5 comments/ 11526 views/ 2 favorites The Spirit of Frankenstein By: Quiet_Cool Space-Age Nazi Hunters. He'd been talking about it for months. He'd found out the film was "in the making" on the Internet somewhere. Who knew where? The Internet had become the same as everything else: a scattering of useless information and senseless babble. The meaning was lost in it now. Every search-engine first turned up thousands of useless sites with thousands of hits apiece before showing you that one useful site you were looking for on whatever topic you were exploring, that one site that would be helpful. By clicking once on the link, you'd officially double its total number of visits. Not that it mattered much. Soon, version eight of Mind-Melter would be released. The 'net wasn't used for much except for cyber-sex and porn exchange. Mind-Melter could send brainwaves, actual thoughts across the air in less than seconds to whatever desired target so long as they wore a Mind-Melter receiver. The Internet would be obsolete. Why take the time to type words during cyber-sex when you can merely invent an image, and seconds later, your partner, millions of miles away, will see that image and understand your fantasy fully? Space-Age Nazi Hunters. What the hell type of movie would that possibly make? "Can we go see it, Dad?" He stood in the doorway leading into the kitchen, talking across the garage to me. "We'll see, Timmy," I responded, barely even knowing what he'd said. I was working after all, and my concentration went fully into my work. "But it's going to be a great movie, Dad." "We'll have to wait and see what's going on when it opens, Tim. I can't make any promises." "But, Dad, I really want to see it..." "Tim," I snapped, finally looking up to see him raise his head some, his face hopeful despite my scolding tone. "What did I tell you about bothering me when I'm working?" He lowered his head, not wanting to look me in the eye as I scolded, his hopeful expression melting away. "Go clean your room, and tell your sister that you both should be in bed by eight-thirty." "Okay," he said, mumbling more than talking. I looked down again, eager to put the finishing touches on the contents of the bottle before me. The last bottle. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him still standing there. He had more to say, but he hadn't decided whether or not he wanted to continue just then. After about a half-minute, he sighed and turned, head down, and disappeared around the corner into the kitchen. It was time to close the door. The kids couldn't see what would go on behind it from then on, and I could trust them in the house without me. Tim was only eight, but his sister Halle was twelve, and she'd handled her brother well over the past two years. It was Monday, getting on in the evening. The time between when the kids left for school in the morning and when they came home in the afternoon wasn't enough any more; hadn't been for over a year now, but the past several months had been worse. Halle had accepted the change easily enough, but Tim had fought it all the way, disrupting my work whenever he found an excuse, fighting with his sister and often insisting I tuck him in at night, something Halle had been doing for over a month now in my place. All of that was almost over now, though. I closed the door, latching the deadbolt I'd recently installed. The parts had arrived that morning, specifically chosen for this purpose. They were tested and examined in labs for any difficulty foreseeable: Weaknesses in blood vessels; tears or weaknesses in muscle tissue; any excessive build-up of cholesterol; you name it. They arrived in insulated metal cases, which sat in a line on the floor next to the freezer I'd had delivered two weeks ago. I'd plugged it in upon arrival. By now, the interior lining was coated with an inch-thick layer of ice. Icicles hung from the rack inside. I found the case with the torso inside and lugged it over to the lab table in the middle of the garage. Once there, I popped the locks and lay the torso flat in the center of the table on its back. It wasn't stitched in the front, and the skin there caved in on the hollow space beneath. The organs would all have to be implanted, but it was work I was capable of. I had every manual I could possibly need on the shelves of what was once my workbench but had served instead as a research station for the past two years. Organs first. I gathered the cases containing the basic organs (heart, lungs, kidneys, liver, etc.), moved them to the lab table, and got ready to work. Each organ, as well as the limbs, would take the better part, if not more than, two or three hours each. Hard work. I remembered seeing "B" movies when I was young in which mad scientist types would simply stitch the arms and legs on with thread, binding the skin on the surface