+J.M.J.+

Flesh of My Flesh

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

I'm glad this fic has been so well received; there were a lot of misgivings flying around in my head when I started writing it, but those have been dispelled by everyone's reviews. Special thanks goes to "Juni Cortez" (Cool name! [And yes, I know it comes from "Spy Kids"]), who's been the most encouraging. A couple musical reference for this chapter, for those of you who have the CD of Michael Nyman's excellent score for this film: the cuts entitled "Becoming Jerome", "The One Moment", and "The Other Side".

Disclaimer:

See chapter I

Chapter IV

Vindicated

A new year deserves new dreams…

The day before New Year's Eve, I had another session with Minerva—Dr. Koestelbaum.

"So, there's a whole new year ahead of us: what are you planning to do with it?" she asked me.

"I'm working toward finding a job," I said. "My father has insinuated he may be ending my allowance, but I know my mother would keep me on it. Their Christmas/birthday gift this year was paying for my surgery and my therapy."

"If you're looking for a job that's in your field, my cousin Gerd told me there's a job opening at the Y this summer as a swimming instructor. He works there as a program director."

"It sounds interesting, but I don't know if I could do it."

"Why? What's holding you back?"

I wagged my head. "My disability, my status."

"Which status, social or genetic?"

To be honest, she had me stumped there.

To keep from being alone on New Year's Eve, I went out to a restaurant in a hotel that night. I have to be honest, but I felt a bit shy, so I decided to settle on being the mysterious dark gentleman in the corner, watching the festivities. I thought I spotted Minerva, in a long maroon velvet evening gown, but I couldn't be sure. About half an hour before midnight, I stepped outside into the courtyard garden for a breath of air and to get a look at the stars. I'd never been much of a stargazer and I still didn't know all their names, but—excuse the mushiness—but Vincent/Jerome had taught me to look up at them. All I could tell anyone for sure was that one of them was Saturn and I knew someone who, as of recently, had set foot on one of the moons circling it.

As I stood there, leaning on my stick, looking up, I couldn't help sending a happy new year's greeting to him up there.

My free hand reached behind me, touching my back, just below my ribcage, caressing the region of the surgery scar.

I went back in a few minutes before midnight.

I looked across the room, through the throng of elegantly dressed people laughing, some dancing, some already making a terrible racket with their noisemakers. My eyes sought a familiar face.

I spotted Minerva again, dancing with a tall young man with dark blond hair, pallid gray eyes and a narrow, rough chiseled face, the kind women call "ruggedly handsome". She was clearly doing her best to enjoy his company, but once or twice our eyes met even at that distance.

The band broke off in the middle of "Moonlight Serenade". A drum roll rattled and the bandleader led the crowd in a countdown.

10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2082!

I glanced toward Minerva and her companion. He was kissing her, his mouth on hers; open. But I noted that the back of her neck was bent stiffly, as if she couldn't relax under his touch.

I turned and spotted a slightly tired-looking waitress. I took her hand, wished her a happy new year and kissed her. I took advantage of her slightly startled reaction and made myself scarce: let her wonder who was that Englishman with the piercing green eyes.

I went straight home, but as I reached the door of my apartment, I heard someone drunkenly chanting something in the shadows:

"I went to see Jerome, but I found he was not home…somethingsomethingsomething, last line of this poem." There was the unmistakable gurgle of someone drinking from a liquor bottle.

Eckart, his hat over one ear and his clothes in disarray, waltzed out of the shadows. He focused on me and grinned. "Or is it, 'I went to see Jer-o-um and I found he was not ho-um…somethingsomethingsomething, last line of this po-um'?"

"Good night, Eckart," I said, fumbling with the lock on the door.

He staggered over and clapped his hand on my shoulder. Thank heavens I hadn't had anything myself, and my legs were continuing to grow stronger, or his blow might have knocked me down.

"Hey, iss a new year an' the nightsss young," he slurred. "How 'bout you an' me find usss sssome compumy."

"Thank you, but no," I said,

"Wha'? You gotta resso—hic—lution not t' do nuffin wif ennywun?"

"Not exactly," I said, unlocking the door and opening it.

"Aaaawww, I bet I know," he said. I pushed the door open and ducked through it, but before I could close it, Eckart suddenly righted himself and stuck his knee in so I couldn't close it.

