wasting my time
kind of smile. “Adriana Sinclair?” she asked. I nodded. She gestured to the waiting room. “You can have a seat.” Her nails began their incessant tapping once again.
I glanced over at the glassed-in elevator on the side wall. I could probably be halfway to the top floor before the receptionist even noticed I’d walked away. Instead, I sat down in one of the black and chrome armchairs and rummaged through the stack of magazines beside me. I was too weak. Suicide would be too hard. I could barely get myself to brush my teeth properly right now, let alone muster up the energy to
kill myself.
“Miss Sinclair?” someone asked. It was a woman in a lab coat, whose nametag hung off her pocket like a badge of honor. A nod to days gone by when status and prestige were marked by the amount of brass on your uniform. She wore sensible brown leather shoes that looked like a cross between loafers and hiking boots. Her brown, shoulder length hair was paired with plain, no-nonsense makeup. “You can follow me, please.” I followed her to a room that looked and smelled much like a doctor’s office, with sterile white walls, white cupboards, alcohol, tongue depressors and cotton balls on the countertop.
She gestured for me to take a seat. “I’m Dr. Dorlett. I understand hospital staff had some difficulty typing your sister’s blood?” The doctor stared straight at me, her dark gaze unwavering.
“That’s correct. My sister was killed by a blood transfusion. She was in a car accident.” Even saying the words made my eyes well up with tears and my throat swell.
My sister was killed.
Dr. Dorlett flipped through a chart. Her eyes shadowed over and a crease formed in her forehead. I felt suddenly unsettled, as if the floor had just gone off-kilter and I was sliding, down, down, down, deep into the unknown. Purgatory.
Her navy blue eyes flicked up from the chart to me and back down again. “These lab results indicate they were unable to type your sister’s blood at all.” She stared at the document, her rutted brow and grooves around her mouth so deep her entire face looked harsh, like an antique marionette doll. “There must be an error.”
I remained silent, not knowing whether she was asking me a question or not. When her penetrating eyes met mine once again, I felt all the more ill-at-ease.
“This is inaccurate.” Doctor Dorlett’s eyes were as cold as a storm-tossed sky. “The lab clearly made an error. Let’s take a vial of your blood for typing and I’ll call them to discuss the results.”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes as the doctor tied a band around my bicep and slid the needle into the vein at the crook of my elbow. I opened my eyes. The reddish-blue blood spurted into the test tube with every beat of my heart. Three vials of blood filled before she removed the needle. She pressed a cotton ball to the puncture wound and left with the vials. I remained alone in the cold, sterile room. I pulled the cotton ball back and stared at the crimson round stain against the snowy white cotton fibres.
How could a hospital ER or lab make an error? Wasn’t blood typing a common, routine practice? Weren’t there only four or five blood types anyway? Someone was either lying outright or lying by omission. The whole situation stunk of negligence and people carefully avoidant to cover their ass.
My bracelets rattled from my hands shaking. I pulled my cell phone out and surfed the internet for lawyers who specialized in medical malpractice. I clicked on the first one I saw, and pressed the dial button.
I sucked in a deep breath and let it hiss out, hoping to calm my vibrating body. Dr. Dorlett returned after only one ring into my phone call and handed me a piece of paper. I hung up.
The five-by-seven page had four circles across the top and blood spots in each of the circles. Beneath each circle had a title—Anti A, Anti B, Anti D and Control. My name was beneath all the circles.
“Do you see how each one of those droplets has little dots?” The doctor asked, her eyebrows high on her forehead. I nodded and she continued, “That means the test is invalid. One of them should look like a fully formed circle.” Dr. Dorlett grasped three more of the same little papers from the chart. “So I repeated the process. Three times. All three times were invalid.” She handed the other three papers to me and all of them looked exactly like the first. “These are the tests from the hospital lab that were performed on your sister’s blood type.”
I stared at the blood tests with Analiese’s name on them. All of them had that same spotty blood in the four circles.
I looked up at her. “What does this mean?”
“There was no mistake at the hospital. You and your sister’s blood can’t be typed.” The doctor’s face turned slightly pink.
“I don’t understand.”