and leaving the various workings beneath untouched. They were all "Frankenstein" rip-offs, and the work that went into putting the bodies together similarly fake, almost a joke compared to the actual experience. Lasers were the tools of choice here. Technology had advanced in laser usage in leaps and bounds since its initial introduction into the medical world. Now, less than fifty years later, scalpels and sutures were almost never even considered. Incisions and the sealing of such were done with lasers over ninety-five percent of the time. The result was not faster healing injuries, but injuries left with little to no healing at all, as well as drastic drops in surgical scars. Ideal; from a surgical perspective. By Monday evening, I had over half of the organs implanted. Exhausted at midnight, I put the half-constructed torso on ice and headed to bed. I dreamt of the funeral. Although I'd dream of her often, that was the last time I was physically with her. Four of us stood in a semi-circle around the casket, dividers having been drawn behind us to separate us from the rest of the people present. Her mother wept quietly, now being the last of their small family after her father passed away from a heart attack a few years back, and Halle stood close to her, gripping her grandmother's hand and burying her face in the folds of the woman's black dress. I held Tim, who looked down at the body in the casket, knowing what had happened but not even close to understanding, tears welling in his eyes. I whispered in his ear that he'd miss her, we'd all miss her, but that everything would be all right. I did so as much to occupy my own mind as to comfort him. The funeral scene faded away to a week before the accident; the last time we'd been together. It had been so plain, so usual. I'd like to look back and remember that last night as being full of passion, as I'd like to think it would have been had I seen the end coming. She'd been lying in bed next to me, half-asleep, and I'd stirred in the night. I reached out for her, holding loosely to her as I rolled closer, my body half covering hers as I pressed my face into her neck, kissing the skin there. She stirred as well, her arms wrapping around me in trained reaction. She pulled me closer to her, helping me position myself above her in my half-aware state and spreading her legs, wrapping them around me and using them to pull me closer. As my lips found hers, I reached down with one hand, hooking my thumb under the waistband of my boxers and carefully pulling them down. Having just awakened, and only half-so at that, I was already erect. I pressed forward blindly, feeling her dampness as I rubbed against her a few times before reaching down again to position myself to enter. In my sleep, I could almost feel her warmth encompassing me as I drove deep inside. Her legs and her arms gripping me tightly, her body tensed around and against mine. I drove forward in slow steady strokes, my eyes closed, feeling her breath expelling heavily against my face. My hands found their way to her waist and pulled at her nightshirt, drawing it up to her shoulders, giving me access to her breasts, which I fondled and caressed, gently kissing and sucking the skin above them as I ground into her. After a few minutes of this, her arms and legs contracted tightly around me, then loosened some, then contracted again, doing this several times over the next thirty seconds or so as her breathing grew heavier and her moans louder and closer together. I wondered if she was coming, but in my half-awake state, I wasn't certain. Afterwards, I'd never asked her to know for sure. My body responded as though she had, growing more excited and building to a crescendo. A few seconds later, I emptied into her, coming to a stop on top of her, laying still for a moment as her limbs loosened their grip. She was falling back asleep again already. I raised my head, pressing my lips to hers over the nightshirt, bunched up at her neck, then rolled over to my own side of the bed and dozed. We'd made a habit of this type of thing, half-awake love-making sessions that often seemed more fulfilling than the longer-lasting wide awake sessions we had to plan for. These brief sessions would often last less than five minutes, without planning or any true effort, but without the inhibitions and expectations the wakeful mind often imposed on us, we were usually both well satisfied and resting soundly together, oblivious to the problems of the world outside our bed. I awoke Tuesday morning with my heart thudding strongly in my chest, missing her more than I had in a long time, and decided to head straight back to work. I pulled the torso from the freezer and went to work again, picking up right where I'd left off but with renewed vigor. That night, after working all day, and talking Tim away from the door