Chapter 15 Variation in DNA and Proteins
VARIATION IN DNA AND PROTEINS
*Samantha*
The waiting area for the phase one unit was full of warm-toned floors, a wall of inspirational photo murals, and two enormous tanks of what appeared to be the world’s most chill goldfish. The receptionist buzzed us in without any attempt at skepticism and greeted us with warmth.
Tara gave my name, explained that we were visiting a patient, and were expected. How today’s meeting came to be was a bit convoluted and not at all due to the persuasive powers of Tara or myself, but because I’d told Kaitlyn about the situation yesterday afternoon.
Kaitlyn had then called her father and he’d made a few phone calls on my behalf as he was apparently old medical school classmates with the head of hematological oncology at the NCI center.
He then texted me that the phase one coordinator had cleared everything with the patient and a meeting had been scheduled for today.
As a result, here we were, not worrying about the rest.
A friendly nurse appeared and led us down a labyrinth of gently humming halls.
I counted three separate lounges, all with the same warm decor.
Every thirty feet, a hand-drawn sign cautioned against food or drink in patient areas and I felt relief that I’d already finished my coffee on the way up and tossed the cup.
We were shown into a small conference room off a quieter corridor, its glass wall rimmed with faux-wood paneling and the requisite “Privacy Please” sign flipped to the correct orientation.
On the table sat three unopened water bottles and a box of facial tissues—a choice I couldn’t help but interpret as foreshadowing.
While we waited, Andreas paced. He had a measured walk, as though he needed to map out every cubic inch of space before trusting it.
I ran my hands over my jeans and tried to calm the high-voltage buzz in my rib cage.
This place brought back memories of my grandmother’s last days in a way that felt impossible to compartmentalize.
Paired with my lack of sleep last night, my thoughts were slow and muddled and I already felt strangely emotional.
Meanwhile, Tara scrolled through her phone with the patience of a panda, occasionally glancing up at me to make sure I hadn’t suffocated on my own anticipation.
The door opened, and the nurse reappeared, this time pushing a wheelchair. I caught myself halfway out of my seat—out of respect, or awkwardness, or something in between—but the man in the chair waved it off.
“I can walk,” he said, voice steady and rough-edged. “But they keep us in the chairs for a while after treatment. Hi, I’m David Gounter. I’m so happy to meet you.”
He looked like the sort of guy who’d played defense in high school football and then gone straight to med school—he had the build, even with his frame gone a little soft and shrunken from cancer treatment—and he wore a green tartan flannel.
Covering his head was a Yankees baseball hat that shaded clear blue eyes.
I’d never met the man before, but I recognized him immediately from my internet image searches.
I introduced myself, trying to make my voice sound steadier than it felt. Tara did the same, but I noticed she left out her last name, perhaps a reflex from too many years of military and private security. Andreas was last.
“Andreas Kristiansen,” he said, holding out a hand. His accent went more Eastern European when he was on edge, and I could hear it now.
Dr. Gounter accepted the handshake, and I saw something flicker in his face at Andreas’s name. Surprise? Or maybe recognition, echoing through time.
I filed it away for later.
The nurse left, pulling the door closed, and the room went very quiet for a beat. Dr. Gounter wheeled himself up to the edge of the table, folded his hands, and scanned our faces.
“I really appreciate you meeting with me,” I said, because someone had to go first.
He nodded, once. “When they told me who you were, I jumped at the chance. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to make this right.”
I felt the fine hairs on my arms stand on end and all sound seemed to slow, then stop. There are moments in life that you know, even as you live them, will divide your personal history into Before and After. I had a strong suspicion this was about to become one of those moments.
Dr. Gounter rested his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers, and looked directly at Andreas, then at me. “First, if you don’t mind, how are you two here together? I know your father”—he lifted his chin toward Andreas—“did not much care for her father.”
I blinked, surprised at the question and his knowledge of our families. Glancing at Andreas, I responded, “The answer to that is quite complicated, but we were friends growing up and have, uh, rekindled that friendship.”