Dr. Dorlett’s mouth pinched together. “I’m sorry. I can’t explain it any more than that. Our lab can’t help you. I’ve referred you to The National Human Genome Research Institute and the Center for Inherited Disease Research. I understand this is where the coroner has sent your sister’s body for further examination.”
A jolt shot through to my stomach. “What? They’ve sent Analiese somewhere without telling us?”
The doctor took the blood typing results from my hands and placed them back into the file. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing more we can do for you here.”
#
My mom, Carla and I wasted no time flying to Bethesda, Maryland, where The National Human Genome Research Institute was located. Once we touched down in Bethesda and retrieved our luggage, we hailed a cab, neither of us feeling emotionally capable of driving. Mom spent nearly the entire ride on her cell, contacting government officials, politicians and anyone else she could angrily scold and threaten with a lawsuit.
Before this, my mom was only mildly unhappy with her life, thanks to my dad who had decided to turn everything upside down in her life. She’d been busy focusing on her career as a real estate agent when my dad, Tom, up and left three years ago, following a torrid affair. Mom was the embodiment of the saying ‘had the rug pulled out from under her feet’.
I stared out the window, noting the lush landscape of this coastal city, but unable to appreciate it. One dead tree among the green caught my eye, the whitened branches gnarled into a twisting spiral, reaching up to the heavens. In my peripheral vision, a snow-white jackrabbit sprang through the weedy ditch, bee-lining for the trees alongside the road. It watched our moving car with one round, crimson-red eye and then hopped off into the trees, disappearing from view.
I glanced at mom, her dark brown hair and pale skin seeming to amplify the worry lines below her eyes and around her mouth. She had her hair cut in a bob that normally was styled to look funky and cute, but today, with the way it hung in lank strips around her face, I wasn’t sure she’d even combed it. I could hardly criticize. My own waist-length black hair hadn’t been washed in three days and I’d kept it tied back in a messy ponytail the entire time.
Showering seemed to be a privilege, something only worthy people were allowed to do, a form of self-care for deserving people only.
Analiese’s death couldn’t have happened at a worse time for mom. After my dad left three years ago, I knew at least mom had Analiese at home. But now, I was all my mom had left. Would my dad want to come to the institute as well? Would he try to sweep in like Disneyland daddy and participate in this mess? Grieve his dead daughter and pretend to support me? The last thing I wanted to see right now was the man who’d destroyed any and all self-esteem mom once had. Analiese and I hadn’t spoken to him for over a year and a half. It was just easier that way.
We settled into our hotel, showered and got ready for our meeting scheduled later in the afternoon. When the time arrived for us to depart for the institute, I had butterflies in my stomach that felt more like jumping razorblades.
The National Human Genome Research Institute was made up of several large buildings, reminding me of a college campus. The tall main structure was a unique combination of red brick and shiny glass windows, giving it both a traditional and contemporary feel, a seamless blending of old and new. We got out of the cab and despite the sensation that my legs were encased in concrete, I pushed forward to the entrance.
Inside, we came to a large granite wall of financial donors. We approached the information desk off to the left and were greeted by a pretty Asian woman with prominent cheekbones, eyelash extensions that nearly reached her eyebrows and hair pulled back into a tight bun. She appeared tiny behind the mammoth round desk that enclosed her.
“Welcome to NHGRI. Where can I direct you?” she asked.
“My daughter’s body has been sent here for autopsy,” Mom said.
“And I’ve been referred here by GenMed in Colorado,” I added.
The woman peered at us with dark brown eyes, as if she knew precisely who we were. But that was hardly likely, wasn’t it? “Adriana Sinclair? Welcome. The research team is eagerly awaiting your arrival.”
My belly tightened and my mouth went dry. A research
team
. Why would a research team be eager to see me? Why, with the massive size of this institute, which probably employed hundreds of people, why would this one woman, clearly a receptionist, know I was coming? Because of the blood typing?
“Please, have a seat. I will let the Division Director of Genomic Medicine know you are here.” She motioned for us to take a seat along the wall. We sat down on the row of vinyl chairs beside a dove-grey bare wall, save for one huge, wall-spanning iridescent image of a 3-D double helix. The receptionist was still within earshot. “Adriana Sinclair is here.”