seven or eight times (each time more trying than the last), I was almost too exhausted to drag myself to bed. On Wednesday, I inflated the air mattress and placed it on the floor in the only open corner. By then the body was nearly complete, missing one arm and the head, brain already implanted. The latter would prove difficult, but in the end, I'd get the job done correctly, nerves and spinal cord properly attached and capable of sending every necessary signal wherever it needed to go. "Dad?" Tim's voice sounded through the door. "Yes, Tim," I responded. It was 9 p.m., Thursday. I'd been working for almost eight hours and was just putting the finishing touches on the head, fusing the skin on the surface. Since he'd come home from school at three, he'd come at least once per hour to talk to me through the door. I was running out of ways to get him out of my hair. "The movie opens tonight. Can we go?" "Not tonight, buddy," I replied. "Did you eat?" "Yes," he replied, clearly disappointed. Silence for a few seconds. I gathered the different vials and lined them on the table before me. The head connected, it was time to work on the brain. Memories, thought patterns, emotional tendencies; all were stored in the various brain fluids I'd extracted before she'd finally died. I took a syringe and removed the plastic wrapper, then pressed the needle into a vial containing gray fluid. I'd taken enough from her brain that I could do the experiment at least three times. After filling the syringe, I withdrew the needle and set the vial aside, then stepped to the table. "Dad?" "Yes, Tim," I returned. I was getting impatient again. "You haven't been out of the garage for five days. I'm getting tired of take-out food. When-" "Tim," I snapped, cutting him off in mid-whine. Silence. I depressed the plunger enough to squeeze a drop from the needle tip. "Look," I said. "Tell your sister that you two can have an ice cream bar, one a piece, and then take turns watching television." After a hesitation, he responded in a sulky voice, "Okay." I heard him stalking away from the door. Back to work. I lifted the head, turning it to one side, and pressed the needle into a spot about a quarter-inch square on the back of the head where I'd shaved the hair off. I depressed the plunger, injecting the fluid into the brain stem, then set the needle aside. A fresh syringe for each fluid, and there were several, each fluid specific to a specific part of the brain. It was a slow process, starting with preliminary injections to soften the skull enough to allow the following injections to penetrate it. That took a few hours as well, and when I finished, I locked the vials away and returned the body to the freezer. When the body began to function again, the endocrine and circulatory system fully activated, the fluids would take effect. Until then, they could sit idle. It had to be after midnight. I needed to eat, and I hadn't showered in two days. I unlatched the deadbolt and headed into the kitchen. It was spotless. Thank God for Halle, I thought, even though I knew Tim had helped her. He would have meant well but probably just got in her way. They were good kids; they deserved a good mother. Soon, I thought. Gwen'll take good care of them when she's with us again. I debated what I wanted to eat, trying to remember the last time I went grocery shopping and what I'd bought. No particular memory surfaced. I shrugged, unsure what food was even in the house. I needed to check the answering machine anyway. I'd think about what to eat while I listened to the messages. I moved through the short hall to the living room and flipped on the overhead light. As the room became illuminated, I could hear the motor of the ceiling fan murmur to life. The answering machine sat on the stand in the corner, the red number thirty-four flashing. Thirty-four messages. Five days worth of calls from my mother and hers, wanting to know that the kids were okay, from my med-school roommate Gerald wanting to play tennis, from work wanting to know how the experiment was progressing. The machine was right in the corner, a few feet from the sofa, but the sofa was as far as I made it. As I dozed, I swore I could feel the water again, landing on my face in heavy drops. In a dream world that was real not so long ago, the ghosts of ambulance lights flashed to my attention through closed eyelids. "Sir," a female voice said, and although I knew she was nearby, she sounded distant. "Sir, my name is..." I had heard her name when it had really happened, but in the dream she trailed off, always trailed off. I tried to respond, to tell her that I knew what had happened and that she needn't continue, not what had really gone down but in the dream I know it's a dream, and I already knew my wife had been badly hurt. I could only mumble incoherently. "Don't try to talk," she