"Who is it?" he asked, sober-voiced.

"What?" I demanded.

"You got it bad for someone, or else you wouldn't be abstaining. Who is it?"

"Nobody," I said. I pulled the door back, blocking the entrance with my body so he couldn't get in, threatening to slam the door on his leg, and with my strength, I could snap it like a celery stalk.

"I bet I know, it's that InValid head-shrinker of yours."

"You couldn't be further from the truth: I just saw her with someone else. Now get out before I call security," I said. "Or better still, I might call the cops and tell them to get this InValid racketeer off my doorstep."

Eckart let out a low chuckle. The sound slowly escalated to a husky laugh, then to a coarse, cackling guffaw, mouth open so wide I could see the white polymer fillings in his molars: they didn't blend well with the yellowing of his actual teeth.

I could have slapped him across the face, but I was tired and I'm not a violent man (despite having attempted violence against myself twice). He tottered away, still cackling, still drunk.

I closed the door slowly. Banging it would only have satisfied him.

The winter rains kept me largely inside, but I managed to venture out as often as I could, walking, building up my legs. My thighs were finally thicker than my knees and I was actually starting to see muscle shadows on them again.

Around the end of February, the beginning of March, Olson said I could probably set aside my stick, unless I felt shaky.

About the same time, Minerva—Dr. Koestelbaum—asked if I felt like I still needed to come in twice a week.

"No, but what if my father should know that I've cut back?"

"He doesn't have to know exactly how often you're coming here."

"I suppose not," I said.

"So…what are you doing to keep moving on these days?"

"Right now I'm walking every day, trying to build my legs up."

"Good for you! I noticed you didn't have your stick today. How much are you walking?"

"As far as I can: about four to five miles a day, sometimes five to six."

"The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step, but you've come along further than anyone could ever have expected."

"Especially me."

The news came back that the Titan exploration team, docked at Discovery, the space station just off Saturn, had sent a manned craft to Titan to scout the surface. The news carried some of the photographs they sent back. I couldn't help wondering if Vincent/Jerome was among the lucky ones walking that alien surface blanketed with some kind of strange chemical snow (I'm no expert on astronomy, but a rock that far out probably doesn't have an earth-like atmosphere.). Maybe he'd taken the picture.

Minerva had me writing all this down in a journal: my recovery, my thoughts, my observations, my thoughts; I've considered editing parts of it for Vincent, if he ever gets back, if he ever survives the backlash liable to hit him in the face as soon as he shows his face on earth—if they haven't found it out already.

I bought myself a treadmill, but that only made me restless: I felt like a lab rat on a wire wheel.

Instead, I started running laps around the ground floor of the apartment and up the stairs. I soon got so that I could run upstairs without hanging onto the banister. Running down caused a few problems since I still didn't have the coordination to manage it, but it gave me something to work at.

At my next session, I told Minerva I was running now.

"That's great," she said, beaming. "How far are you going?"

"About six miles a day," I said. I described my route in the apartment. I hesitated. "I trip once in a while."

"But you keep getting up and running again."

"That's the only way I can get back to where I was."

As the spring progressed, I started venturing out in the early mornings, with the first full light, to run past the silent, sleeping houses, when no one would see me.

I tripped less often than before. I found a park with a cinder track I'd seen and ran my laps there.

"I saw you running the other day in Greenleaf Park," Minerva said at the next session. "Or at least it looked like you."

"If it was early in the morning, it was me," I said, smiling a little proudly.

"Would you mind if I joined you?" she asked. "It's something I should keep up. I used to run in high school, just for the heck of it."

"Did you go to any meets?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She shrugged. "I just liked running. Competition meant nothing to me. Winning against myself and my own weakness meant more to me than vying for a medal."

There was a lesson to be learned hear, but the old Jerome didn't want to hear it. I changed the subject.

"Back to the bit about your running with me. I think I could tolerate your presence. But I get up early in the morning."

"How early?"

"About 6 a.m. Could you handle that?"

"Sure. I'm an early bird."

"Then let's do that."

We met at Greenleaf Park the very next morning. She wore a sleeveless black jersey over a khaki riding skirt. She was waiting for me over by an oak tree near the cinder track. She smiled and fell in step beside me as I headed for the track.

I quickened my pace. She matched my strides. I walked even faster, on the brink of a run; she still kept up.