A booming voice startled me from my fixation on the dazzling picture on the wall. “Adriana and Carla Sinclair.” The man strode up to us, wearing a navy blue suite that seemed far too small for his tall, approximately six-foot-four frame. He had greying brown hair and a reddish-brown goatee. His John Lennon spectacles emphasized his froggy-round eyes, prominent nose and long two front teeth. “I’m Dr. McGill, Director of the Human Genome Project. I am sorry to hear about Analiese.” He thrust his hand out to mom, his coat sleeve riding up to reveal thick, curly forearm hair.
Mom took his hand and shook it, nodding and blinking fiercely, forcing back the tears. I looked away. Then Dr. McGill took my hand and shook it with a gorilla-firm grip. His palm was surprisingly warm.
“Thank you. Her loss has been devastating,” Mom said, her voice choked.
“I’m sure it has been, Ms. Sinclair,” he said. Somehow, his words and his manner seemed disingenuous. Like he was saying what he thought was appropriate for the situation, pacifying us until he could get to what he really wanted to talk about. “Please, come with me. We need to speak to you about a number of our findings with respect to your daughter’s genetic makeup.”
We followed him down a corridor to an elevator that took us up to the sixth floor. There, he led us past several science labs and into a boardroom. Inside was a large oak table with numerous people in lab coats already seated around it. In the middle were x-rays, paper documents and a chart. At one end of the room was a painting that took up two-thirds of the wall. It was four circles filled with concentric rings that looked vaguely like four evenly placed targets. The colours ranged from burgundy on the outer edge to pale pink on the inside. I couldn’t stop staring at it.
“Please have a seat,” Dr. McGill said as he took a chair at the head of the table.
We sat closest to him, though I had no idea why, considering there were numerous chairs open elsewhere around the table. Dr. McGill proceeded to introduce everyone. All of the intros began with
doctor
and then their particular specialization,
Dr. Jones, Genetic and Inherited Diseases; Dr. Bomer, Genetics and Molecular Biology; Dr. Halan, Genome Technology.
There were nine scientists altogether, but after the fifth person, I stopped listening. They all sounded the same.
“There are some significant anomalies about Analiese’s genetics,” Dr. McGill seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Were you aware of this, Ms. Sinclair?”
Mom shook her head, her eyes wide. “No. What kind of anomalies?”
“I suppose the most intriguing is the blood type. Genetically, her blood type has never been seen before, which explains her body’s refusal of blood products.”
I sat forward so fast the leather seat squeaked against my jeans. “Is there an explanation?” I asked.
“Occasionally, we see marked genetic differences such as this in individuals, and it is our job to investigate the anomaly, to determine if it is a genetic variant, a mutation of some kind, or if it is an inherited disease.” Dr. McGill paused. “That is why Analiese’s body has been brought here. For investigation.”
“What does an investigation entail, exactly?” Mom asked.
Dr. McGill placed his hands on the file full of papers in front of him, his large, knobby fingers splayed so he was touching almost every page. “Before we get into that, I’d like to ask a few other questions about Analiese’s anatomy.”
Mom’s brow furrowed. “Okay?”
“Are you aware your daughter had a vestigial rib?” Dr. McGill asked, his froggy gaze levelled on mom.
I stared at her, my heart staggering in my chest. All colour drained from her face.
“No.” Her voice sounded strange and small, and immediately, I knew something was off. Was mom lying? What on earth would make her lie about something as serious as this?
Dr. McGill continued. “We’ve seen vestigial ribs before, but the peculiar thing about Analiese’s case is the rib is at the bottom of the thoracic cage. Highly irregular.”
“What does that mean?” Mom asked. Oddly, she no longer looked sad or scared, now she looked irritated. Hostile.
“What it means is… your daughter’s genetic makeup is unlike any other we’ve seen before,” Dr. McGill said.
Another scientist, the one named Dr. Bomer, nodded in agreement. “Her existence will be of much interest to modern genetics around the world. She will be invaluable to our understanding of chromosomal abnormalities, evolutionary biology, modern medicine.” Mom blinked, over and over, as if she was trying to blink away what she was hearing and seeing. “I don’t understand.”
