Dr. Marsteller Chapter 13
13
As Dr.
Marsteller attacked his filet mignon and roasted vegetables in duck sauce, Mrs.
Viscane had more pressing issues on her mind than the food. She wanted to know if progress had been made
on full-grown animals. Time was ticking
and now that a window of opportunity opened, she wanted to be the first one in
line to try it. She had given it
extensive thought. If she went insane
from living forever, like a psychopathic vampire in True Blood, she could always kill herself. Therefore, there was no risk that she could
see. If the perils of immortality proved
too great, she could walk in front of a bus or slit her wrists and be done with
it. It excited her to even be in the position
of hating eternal life. To have that
power over life. And if everyone starts
to do it, there will be plenty of people in the same boat. Misery loves company.
-So how are
the experiments going?
-Good, but
I’m taking a week off. One of my students
just graduated today and I need some time to relax.
This was
not what she wanted to hear. She wasn’t
paying him to go on vacation. What if
she kicked the bucket tomorrow? It was a
possibility.
Dr.
Marsteller and his wife were conscious of people in the restaurant staring at
Mrs. Viscane and pointing at her behind her back. She was a freak. People would pay admission to look at
her. Interesting, thought Dr.
Marsteller. People that grow old
gracefully disgust her. He’s seen it in
her eye when someone walks past that is over 50. But she disgusts everyone. She was an oddity or curiosity, a living
breathing Madame Tussaud statue that melted everywhere but the face. As much as she tried to hide it, everyone
could tell. At least she didn’t know
they could.
-Are you
planning on going anywhere or will you stay in town?
-Actually,
we thought about taking our son to the Caribbean for a couple days. We felt like lying on a beach in St.
Lucia. We can fly out tomorrow and be
back next week so I can check my mice.
-What mice?
-I wanted
to tell you, Mrs. Viscane, I’ve started the next phase of experiments, with
aged mice, the equivalent of 20 something humans, to see if I can curb
death. Hopefully they are successful.
Mrs.
Viscane wiped her horrific plastic face with her napkin and looked at Dr.
Marsteller seriously. It was difficult
to discern different expressions in her face, but if he looked at her eyes, it
was almost possible to figure out how she felt.
Her eyes were crazed with desperation.
-I want to
know as soon as possible if anything is conclusive, okay?
-Okay,
sure, but it could be years before I know.
-If there
is even an inkling that this technique will work, I want to know, she said
slamming her fork into the steak.
Please tell me you’ll let me know.
I don’t have much time.
Dr.
Marsteller and his wife stared at her fork sticking out of the steak. She slowly pulled it away, realizing her lack
of social grace. Dr. Marsteller knew
about her freak obsession with looking young, but he didn’t know just how far
she had gone off the deep end. He
agreed he would let her know and then excused himself to go to the bathroom
before his lack of composure became noticeable.
By the time he reached the bathroom he had broken out in a full
sweat. He wiped himself off and put cold
water on his face.
He looked
in the mirror. What if the experiments
didn’t work? Then she would take her
money elsewhere. He could still make a
lot of money off of those studies from other funding sources. He was sure of it. What was he thinking? There were no previous studies. If someone found out, he knew he would lose
the Mrs. Viscane money- in addition to the scandal it would produce. She would probably sue him and he would have
to serve jail time for all the money he earned while giving false
lectures. Could she sue him? How could she prove he lied? Christ, he thought, these thoughts are evil
nymphs creeping under my skin.
The only
way out of it was to get the experiments to work and hope someone could
replicate what he hoped would happen in the first experiments. But he needed a vacation now. At least he had his family. He loved being with them. If everything turned sour, at least he’d have
a week in St. Lucia with his family before the shit hit the fan. He composed himself and went back out to see
Mrs. Viscane.
They ate
dessert, had coffee and made small talk about the Garret baseball team. When they were getting ready to leave, Mrs.
Viscane clenched his arm with her claw like hand and repeated to him that she
wanted to know of any indication his experiments would work. He assured her he would let her know and
pulled his arm away. He wasn’t sure how
much time she would give him before pulling her funding now that other people
worked on similar projects. And she was
frightening him.
This originally appeared in Dr. Marsteller