I ran flat out, feeling the air rush past my legs, under the soles of my feet, hearing her breathing beside me.

After a couple of laps like this, we both slowed to a standstill.

"You're holding back," I said.

"I don't want to embarrass you," she said.

"Show me."

"Okay." She started walking fast; I watched her gaining momentum around the track. She hit a cruising speed, then she broke into a wild sprint, like a gazelle.

She slowed to a stop as she came up to me, nearly colliding with me, but I sidestepped her.

"My goodness!" I said. I glanced up the track. "Care to race?"

"Nah, I'd beat you."

"Challenge me: I need it."

"Okay, your call," she said.

We got into place, side by side.

"On your mark…get set…GO!"

We took off at the exact same moment, like shots from the same gun. She gained on me, got ahead, but I pushed myself, every muscle and nerve fiber in my legs firing, knees working like pistons. I glanced at her face; her eyes were open, unblinking, completely in the moment, the early morning light flashing off her glasses.

As we reached the home stretch, my left leg buckled under me and I fell, sprawling. She stopped, spun on a dime and knelt beside me to help me up.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes, yes, my hip joint gave out."

She stood up, lifting me with her. I discovered my hands had clasped her forearms. She looked up into my eyes.

"You steady?" she asked.

I let her go. "I am now."

Each day during the week, after that, we ran together, she and I. Once in a while, in the weeks that followed, she got us breakfast at a local Starbuck's.

Later that season, I went to the Y to see if the job for a swimming instructor was still open. Sure enough, it was. I went home and started preparing my resume, which I submitted to Gerd Koestelbaum. A day or two later, I got a call from him.

Next day, I went in for the interview.

A few kids passed me in the front entryway and the corridor that led from it. They eyed me a little suspiciously and started whispering and grinning among themselves.

I found the directors' offices. I introduced myself to the secretary, who passed my message on to Koestelbaum. A moment later, she came back.

"Gerd will see you now," she said. I got up and went into the office she had emerged from.

Behind the desk, mending a tennis racquet, sat the same angular man I had spotted Minerva with on New Year's Eve.

"Ah, you must be Jerome," he said, standing up. His voice was a bit gruff, but pleasantly so. "Minerva told me a lot about you. I'm Gerhard Koestelbaum, but I'd prefer if you'd call me Gerd."

"She's told me a lot about you. I couldn't help noticing you have the same last name; are you related?"

"I'm her fourth cousin: she's also my fiancée."

My metronome heart skipped a beat, but I didn't let it register in my face. "Well, good luck to you both. She's never mentioned it to me, but I suppose that's for her to decide."

"We're keeping the relationship low-key," he said.

I remember Vincent/Jerome telling me about his one-shot interview at Gattaca: one urine sample, one verification of his identity (mine), and he had the job. This interview wasn't so simple: a lot of questions about my academic and athletic record. I had to sign a release form allowing them to run a full background check, and I'd have to submit to periodic random drug tests.

"Don't think you can get the job just because of your genetic status," Gerd said, an edge of warning to his voice. "The YPCA does not allow genomism in any way, shape, or form, and we expect that of our employees."

"I didn't think my ladder would raise me up any higher," I said, in jest, with a nonchalant shrug.

Gerd caught the joke and his craggy face betrayed a grin.

"So far as I can see, you seem well-qualified for the job," Gerd said. "As soon as the background check goes through, I'll call you back."

After a few final words we shook hands and I went out.

I had never really worked a day in my life before this, not that I had the job yet. Then I caught myself fearing that the ladder-selling incident might have put a blot on my record. But if the YPCA didn't allow genomism, maybe they would actually commend the gesture.

Then I thought perhaps they wouldn't accept the fact that I was still in counseling for my depression, but I realized they probably couldn't do that either, because some emotional disorders are genetically related.

But they turned a blind eye to my flaws. A week later, Gerd called me to say I had the job.

Most of the kids were "anklebiters"—to put it nicely—whose parents had dumped them off to get them out of the way, but I knew how to get them in line. I insisted that they call me either "Mr. Morrow" or "Jerome"; the former if they had yet to earn my respect, the latter if they'd proven themselves. I was strict, I was told, but within reason.