said. "I'm holding your hand. Give it a squeeze if you can, sir." I squeezed. "Good," she replied. "I'm an EMT, sir. I'm trained and certified to perform First Aid. Do you understand?" Squeeze. She went on to explain what happened and to tell me that I was in decent condition, not mentioning Gwen even once. And why would she? She wouldn't know what lies to tell without knowing how long I'd remained conscious after the accident, and telling me the truth, then and there...? I paid little attention to her words anyway. I concentrated on what went on around me. When this had really occurred, I could hardly hear her over the sounds of police and paramedics and firemen around me. Walking across the asphalt, their feet crushing and grinding small fragments of glass as they moved; sharing information on this accident victim or that one or how things were progressing; the jaws of life rumbling as the rescuers attempted to cut their way through a vehicle door or roof. Those sounds, and others, some that I couldn't identify at the time, had nearly drowned out her attempts to talk to me. In the dream, however, she was all I could clearly hear. I wondered on occasion if that meant she was all I should have cared about at that particular moment, being unable to help my wife in my condition and knowing that she was there to help me. Who could possibly know for sure? It was a dream. Who knew if they had any meaning, if they were the restrained insanities of our subconscious or if they were just there? Freud was dead, and sometimes cigars were just cigars. She spoke to me for some time, bandaging this and setting that. I'd had more than a few deep cuts and gashes, not to mention my leg being broken in two places and my wrist sprained. Then they hauled me into the ambulance. It was while they did this that the dream faded out and the inside of the ambulance became the inside of Gwen's hospital room. This part of the dream was memory to a point as well. They'd known how it would end, and they'd warned me, but I'd only heard a little of what they said. I was in my own world, one that existed only in my mind. I was holding on, perhaps too tightly, to something that I was going to lose. "Sir," the doctor said. "It's time." I stared forward, my eyes fixed on the plain white surface of the opposite wall. He'd spoken softly but loud enough; his words were clear, but I didn't want to hear it. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. I closed my eyes, not wanting to cry. "You've...done your extractions?" I nodded, then took in a deep breath, opening my eyes and looking up at her. When I'd actually sat there, I'd been in that chair for two hours, but that occasion was only the second time I'd looked at her. I didn't want to see her dead or dieing; in my heart, I still needed her to be alive. "We..." "I know," I replied. "One more minute alone, and I'll let you..." I trailed off. He nodded, then walked quietly out of the room. I stood, looked over the body that lay before me in the hospital bed, its eyes closed, and its body motionless, characterless. Not my wife anymore; merely a body that had once been her; a husk. I took three steps and was at bedside, then leaned down over her, pressing my lips against her forehead, saying my temporary good-bye. I opened my eyes, looking down on her face for a moment, remembering what life it had once possessed. In reality I had left then, turned and walked out the door, not looking back. I'd cried for two weeks straight. Then, when my head was beginning to rid itself of the strongest feelings of grief, I began my work. In the dream, however, I'd hovered there a moment longer, my face just above hers, then I'd whispered down to her, "See you again soon, my love." The body was still for a moment, then the eyes shot open, her blue ones looking up into my brown. I sat up, even as I woke, my body upright before I knew the dream had gone and reality returned. Whereas normally, I would have awaken crying or muttering her name, this time I remained quiet, eyelids easing open to reveal the living room wall, the sound of the ceiling fan humming above me. My heart pounded in my chest in what should have been horror after the dream I'd just had, but instead was more like anticipation. I was still, reality sinking in, waiting for my heart to slow back to normal pace. As I sat there, I considered the young paramedic who'd helped me. What had her name been? I had heard it originally, when she was really there, and for the next so many weeks, that name was one I thought I would never forget. She'd given me her phone number and told me that if I ever needed anything, to just call. And I had. We'd spoken several times over those weeks, though we never spoke of Gwen, and had almost become friends by the time I began my work. Then, as that night grew less immediate, became less real, as