The Journals of Mortimer Anhingas
November 1st
Once the leaves are gone, fall tends to blend into itself. Suddenly, the world is just gray, and every student is simply shuffling through the rain as fast as they can to get to their next class. Waiting for Christmas.
I have… mixed feelings about Christmas this year.
I have a month. One month to figure out a cure before I go home for Christmas break. And I still have no idea what it even is that causes the Altered virus. For all we know, it could no longer be infecting people, and just be living in the Altered kids left behind. Kids with no explanation and no way to live beyond a disease that shouldn’t exist.
… kids like Ollie.
He’s in the hospital now. His breathing has gotten so erratic, he has to have a ventilator. No one is really sure what else can be done. Iris wants to visit him.
I have mixed feelings on that too. Because if Mrs. Parking is there… and seeing her face… her child is dying and we said we could help but we can and now Phin is infected and if I can’t do anything about Phin…
I can’t spiral. I can’t spiral. Spiraling won’t do anyone good.
I can’t sleep. Hardly eat. The anxiety keeps gnawing at my bones like a persistent old dog. The voices in my head won’t shut up, won’t stop recalibrating all the ways that I could lose my brother. The chances of Ollie’s survival. The chances that I can do anything to stop it.
I would go insane if it wasn’t for Iris. Somehow, she keeps hoping. Keeps smiling. Between her and Clancee (who is growing quite well, although he’s in his “ugly teen” years) I can breathe a little bit and allow myself to hope that maybe, just maybe, something good can come out of this. That nothing is as doomsday as my head wants me to believe. Every time I’m not with her, the voices come back, and it just makes me want to go back and spend every minute of the day that I can with her.
Is this what having someone you can rely on is like? All my life I feel like I keep getting thrown into the deep end of the pool, forced to learn to swim by myself before I drown. Being around Iris is like having a lifesaver thrown at you and you can rest and breathe a bit before it goes away and you’re struggling again.
It’s nice to have a breath, even if it’s for a little bit.
Iris still thinks we should work on a management treatment, but that won’t work with Phin. If he isn’t cured before Dad finds out… I’m honestly not sure what he’ll do. There’s talk about rounding up all of the Altereds for treatment and study. Would he send Phineas with them? Send him to be experimented on by strangers like some lab rat?
No.
I’m not going to let that happen.
I WILL find out a cure Or die trying.
For the sake of my brother, I have to try.
~Mortimer
The Mental Observations of Iris Gray
I’ve never liked hospitals. Since the time I almost lost my mom to that glacier incident, they always seem to whisper of death. They smell like it, too. Like death and alcohol and trauma and antiseptic and blood and whispered half-answers—
“Iris?”
Mor’s concerned tone spooks me from my mini mental spiral. His pale hand wraps into mine, squeezing my fingers.
“You okay?”
I shake off the memories, smiling at him.
“I don’t like hospitals.”
“I don’t think anyone does,” he remarks, eyeing the cross-looking nurses that shuffle past. “Not even them.”
I can’t help but snort at that, although I do shuffle closer to him. “What room is Ollie in?”
“176.” He hesitates, adjusting his sunglasses as he peers at a metal sign with room numbers. “Ah… we should be coming up on it soon.”
I nod, tucking in closer to him. It feels silly, given that this was my idea, but it’s cold in this hospital, and Mortimer, stiff as he is, feels very grounding.
Still, hesitation chews the corners of my mind.
“Are you sure that this is a good idea?”
Mortimer exhales.
“I’m not. The boy is dying when we said we would help. There’s nothing we can do about it. If nothing else… maybe we can comfort Mrs. Parking.”
I take a deep breath and nod. “Yeah. Maybe we can.”
We pause in front of room 176. Mortimer squeezes my hand again and we step inside.
Mrs. Parking sits in the corner, and Mortimer and I politely wait for her to notice us. To my relief, her eyes brighten a little bit.
“Did you two come to see Ollie?”
Mortimer nods. “I know our promises to help didn’t do much… but we thought we could at least come here and see if we could support you in any way.”
Mrs. Parking’s eyes are bloodshot from crying and it looks like she might start crying again. But she smiles a bit. “That’s very kind of you. Unfortunately… I don’t think I’ll be here much longer.” She hiccups, pressing a hand to her mouth as she starts to cry again.
And then I realize the silence in the room.
In my focus on Mrs. Parking, I hadn’t looked at Ollie. Now I turn my head, terrified of what I’m about to see, and all my worst fears come true. The blanket isn’t over Ollie’s face– he looks like he’s just sleeping.
But none of the machines are on. His chest doesn’t rise and fall. The IV is strung up onto a hook.
He’s already gone.
The shock turns my chest to ice, then heat as tears I can’t hold back drip down my face, my body shuddering in a desperate plea to let out the sobs locked under my sternum. Except I am numb, and besides the few tears I can’t speak, can’t cry.
Mortimer kneels down, hands a piece of paper to Mrs. Parking and whispers something to her. In my state I don’t quite catch it, but she embraces him tightly, which Mortimer stiffens under for a second before hugging her back. He says a few more things to her, then gently herds me out of the room, putting his duster over my shoulders even though when we step outside it has to be fifty degrees and dropping.
I’m still numb when we climb into the taxi cab. Mortimer pulls me close, rubbing my arms. He’s calm, but when I lean my head against his chest, I can hear his breath skipping.
“We were too late,” I finally choke out.
“I know.”
“We… we promised…”
“We’re not God, Iris.”
I whimper, burying my face in his chest even though it makes my seatbelt rub against my neck.
“How many more kids are gonna die?” I whisper. “How much longer are these poor parents going to suffer?”
Mortimer swallows, hard.
“I don’t know.”