I worked mornings and afternoons, which left my evenings free to start training again. Gerd had swum in college and he'd been filling in as an instructor till he'd hired me, so he spotted me while I swam. I'd never lost my technique, but building myself back up would take some doing. I knew I had months of hard work ahead of me, but it would be just what the doctor ordered.

My days were full now, running with Minerva, therapy sessions on Tuesday with her, coaching the kids, training myself up. Even then, in the summer, it was often sundown by the time I got home. I walked home many nights, gazing up at the stars, watching them come out, wondering which one was Saturn, which one had the moon Vincent/Jerome was walking on now. Had the crew found out his/our little secret?

"You've asked me a millions questions about me and my background," I pointed out to Minerva one morning over breakfast in the Starbucks where we often went after our morning run. "But what about you? I barely know much about you and we've been running together for three months now."

"Oh, don't get me started talking about myself. That's a bad question to ask," she said. "Well be here all morning and we'll both be late for work."

"Why, are you really that self-centered that you'd start blabbing about how great you are?"

"No, it's just people with Asperger's tend to monologue about the things that occupy their attention."

"Maybe by some weird act of God, I've got it: I've monologued to you about myself."

"That's different: that's therapy. Besides, I don't think you'd be here if you had the gene sequence that triggers Asperger's."

"Well, to keep it to one area of curiosity, maybe you could start by telling me about who you are," I said. "Are you and Gerd really engaged?" She still didn't have a ring.

"He's engaged to me, but I'm not engaged to him yet."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I said.

"He wants to marry me, but I'm still not sure I want to marry him."

"Why not?"

"He wants to Validate our children, if we had any. I don't want that: I want my kids to be themselves. I know how to help them the way I was helped." She drew in a long breath. "He's a Valid, third class, but he's talked about wanting our kids to be Valid, first class."

Valid, third class, also known as a "cracked ladder": his genome had been cleared of all health problems, but nothing else had been touched.

"What about you? What would you want for you kids…if you had any?" she asked.

I paused. "Well, that's a little premature for me to say, since I'm not seeing anyone. But I guess I'd leave that up to my wife."

She looked at me odd, almost as if I'd tripped her lie-o-meter yet again. "You don't want that for your children, do you? After what your father put you through?" she asked.

I had to admit, she was right. "No," I said, firmly.

The mornings that followed, she told me more about herself and her family. She was an only child like me, but that was only because of her mother's health. She'd been taught at home, but she hadn't minded it since she was naturally a happy loner. She'd decided to go into psychology when she was sixteen after she'd noticed the depression that haunted most InValids.

"But I see almost as many Valids as I see InValids," she said. "The quest for perfection does that to people, shrivels their hearts so they can't feel good about themselves."

"'There is no gene for the human spirit'," I mused.

"Have you pondered that?" she asked.

"Yes."

"What do you think it means?"

"I think it means…you can't breed people to not follow their dreams. You can manipulate genetics until you've created something better even than me—sorry, than someone like me. But you can't breed them to accept the role of having to be perfect. And also…you can't tell someone to stop dreaming just because their genetics are supposedly bad."

"And how'd you know this?"

"From watching Vincent, from sharing the same living space with him for two years. From my own experience, though I haven't owned up to that till now.

"How did this turn into a psyche session, anyway?" I said.

"I'm sorry," she said, blushing. "I should get out more often."

"That's why you're running with me."

A few days later, she asked me a favor.

"Could you teach me to swim?" she said. "I'll give you a discount on your therapy sessions in exchange."

"Of course," I said. "When do you want to start?"

"When can you fit me in?"

I pulled my palmtop out of my pocket and checked my schedule (Never thought I'd see myself doing that again!). "I have an opening on Fridays at five," I said.

"I can manage that," she said. I jotted her name in.

She looked at me. "You'd do this for me?"

I shrugged. "What are friends for?"

Friday at five she showed up at the poolside, dressed in a modest, violet 1940s style one piece with brief skirts that half-concealed her hips and built in shorts under that, which came down to her mid-thighs, just covering two thin scars that ended just above her knees. It had the odd knack of concealing and revealing her shapely figure at the same time. I have to be honest and admit that I noticed she was a little flat-chested, but I set that aside.

She looked me up and down, grinning somewhat teasingly. "Glad to see I'm not the only modest one," she said.

I consistently wear an old-fashioned suit myself, a tank top built into trunks. "Oh, that's just so I won't have people staring at me," I said.