too many memories and childhood lessons do, her name slipped away from me. I guessed it was due to so many more important things going on at the time, but I think it was more than that now. I lost my wife that night (she'd lived longer, hooked up to machines that breathed for her and made her heart beat and read brain-patterns that were far too weak and would never grow strong again, but for all intents and purposes, she died right there on the asphalt), an event that would shape the next two years of my life. That name, the sounds of the police and ambulance sirens, the voices of the medics and others around us; they were what made the memory and the dreams real. What made it hurt again as I thought of it. The Spirit of Frankenstein I wasn't ready for that, not with her so close to coming home again. I looked at the clock on the VCR. 5:41 a.m. Back to work, I decided. I'd eat and shower later. I made my way back to the garage, my mind picking up exactly where it had left off. The body was complete, the brain fluids already injected. Only one ingredient to go, then time for reanimation. I flipped through the notebook that served as a homemade instruction manual until I came to the right section. DNA. That's the tricky part. If my theories and research were correct, and I had the utmost faith that they were, then the DNA would have to be distributed throughout the entire body. Every cell would have to be affected. And that meant carefully placed injections, stimulation of the endocrine systems and stimulation of the circulatory system; in short, stimulation of the entire autonomic nervous system, affecting every involuntary action the body required to function. Her heart would beat; she would breath. The body would function fully as though she were living, while the conscious mind still ceased to function, ceased to exist in a sense. It was while all these bodily reactions were taking place that the work I'd done on her memory would begin to take effect. Her thoughts would fall into alignment; her feelings would reconstruct what had once lived in another body. Another injection, to spur the conscious mind back into the world of the living and my wife would come home to me, to word it simply. Once these things took place, once the body warmed enough for the various systems to become active enough to spread the DNA messages to every cell, once the brain began to decode and decipher the memories and emotional patterns I was injecting into it, there was no turning back. It was a matter of waiting for her eyes to open. Less than twenty-four hours, I thought, maybe as few as twelve, and she'll be with us again. I got to work, removing the body from the freezer yet again and placing it on the table. This time, other attachments were necessary, those that would induce and monitor the nervous system and the bodily functions that would have to take place in order for the DNA to be properly dispersed. Once she was connected, I switched on the heater and allowed it to warm the body while I skimmed through the notebook to see exactly where the injections should go. It wouldn't take long for the body to warm to the needed temperature, but the dispersion of DNA would take hours if I wanted to be certain it was done properly. Saturate the cells; that was key. Saturate the cells, inject the re-animation serum, the last touch that the body would need to fully stimulate the nervous system and awaken her conscious mind, then wait. It was the wait that would drive me nuts. Reaching that point where everything that I could do to help things along, to even keep busy, were behind me. The waiting is the hardest part, as Tom Petty had once informed us. And by 6:00 p.m., that was all that was left. The waiting. I sat back in the office chair before the desk, looking at my handiwork from where I sat in wonder I had actually done it. It was then that doubt began to sink in. Only then, after two years of work and sacrifice, of never looking back push and pull. After a few minutes, I glanced over at the clock. 6:07 p.m. The kids would be getting ready to eat dinner. Why not head into the house and eat dinner with them? It would pass the time. I tucked the garage key into my pants pocket and headed inside. As I opened the door, Halle turned toward the sound, freezing as her eyes met my figure and staring at me, looking as though she weren't quite sure whether it was really me or some figment of her imagination. "Halle?" I asked, my voice sounding foreign in my own ears. How long had it been since I had spoken out loud, save talking to myself in the lab? How long since I'd actually listened? "Dad," she returned, her voice plain. She stared a moment longer, then blinked, appearing as though she were waking up, and went back to what she had been doing, setting the table with two sets of silverware. She focused so strongly