Thirst: The Eternal Dawn - Thirst: The Eternal Dawn Part 19
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Thirst: The Eternal Dawn Part 19

"Coach Tranton told Teri to stay near the front."

Matt looks doubtful. "Yeah, but he didn't want her to go to the front and stay there the whole race."

"I'm surprised at your reaction. I would have thought you'd be more excited about her times."

He stares at me. "You don't know her body like I do. Push her too far and it'll backfire."

"She pushes herself, Matt. I have nothing to do with it."

"Sure," he says, but he doesn't sound convinced.

Matt's reaction puzzles me, and I'm tempted to peep inside his mind and see if there's something else bothering him. But it goes against a vow of mine not to eavesdrop on the thoughts of those I care about. My attitude is somewhat superstitious, I know, but I see my telepathic ability as a gift that Krishna bestowed on me to keep me safe. The last thing I want to do is abuse it.

Also, I know how disappointing it can be to gaze into another's mind and discover they're not as wonderful as they appear on the outside. I'm the first to admit I fantasize about Matt. I'd hate to ruin my dreams by putting his thoughts under a magnifying glass and discovering he's really a shallow jerk. The same with Teri. The best gifts are those we leave wrapped.

The final for the women's 1500-meter arrives. The race is run in the cool of the evening. It's the last race of the day, and the stadium is tense. No one appreciates track like the citizens of Eugene. It's like they've never let go of their native son, Steve Prefontaine, who died having never won an Olympic gold medal, a sad fact I fear I might have had something to do with.

In the early seventies, before the Munich Olympics, I was living in Oregon-where I later met Ray-and I happened to bump into Prefontaine when he was out for a ten-mile run. Since I had on shorts and tennis shoes, and had always admired the guy, I decided to run along beside him.

At the time, I meant no harm. But what I didn't realize was that Prefontaine was stunned at my ability to keep up with him. From my side, I was just getting in some exercise and saying hello, but he was trying to beat me. By the time I realized my mistake, he was gasping for air. Naturally, when I finally saw how weary he was, I feigned exhaustion and begged to stop. But it was too late-the damage had been done.

Steve Prefontaine went off to the Olympics knowing that he had been beaten by a girl. I often worried if that's why he tied up in the straightaway of his race and was passed by three people, finishing fourth without a medal.

In the final, against Matt's and Coach Tranton's advice, Teri pushes to the front and sets a brutal pace. I understand what drives her. She's feeling the fire of my blood. Yet it's a fire she doesn't know how to control, and I finally see that Matt's fears are not unfounded. I have seldom shared my blood with mortals, and I've never done so to make someone a better athlete. Have I given her too much blood? Could she really burn herself out? She runs through the first lap in sixty seconds, faster than a world-record pace.

I shout over the roar of the crowd.

"Teri! Slow down!"

It's as if she hears me, which should be impossible. She turns in my direction. Our eyes seem to meet, and I try to convey to her my fear for her safety. Since I gave her the transfusion, I have felt closer to her. I should not be surprised. We no longer share just the same genes, but the same blood, too. In that instant I feel a psychic bond stretch between us, like a golden thread capable of conquering any distance.

She suddenly slows down.

Teri wins the race by a full second, two seconds shy of a world record. The crowd gives her a standing ovation as she runs a victory lap. There is no longer any question in the minds of the experts. She is now the favorite to win the gold medal at the Olympics.

Afterward, when I hug her and congratulate her on making the team, I feel her flesh still shuddering from the effort she put it through. And I don't know whether that means she needs more of my blood or less.

TWELVE.

The Olympics are two months away. Our gang returns to Missouri, and Teri continues to train in earnest, while helping me with my novel, which I begin to work on with more enthusiasm. The tenor of my book has shifted. Now I'm focused on creating a futuristic civilization inhabited by two types of human beings-those who have subjected their bodies to nanotechnology, which boosts their physical and mental abilities far beyond normal, and a small minority of people who believe it's best to remain the way nature intended. At the start of the story, the Nanots-as I call them-are in firm control of society. Indeed, it seems that normal humanity is about to become extinct.