"You must have a lot of people do that."

"Yes, not just the girls, the guys stare at me, too."

"Gerd doesn't allow that."

"Not that kind of staring, Dr. Masters and Johnson: I meant envious staring."

"I'd think you'd love the attention," she said, twitting.

"To be honest, I don't."

She hid a smile, as if her lie-o-meter had been tripped again.

I spent that first lesson just getting her acclimated to the water. She didn't even know how to hold her breath under water and she was extremely reluctant to put her head under the surface.

"Are you afraid of getting your hair wet or some rot like that?" I teased.

She dropped her gaze to the surface of the water. "You'll laugh."

"I won't."

"It's just…the water hurts my eyes."

I had to bite my tongue hard to keep my word. "You get used to it after awhile: it used to bother me, too."

I didn't push it. She'd respected my comfort level and helped me expand it by challenging me in my sessions with her. That was one thing I'd learned from her, and it helped make me a better instructor.

I was doing so well emotionally that Minerva suggested that I see her every other week instead of every week.

"But of course…that's up to you," she said.

"Well, like you've said, there's only one way to find out," I replied.

It felt strange, coming into her office now that we were on such good terms. She was a very different person there: all business, caring but detached, unlike the young woman who was starting to warm to my charms (Ha. Ha. Ha.).

A year had now passed since my second attempt and what a year it had been.

I took the long way home one night, gazing up at the sky every so often as I walked.

Someone came up alongside me and kicked me in the leg. I staggered, but I righted myself, and turned, ready to defend myself if need be.

Eckart stood before me, grinning up at me and blowing gin-scented breath in my face.

"Long time no see, Jerome, or is it Eugene?" he drawled.

"Never mind that, Eckart, what do you want?"

"I was gonna ask you. I hadn't heard from you in so long, I thought you'd done it again. Y' know, third time's the charm?"

"Far from it."

"You look great. How's it feel to be back on your pins again?"

"I have my shaky moments, but I'm doing better.

He glanced around with just his eyes. "I see you running with that InValid girl-shrink of yours. How's it going with her? She done you any…other favors yet?"

"Not the kind your dirty mind is contemplating."

"You done her any favors?"

"I'm teaching her to swim," I said.

"Ahhh, trying to turn her into a mermaid, eh?" He smacked his lips.

"That isn't the point: I'm helping her get over her fear of the water."

"So you're yer shrink's shrink now. That don't sound good to me."

"We're trading off: she's paying part of her lessons by counseling me."

"Oh, I seeee," he drawled. "Well, have fun with that InValid." He blew one last breath in my face and went away.

A couple days later, I gave Minerva her second lesson getting acquainted with the water.

"I was practicing putting my face under the water all last week," she said hopefully as I led her into the shallow end of the pool.

"Well, let's see it," I said.

She pinched her nostrils shut and squatted. The water came up to her forehead. I was tempted to put my hand on the back of her head and tilt her forward till she was submerged, but I knew better: respect her comfort level till it had expanded.

She popped up again, gasping. Her face had gone white and she trembled a little.

"How was that?" she asked, bright-eyed.

"You're off to a great start," I said.

"It was terrible," she said, incredulous.

"I've seen a lot worse here."

I started her with a simple stroke, the dog paddle, which I figured she could master soon enough. She got the hang of it very easily, with me swimming alongside her, encouraging her. I challenged her, leading her out into deeper water.

She did great for a while, but then suddenly she tensed up. Her spine went straight and she stopped; she sank like a rock. I dove after her, finding she'd settled onto the bottom.

I dragged her out onto the ledge. She wasn't breathing. I turned her on her side, pressing her flesh, just about her pelvis. A runnel of water ran out onto the pavement. I turned her over on her back, pinched her nose shut and gave her mouth-to-mouth.

She twitched and her mouth tightened under mine. I withdrew. She opened her eyes and looked up at me.

"What…happened?" she asked. "Oh…" she blushed, her pallid face gone bright red.

"It's all right," I said.

She propped herself on her elbow weakly. "I hope I didn't…"

"No, you weren't yourself."

"I certainly hope so," Gerd's voice said.

I looked up to find a small crowd had gathered around us, including some of the kids and the other instructors. Gerd elbowed through the crowd and helped Minerva off the floor; he threw a towel around her and hurried her out to the nurse's office. The crowd followed him, me at the back.

