Page 62 of Darling Beasts

Ozzie smiled, thanked her, and left through the side gate.

Chapter Forty

Gabby

“Knock, knock,” said a voice.

I looked up to find Ivan standing in the doorway. I’d been in the hospital twenty-four hours, and he was my first visitor. I knew Dad was busy, and Ozzie was mad, but you’d think they’d have a little compassion following an extremely harrowing balloon accident after which one of their own was hospitalizedovernight. Also, who was taking care of my dog?

“I’m here to pick you up,” he said, and wasn’t that a kick in the pants. “So, what’s the official diagnosis?” He lowered onto the end of my bed.

I brandished my arm, now in a cast. “Intra-articular fracture. They kept me overnight to monitor for a concussion, but it seems we’re all clear. On the plus side, I got to learn more about the Gunn Hospital System.” I gestured toward the brochure on my bedside table. “Fun fact. F.D. Gunn didn’t do the giving in this state. It was his sister, Ellen Barlowe Gunn.”

Ellen donated land for the hospitals, and multiple schools, and founded the marine biological institute. She provided the endowment for Gunn College in Pomona and throughout her life gave millions to promote democratic principles and women’s education, all while living in an oceanside colony of unmarried ladies during the early decades of the twentieth century. Their dad lived on this property—no longer a colony—for two years as a teenager.

“I don’t know why the Gunn men got all the credit for what the women actually did,” I said.

“Tale as old as time. I’m glad you don’t have a concussion, but how are you doing otherwise?” Ivan asked.

“I don’t love the cast but am relieved the incident is behind us.”

Although I wouldn’t admit it to Ivan, I did see one bright side to the balloon crash. Flares preceded every bad thing that’d happened to me over the past eleven years, but there’d been no trace of an animal up there, not a single feather or tuft of fur, proving Raj was the answer. Now all I had to do was convince him to give me a toenail or strand of hair and all my problems would be solved. He’d receive his money, and I’d become the normal person I was meant to be. I’d already delivered the good news to dos Santos.

“Please stop asking Raj for his DNA,” he said that morning on the phone. “I’ve been concerned this ‘experiment’ of yours is unethical, and your pressuring him for hair samples and skin grafts—”

“I never said skin grafts!”

“—feels like it’s crossing a line. I don’t care if he’s being paid.”

“Look, I’m not trying to make anyone uncomfortable,” I said. “I want tosolvethis.”

“Raj is not your answer,” he said.

“He’s stopped my flares twice,” I said. “And I was in a major accident that landed me in the hospital. A flare always precedes something bad, and I didn’t have a single symptom.”

Dos Santos reminded me Raj wasn’t in the balloon and while yes, this was true, Raj had ridden with us to the launch site, and he’d probably shed some of his essence onto me along the way. Gross, yes, but facts were facts.

“I’m going to share some data from the Campos study,” dos Santos announced abruptly, and I was glad to be in a hospital, because the news almost made me fall over dead. I should’vetried breaking an arm earlier. He sighed, mentally preparing to deal with me. “I’ve long believed there’s a connection between the secretive, insular behavior of PBSers—”

“Okay, rude.”

“—and the occurrence of flares. The data from the Campos sisters has borne this out.”

Most recently, one of the sisters discovered she was pregnant. She’d been trying for a while, and this would be great news, but dos Santos asked her to wait before telling anyone. She agreed, and two days later flared an Afghan hound.

“The thing suppressed can be positive or negative,” he said, “but of course we hide the negative more often.”

“Hold on. You’re mad because I politely asked Raj for a strand of hair when you’re really out here experimenting on pregnant ladies?”

“There wasn’t anything inherently dangerous about the request.”

“Except for the possibility of a deadly animal?” I said, but dos Santos refused to concede, probably because he understood he’d been defeated by my rock-solid point.

According to dos Santos, once the young woman revealed her pregnancy, the symptoms disappeared, confirming his theory. The more a person afflicted with PBS suppressed their feelings and emotions, the more the disease reared its head.

“Hmm. Cute theory,” I said lightly, I hoped. “First of all, I don’t go around advertising my PBS, but everyone knows about it. Also, I’ve already pinpointed what causes mine. Impending disaster.”

“I’m sure it seems as though your symptoms are linked to the disaster, but have you tried working backward? Perhaps you intuited or anticipated the problem and suppressedtheseemotions. And Rajishelping, but only because you’re not as secretive with another PBSer around.”

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