"When does it start getting better?"
"When you allow yourself to really feel it. To accept it."
"Accept what?"
"That…the life you had before is over. That things will never be the same. That for better or for worse, you're not the same. Where you choose to go from there is entirely up to you. You can either let the pain, the guilt, become your only friend. Your prison. Or you can let it teach you, perhaps even make you stronger in some ways." He shakes his head. "But I won't lie to you, it's always there under the surface. The darkness. It's a part of you. Forever."
Before I can stop myself, I tentatively reach across and squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry."
He squeezes back. "I'm sorry."
I meet his eyes, searching deep to confirm my suspicion. I find it. That same haunted look I always see in mine. Eyes that have gazed into that abyss and seen it staring back. He's as broken as I am. Kindred spirits. We gaze at each other for a few seconds, not blinking or even breathing. This is a rare find, and we both know it. "Jem--"
The door opens, and I yank my hand away. A nurse pokes her head in. "Mrs. Armstrong is ready to go to radiology."
Jem leaps up like a jack-in-the-box, running his hand through his unruly hair. "Good, um, yes, um, thank you." The nurse glances at me, then at him, and shuts the door. "Um, I-I-I had best get back in there. Ar-Are you alright? Would-Would you like me to page a psychiatrist or write you a scrip for Valium or, no you can't take pills. Forgot that. I-I suppose I could--"
"I'm fine now. Thank you."
He nods. "Yes. Right. Sure. Um, I-I had better…" he gestures to the door, and smiles nervously. "Ha-Have a nice day." And he walks out.
I don't move for a minute. I can't. I'm completely dazed by what just transpired. Not that I can exactly explain what just happened. I just know the last time I felt like this I was twelve and standing on Pendergast Bridge, staring at the boy who would become the most important person in my life. My body tingling from my soul out from the recognition that nothing, nothing would ever be the same for me again. And it is…brilliant. Exciting. Miraculous.
And more damn terrifying than a million guns held by a million villains pointed at me.
*
I give my statement to one of the officers accompanying the henchmen to the hospital and get the hell out of there as quick as I can. Dobbs knows me well enough to not ask a lot of questions on the drive home. I change out of my bloody dress into jeans and black shirt, grab some chips and candy from the pantry, and begin work on my new project: Dr. Jonathan Fucking Ambrose, MD, Ph.D.
I know it's kind of stalker-ish to have Doris run a database search on a guy I like, but I will refrain from driving by his building ten times a day or rooting through his trash. Maybe. I locate his full name, Jonathan Greene Ambrose, date of birth, and social security number from the hospital records and plug them in. It'll take Doris about ten minutes to collate, so I go into the living room for better reception to return calls. Harry's cell goes to voice mail, so I leave a message. Same with Cam and V. Everyone's busy. I do speak to my head of PR and review the press release about to go out. The computer is done by the time I am. Close to two hundred documents found. This is going to take awhile.
Let's see. Born just outside New Urbana. Parents deceased. I pull up a picture of them at a charity event. Ugh. Both are serious and haughty, not even smiling it for the camera. I know their type: thinks they're better than everyone. It's as if they're judging me even in this photo. Father, Christian Ambrose, was heir to the Stonehouse Pharmaceuticals fortune. He was a doctor too, a geneticist, wow one on the team that isolated the uber-gene that causes people to have superpowers. It seems genius runs in the family. There's not a lot on Christian or his wife Eloise except a marriage announcement and a few sightings at charity events. The article that catches my eye is the one about the house, or really mansion fire when Jem was sixteen. Killed both parents. The article mentions a brother, Jordan, but it's the only time. Maybe he died too. And there's no engagement announcement either. In fact there's precious little about Jem's personal life anywhere. A few mentions on the New Urbana or Independence society pages but otherwise all the files are academic or professional. He started college at age fourteen, developed the retrovirus before he graduated med school at age twenty, has a trillion awards, has lectured all over the world, was one on Independence's bachelors of the year twice, and has an IQ of 198. I fall back in my seat with a sigh. Great. I sure can pick them. Perfect. He's fucking perfect. And probably still in love with his dead fiancée.