I showered while I anticipated the news of Minerva's condition. Because of her allergies, her lungs were a little weak, so there could be trouble.

I was finishing up dressing, tying my shoes in the locker room when Bill, one of the kids who hang around the pool—usually when I'm practicing—came in.

"Hey, Jerry: your girlfriend's okay," he said.

I stood up. "Thank heavens," I said with relief. "But she's not my girlfriend. And it's Jerome."

"Sorry your little act of heroism got overlooked there: Gerd's real protective with her."

I was tempted to say, 'I've noticed', but that would only be grist for the rumor mill. Instead, I said, "It's understood: they're engaged, aren't they?"

"Not to hear her say it," he said. He darted a glance to the end of the locker room. "I think she likes you."

"She won't be the first," I said, getting my rucksack from my locker.

I didn't see Minerva for the rest of the night, but when I came home and switched on the radio, I was just in time to hear the DJ taking a request for a song, "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" by Elton John, an old chestnut that still has flavor.

"I'd like to dedicate this to Jerome," said the female caller's voice.

"And you are…?" the DJ asked.

"He knows who I am and why I picked this song," she said.

I listened, wrapt, to this song, her way of saying thank you. I'd rather that she came forward and thanked me face to face, but if Gerd was as tight with her as Bill had said and as I'd guessed, she couldn't exactly have come up to me and given me the Hollywood thank you with a passionate kiss and all.

The next morning, Minerva met me by the oak tree near the cinder track where we usually met. She still looked a little pale, but it may have been my imagination.

"I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to thank you to your face," she said.

I shrugged one shoulder. "No harm done," I said.

"No. I kissed you. I don't know what came over me, but I came to and found your mouth on mine. I just got all confused and excited."

"You mistook me for Gerd," I suggested.

She shook her head. "I don't kiss him. He kisses me but I don't kiss him."

"I saw you kissing on New Year's Eve." I bit my tongue.

She took no notice of my faux pas. "I wasn't kissing him."

"The why in heck are you—I'm sorry."

"Why am I engaged to him?"

I looked at her hands resting on the tree limb. She still didn't have any rings on her fingers, but she was keeping it low key.

"I really don't know. He's the only man who's cared about me since…since my ex-fiancé genomed me."

"Let's not run today," I said.

We arrived at the Starbucks we had been frequenting just as they opened. Over a chai latte (hers) and a few cups of black Colombian slow roast (mine), she told me the whole story.

They'd met in college. He was in stem-cell transplants and she was in psychology of course. They hit it off well; they shared the same interests, the same faith, they both loved the outdoors and browsing through libraries and antique movies. They got engaged, had they wedding date set, they were even preparing for the wedding when he insisted on a second blood test so they'd know what genetic quirks they had. When he saw she had Asperger's, it was too much for him. He insisted that the only way he could marry her was if they had their children manipulated. "He said he wasn't going to be the father to a 'DeGenerate'," she said. "When I told him there was no such thing as a 'DeGenerate", he accused me of trying to stifle my own offspring."

"He doesn't know how stifling it is to be a Valid."

She smiled thinly. "He was a Valid, second class." Second classes, or "mended ladders" have had the more life-threatening health problems purged and some slight manipulation of appearance, but not much.

"I didn't want to break it off, but he wouldn't accept me any other way." She held her clasped hand to her chin. "He said my adamance was just a symptom of my Asperger's. He couldn't see it for what it was: as my principles. He couldn't accept them." She drew in a long breath. "It left me so depressed, I almost suicided. I had my father's police revolver in my hands. I was going to put a bullet through my temples. But I swear I had a vision of all the people I was going to help someday."

I almost asked, 'Did you see me among them?' but instead I said, "I wish I'd had that kind of vision before I stepped out in front of that car. Then maybe things would have turned out better."

"But you've grown stronger through all this."

I couldn't argue with her when she started talking the psych stuff. Heck, I couldn't argue with the truth, which she was telling me.

"You're right: I wouldn't. I wouldn't have met Vincent, and I wouldn't have met you." I glanced up. "Till he gets back…you're my only real friend."

I didn't look at her the same way again after that: running alongside her, swimming with her, talking with her at my sessions. She'd been where I had been, though she'd learned her lesson quicker.