I have no idea where the novel is going but don't mind. I enjoy writing it, and that's enough for me.

Shanti continues to get her surgeries, and her progress is so rapid that when her uncle pays her a surprise visit he doesn't recognize her. The poor man breaks down and weeps with gratitude when he holds her in his arms.

Lisa's state of mind improves when she gets a full-time teaching job at Truman College, taking over for a math professor for the summer semester. It's apparent to the rest of us that Lisa is at heart an academic type and feels more comfortable in a university setting than in the marketplace.

After Teri makes the Olympic team, I see Matt less often. He excuses himself, saying he's busy with his music, but I know he's purposely avoiding me. His absence saddens me, but I don't dwell on it. It's almost a relief he's not around. It makes me crave him less.

The Olympics are in London, and it's been many years since I've left America. Although I was born in India, that country has changed so much in five thousand years it no longer feels like home. Nor does Europe. I came over to the New World with the Pilgrims, and although I've been back to Europe many times, if asked I would have to say I feel like an American.

I wonder if that's why I feel unsettled at the prospect of traveling to London. The sensation comes over me after Teri qualifies for the team and grows as the date of our departure approaches. There's no logical reason for my sense of dread. I simply feel that if I leave America, I won't return.

It's this feeling that pushes me to see Seymour Dorsten.

Ah, my beloved Seymour, I could write an entire book about him and still not express my feelings for him. As I mentioned before, although we've never physically met, Seymour's written several novels about me, most of which have been fairly accurate.

It's a long story, and I know when we meet he'll want an answer to the mystery of our relationship. Of course, he'll have trouble accepting the truth of our psychic bond, because I have the same difficulty. My relationship with him is a puzzle words cannot explain.

I know where Seymour lives, in Manhattan. Even without checking with my sources, I'm always aware of his location. I just have to close my eyes to see through his eyes. It's been that way since I first contacted him when he was a senior in high school. Naturally, Seymour later wrote that we became friends during that period, but I say it again: We've never met.

I tell the others I'll be gone a few days. I don't say where I'm going. It's my way. When I land at JFK, I half expect Seymour to be waiting to pick me up. I suspect he feels me near, because I've mentally sent out the thought that I'm coming. This fact is puzzling, I realize. He doesn't have to believe I exist in order to read my mind. When I deliberately link with him, he starts daydreaming about me, but he imagines the thoughts are his alone.

I'm acquainted with every detail of Seymour's life. Fifteen years ago, on the verge of dying of AIDS, he lucked out when scientists developed the protease inhibitor. Like millions of people infected with HIV, practically overnight he went from someone with an expected life span of a few months to a relatively healthy young man. That's not to say he doesn't still have the virus. Seymour has to swallow a twenty-pill-a-day cocktail to stay healthy. But he's alive, that's what matters, and he's had a remarkably successful life.

Like me, he's a writer, but he's a lot more famous, although for some reason he refuses to write under one name, on top of never using his real name. He's adopted a half dozen pen names. When he writes teen thrillers, he's Carol Kline. He publishes adult horror under Mike Fresher. Lately he's begun to put out a mystery series under Harold Boxter, and he recently wrote a nine-hundred-page love story that reached number one on the New York Times bestseller list as Debra Singer. When he writes a Hollywood script, he always uses the name James Hart.

With each pen name, he has a different agent represent him. Because the agents don't know he has so many identities, he avoids any legal issues. He's unquestionably the most diverse writer on the planet. His muse knows no limit. His imagination puts my own to shame, and I've lived a hundred times longer.

However, despite the millions of books he's sold, the scripts he's had made into popular movies, he's never made a single public appearance. He never does book signings, and his picture has never appeared on one of his novels. His privacy obsession is the one quality we share above all others.

Sometimes I think it is I who dreamed him up.