“This situation is highly irregular. The opportunity for learning from your daughter’s particular genetic makeup is endless, the possibilities for completely altering our understanding of Darwinian evolution too vast to even imagine.” Dr. Bomer smiled, an expression so out of place in the face of my mother’s pain, it was almost unbearable to watch. He continued, “Everything we knew, or thought we knew is about to be challenged, all because of your sister.” The other doctors assembled around the table nodded in agreement.
“I don’t know what to say.” My mother’s voice was quiet, like she was performing a stage whisper.
Another scientist, a sixty-something man who had been introduced as Dr. Halan, spoke in a heavy Irish accent, “Many geneticists have always believed our race was derived from a single decedent, one that lived over two hundred thousand years ago. But up until today, we had no evidence to prove our theory.”
Mom stared at the man, her eyes wide as saucers. My body felt mired to the chair.
I finally spoke. “Are you saying… Analiese is...?”
Dr. McGill grinned widely, with Dr. Halan and the rest of his colleagues mirroring his expression. Clearly this was something they were proud of. “We believe Analiese is a genetic throwback to this original hominid.”
“Oh, my God.” My heart thumped so hard it felt like it was in my throat. “I don’t understand…”
Someone cleared their throat. “Actually,” Dr. Bomer said, “We are considering the possibility that the mutation is an evolution
into
the original mitochondria.”
“Although the likelihood of that is one in twenty billion,” Dr. Halan said, as if he was challenging Dr. Bomer.
Dr. Bomer was unfazed. “There are seven billion people on the planet, Dr. Halan.”
“Highly implausible,” was Dr. Halan’s response. Were they actually having an argument in front of us?
Dr. Bomer returned his focus to me and my mother. “There is some debate within the scientific community, that the maximum energy potential was much stronger in the original mitochondrion. A theory we would like to test out.”
“The Endosymbiotic Theory is highly disputed,” Dr. Halan added.
Dr. Bomer ignored this comment altogether, his lips pinched together. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
“We’ll need to keep Analiese’s body here for a period of time so we can administer all of the appropriate tests. We’ll document our findings, as I’m sure you can appreciate.” Dr. McGill gave mom a perfunctory smile and then addressed me directly. “But I’m also aware that you, Adriana, also have the atypical blood type.”
“That’s correct.” The words that came out of my mouth were stiff, bordering on defensive. But I had nothing to be defensive about, did I? My body felt stiff as a board.
“Are Analiese and Adriana your biological children, Ms. Sinclair?” McGill asked.
“Yes, they are.”
“We would like to contact the biological father,” Dr. McGill said.
Mom glanced at me, her eyes wide. “I can supply you with that information. Why do you need it?”
Dr. McGill glanced at the other scientists. “Homozygous, or recessive traits, are typically inherited when both parents are carriers of the traits. Their father and you would both be carriers of recessive traits.”
I thought about dad, and how his colouring, his body shape and his facial structure—
blonde, brown-eyed, and six-foot-four—was nothing like me, mom and Analiese. I realized there was a heavy silence hanging over the room. Mom’s complete lack of response was very curious to say the least. I examined her widened eyes, the whites flashing. She only ever looked like this when she was truly afraid. The first time I’d seen her look like this was when she and Dad had a fight and he left. The first of many times he left us. Until he finally left for good.
“We would like to invite you, Adriana, and your mother and father to stay here at our lab so we can run some simultaneous tests on you and your sister. It’s not that often we have the opportunity to cross-analyze with genetically identical twins.” Dr. Halan smiled widely.
“Oh?” I said. I glanced at mom whose eyes were completely round now, like saucers.
“Our studies on you, Carla, and Adriana’s father would be relatively short, and could be conducted at a distance, in your home city, if necessary, but,” Dr. McGill, his expression placid, continued, “Adriana, we’d like you to stay a bit longer. In the field of genetics, it is not uncommon to find genetic anomalies in the human population. But it is rare for the anomaly to be in identical twins. We are requesting you consider participating in some standard testing. For the purpose of scientific advancement, of course. We would like you to stay and become part of history.”