Once after a lesson, as we were climbing out of the water, she turned to me even before she reached for her towel.

"You know, I've never seen you swim," she said.

"Well, what am I doing beside you in the water?" I sneered, teasingly.

"That's instructing me. I've never seen you swim."

I looked at the pool. "It's not big enough here. Meet me outside after you've showered and changed."

I took her to a spot on the shore Vincent had told me about, a small lagoon with a rocky island about a mile out. While Minerva perched on the rocks overlooking the beach, I stripped down to my shorts and struck out into the water, heading for the island.

I was a little tired after a long day, but it was more the tiredness of bottled-up expectation waiting to be released. The barracuda-speed of my earlier says wasn't back yet, but it would probably be good enough for her.

I reached the shallows near the island and turned, heading back.

She waited for me on the shore, the evening breeze stirring the skirts of her tunic. She'd lit a driftwood fire by the rocks, which had slowly begun to blaze up, warm, inviting. She averted her eyes modestly as I sank down on the rocks beside her.

"You're great. You're the greatest swimmer I've ever seen," she said.

"Better than Gerd?" I asked.

"Much better."

We dug clams from the shallows and roasted them wrapped in seaweed. We sat there on the rocks, watching the sun set and just talking, the fire between us.

The sky overhead turned a deeper shade of blue, then darkened to indigo. The stars slowly came visible. She'd brought along a pair of binoculars, so we took turns looking up at the sky.

"I think I've found Saturn," she said. She pointed out a star on the horizon and handed the binoculars to me. I found it, a white-yellow orb in the heavens. Of course the moons could not be seen, but nevertheless, they were there, and I knew someone who was orbiting one of them, maybe walking on the surface.

I felt the binoculars sink down after a few moments. Saturn stayed visible, a tiny glowing spot in the sky.

"You're wondering about him," she said.

"Yes," I admitted. I found myself adding, "If had a brother, I'd want him to be like Vincent."

"I'd like to meet him someday," she said.

"Please God that you will," I said. I hoped the system could somehow turn a blind eye to him, the way it had to Minerva. Then I had another revelation: I'd invoked God's name with reverence, instead of as an expletive.

But the next morning, when I showed up at our usual spot where we met, Minerva wasn't there. I waited a while. When I almost gave up and turned to start running without her, she showed up, a dejected air to her whole being, her shoulders drooped, her eyes not meeting mine.

"Was it something I said last night?" I asked.

She looked up. "No, last night was wonderful. It isn't you: it's Gerd. He saw us outside your apartment last night. He thinks we're involved."

"Then let him know we aren't."

"I have," she said. "He wouldn't believe me unless we stop seeing each other like this."

"Minerva, what do you want?"

"I'm not sure," she said, with a sad smile.

"Well, maybe…until you decide, we shouldn't see each other so often."

"Maybe just when we have a session, or when you're giving me a lesson," she suggested.

"It's your call," I said.

She paused, head bent. Then she nodded. "I think that's a very wise course of action."

She reached behind me, her hand on the back of my neck, and kissed my cheek, very close to the corner of my mouth. I wanted to pull her to me and kiss her, but I restrained myself.

With that she turned and walked away.

Concluded in the next chapter…

Literary Easter Eggs:

Discovery—Yes, I swiped the name from "2001: A Space Odyssey".

"genomed"—I don't remember if this is an actual term used in the film, but it paralells with "DNA'ed", a word in The Dictionary of the Future by Faith Popcorn (love that name!), meaning about the same thing "To discriminate against someone by genome or genetic-linked physical flaws."

Afterword:

Okay…I'm going to be crass and hold you all in suspense for a while (i.e. hold off on posting chapter five), since I have a trio of song fics in the works that I may publish as a mini-anthology. A very strange thing has been happening with the Golden Oldies station I listen to while I'm writing this crazy stuff of mine: they keep playing three different songs recently which make me think of this movie: Elton John's "Rocketman", which reminds me a lot of Vincent/Jerome (The line "I'm not the man they think I am at home" kept jumping out at me), "Seasons in the Sun" by I-can't-remember-who, which sounds like it might be Jerome (Eugene's) thoughts before his first suicide attempt, and Simon and Garfunkel's "I am a Rock" sounds like Jerome's whole attitude post-"accident", so I've decided to put the songs STUCK in my head to good use….