As I taxi into Manhattan, it's lunchtime, and I know Seymour is buying a turkey sandwich and french fries at a deli not far from his austere condo, which is located near Central Park. He has millions in the bank but seldom touches them. He's not into stuff. He enjoys movies, TV, books, long walks. He has a limited social life. In the fifteen years we've been connected, he's had only one serious relationship, with a young woman named Linda Johnson. Not surprisingly, she looked a lot like me. But she left him, the fool, I don't know why, and he's dated little during the last ten years.

I spot Seymour as he leaves the deli, carrying his sandwich in a brown paper sack into the park. This is part of his routine. It's not unusual for him to circle the park twice on foot in the same day. I follow at a distance, trying to figure out how to introduce myself. I eventually give up. I'll just say hello and take it from there, what the hell. If I give him a heart attack, I can always carry him to the nearest hospital.

He sits on a relatively secluded bench overlooking a wide grassy area. It's a Saturday. Children play with kites in the distance. Couples hold hands and pass by without thinking twice who he might be.

He's not classically handsome, but to me he's perfect. He's skinny, because of his illness, and his brown hair desperately needs a stylist. He cuts it when it starts to bother him, not before. He has full lips and long lashes, giving him a slight cherub look, and there's sorrow to the lines on his face that comes more from his depth than from any specific tragedy. There's also a warmth in his brown eyes I see in few people. As I stand nearby and study him, I feel his loneliness as strongly as his empathy, and know one has given birth to the other. A high IQ didn't make him a brilliant writer-it's his heart. No one I've ever met has Seymour's heart.

And he's never met me.

I walk over and sit beside him on the bench.

He turns and looks at me and blinks.

"Hello," I say.

He has to find the word. "Hi."

I offer my hand. "I'm Alisa. Mind if I join you?"

We shake. "Seymour. No, I don't mind."

"Thanks." I take back my hand, almost swooning at his touch. For an instant I felt as if I was in his body as much as my own. He, too, looks rattled. I add, "Do you come here often?"

"Almost every day." He tries to keep eating, to act casual, but clearly my appearance has shaken him. Yet he does not guess who I am. How can he? I'm a character in a story he wrote long ago-I don't exist. "How about you? Are you from around here?" he asks.

"No."

"Just visiting?"

"I have a friend who lives nearby."

"It's an interesting city. You meet the strangest people."

"Do you fit into that category?"

Looking down, he shakes his head. "Not really. But hang around the park and you'll run into lots of writers, actors, and artists. You just have to be careful to separate the true crazies from the moderately insane."

"Which category do you fall into?"

"Oh, I'm completely nuts. You don't want to talk to guys like me after dark. It's not safe."

"I know how to take care of myself."

"You sound pretty confident."

"Yeah."

He frowns. "Alisa, forgive me, this is going to sound silly. But have we met before?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You remind me of someone."

"An old girlfriend?"

"Not exactly. Have you been to New York before?"

"Sure. Our paths might have crossed. You look familiar to me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. To be blunt, it's the reason I sat beside you. I thought, I don't know, like we could be friends."

"I don't think your boyfriend would approve of that."

"Who said I came here to see a boyfriend?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I just assumed."

"At the moment, I'm completely unattached."

"The way you look, I'm surprised you're ever alone."

I reply in a serious tone. "I'm used to being alone. I've been alone most of my life."

He looks over and studies me. "Why?"

"It's the way I am." I shrug. "I could ask you the same question."

"How do you know I'm such a loner?"

"I can tell by the way you sit here. You like to hang out in the park and watch people walk by and imagine what's going on inside them. At the same time, your mind can be light years away, and you don't see anyone."

He's forgotten his food. He's a long time answering.

"You're a mind reader, Alisa."

"So are you, Seymour."

"Why do you say that?"

"It's true, isn't it?"

"Maybe." He pauses. "What's your last name? If I may ask."

"That's a dangerous question."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"Pry away, that's not what I'm worried about."

"I don't understand."

"I call myself Alisa Perne. But that's not my real name."

He frowns. "Is Alisa Perne a stage name?"

"Sort of. Few people know my real name."

"Are you an actress?"

"I'm acting right now."

"What do you mean?"

I reach over and touch his arm. "It's been a long time."