He huffed a sound that might have been a laugh, or maybe just relief. “I hope what I’m about to say doesn’t ruin your rekindled friendship.”
I caught Andreas’s gaze again. Level, unreadable, but with something like curiosity underneath.
“I am not close with my family,” Andreas said. “I have always been on Samantha’s side, on her family’s side. Do not be circumspect on my account.”
Gounter let out a long exhale, his shoulders slumping. “I am relieved to hear that, because your father had me change her father’s death certificate.”
For a few seconds, the only sound was the thrum of the building’s HVAC and a distant page on the intercom. In the corner of my eye, I saw Tara’s hand twitch, and my own pulse slowed to a crawl.
Gounter didn’t rush. He took a sip from a water bottle, his hands shaking only a little.
When he spoke again, his voice was thick but steady.
“I think you probably know by now if you’ve tracked me down, I made some very bad choices when I was a younger man.
I had a mountain of debt and owed money to some very bad types.
Mr. Kristiansen—your old man”—he gestured at Andreas again with a bob of his chin—“found me through a friend of a friend and paid off all my debts at the time. All he wanted was for me to change the cause of your father’s death to cardiac arrest on his death certificate.
This was no easy task, but I got it done. ”
He turned to me, and in a voice so small and raw my heart ached with empathy, he said, “I am so sorry. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could take back so many things. But this is a big one.”
As I returned this man’s gaze, I felt a sense of dull gratitude. Someone was telling the truth, finally, after so many years of pretending the truth wasn’t out there somewhere, hidden in a file or a memory. I had an answer.
I tried to swallow, but found my mouth dry as wool.
“Do you have any idea why Oskar did that? I have my father’s medical records from the hospital, the one that received him from the ambulance, and they mention a broken neck, but no other injuries.
I was told he fell down a flight of stairs?
Do you have any idea why there are so many different versions of events about the cause of his death? ”
Gounter looked at me for a long moment, and the way he studied my face made me think he was searching for a reason not to answer. But then he did. “If a person has a broken neck and no other bruises or injuries, they didn’t fall down a flight of stairs. And he didn’t die of a heart attack.”
It landed like a sucker punch, even though it was more or less what I’d come here to hear. The story I’d told myself for years—about my father’s accidental death—evaporated.
The room stayed silent for several beats.
It was Andreas who finally broke it. “Are you saying my father killed Lawrence Jarlston?”
Gounter’s face was a slow-motion car crash of pain and regret.
He shook his head, looking suddenly, horribly exhausted.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know. But he was killed by someone.
And your father paid me to cover it up. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.
I’m just so grateful that you found me, so I can tell you now and try to make things right. ”
I didn’t understand myself. I should’ve felt something grand or shattering—a release, or maybe just relief—but what I actually felt was like my entire body had been replaced with an old, unabridged dictionary: a hundred thousand words, and none of them quite right for this feeling.
Looking across the table, at this man who’d carried a secret for more than half my life, there was nowhere for the unnamed emotion to go except up and out. So I let it rise until it hovered in the air above us, a cloud made of all the things I didn’t understand, and didn’t have the right words for.
* * *
Tapas, when you think about it, are an elegant justification for indecision. Unable to choose a single dish, you simply order en masse. You can hide behind the pretty little plates and the illusion of Mediterranean moderation.
For lunch, I’d ordered ten plates, meant to be shared between the two of us.
Andreas seemed content to let me do whatever I wanted.
His restlessness permeated the table, though he did an admirable job of holding it inside himself.
Even now, as he dissected his third pimiento de padrón like a neuroscientist mapping the human mind, I could feel his gaze ping-pong between the table and my halfhearted, if not wholly symbolic, attempts at eating.
The restaurant, Tío Pancho, occupied a shoebox-sized chunk of West 114th. Inside, it was tiled in terra-cotta and glossy stone, the air thick with vibrant smells of things being marinated, baked, broiled, and fried. The tables were crowded elbow to elbow, separated only by mismatched chairs.