on that silverware (only a kitchen knife and forks) that I'd have thought she expected them to get up and dance, like some real-life version of Disney cartoon silverware, enchanted. "Order a pizza?" I asked. She nodded, not looking back up at me. "Can you set an extra place? Or do you think there won't-" "I can," she said, cutting me off, still keeping her attention elsewhere, now focusing it on the cupboard where we used to keep spices but now it seemed she kept the plates. The one where we'd kept the plates had been too high for her, I realized, and she'd adjusted to make things more convenient. Good girl, Halle, I thought. Good girl. She set the plate on the small round kitchen table (there was no use in using the one in the dining room, not when there was only the three of us; only two of them, my mind insisted) and lay a set of silverware next to it, adding a napkin to it before speaking again. "Are you...finished?" She asked, looking at the place-setting all the while, inspecting it for perfection. "Almost, honey," I replied. "Very soon." She nodded again, then glanced up for a split second, an expression on her face that seemed to say she was afraid to smile at me. "Daddy!" I turned, seeing Timmy standing in the entrance to the kitchen, his eyes wide, smiling. I hadn't heard him coming, but seeing his face that way forced a smile to my lips, a smile that I hadn't realized had waited two years to spring to the surface again. He ran to me, his arms spread out. I went to reach down, to scoop him up and hug him, but I'd mistimed my movements, not realizing how much faster he was now than last time I'd picked him up this way. He wrapped his arms around my left leg and squeezed as though he intended to shut off the circulation. I laughed for a few moments, surprised more than anything at his reaction, especially compared to Halle's. Just when it was beginning to seem he would never let go, the doorbell rang and he loosened his grip. "Pizza," he announced, running through the entrance to the living room, from which the light from the television flickered various colors and the sound of Bart Simpson's voice echoed, informing his listeners of their right to eat his shorts. Halle took a few steps toward the living room, then looked up at me, catching my eyes for a second, then lowering her gaze again. She stopped then, uncertain of what to do. She'd been in charge, had taken care of everything during the time I'd been in the garage. "I'll take care of the pizza," I said, giving her a little direction, and headed into the living room behind Tim. When I walked in, he was already sifting through the envelope on the stand, where I'd left money for them to pay for such things. "Here, Dad," he said, holding up a twenty, then hurried back into the kitchen again, I watched him go, smiling a smile I'd forgotten I had in me. I had missed the little guy, irritations and all. The doorbell rang again, reminding me why I'd come in here in the first place. "Hurry up, Dad," Tim shouted from the kitchen. I turned to the door and tried to pull it open, finding the deadbolt still latched. Good girl, Halle, I thought again, then unlatched it and pulled a second time, the door giving way then. On the other side of the door, seen through the gray tint of the screen door, stood a girl of about sixteen or seventeen, facing out toward the street, where her car sat running. When I pushed open the screen door, she turned, looking down toward my stomach with a smile on her face, no doubt expecting to see someone shorter than I was. "Hey, Halle..." She trailed off as her smile melted away and her eyes found my face, a good deal higher up than Halle's would have been. I smiled. "Hi, I'm Halle's father." "Oh," she said, as if the idea that a parent might live here had never occurred to her. "I'm sorry, I just...was used to Halle answering the door." She smiled, but nervously. "What's the damage?" "Fifteen," she replied, working the zipper on the insulated carrying case. She pulled the cardboard box from the holder and handed it over. I handed her the twenty. "Call it even?" She smiled, nervous still. "Thanks, Mister...um...well, thanks." She made her way back to the street, her short blonde ponytail bobbing back and forth as she went. I watched the girl for a moment longer, her reactions to seeing me still sinking in, then shook my head slightly and went back inside, not bothering to latch the deadbolt. When I got into the kitchen, Halle and Tim were already seated, Tim holding his fork and knife as though he intended to start pounding them on the table and demanding seconds. I set the pizza box in the center of the table and popped it open. "Why don't you guys help yourselves?" I said. "Your dad needs a quick shower before dinner. I'll have a piece or two when I come back out." "Okay, Dad," Tim said, then actually began tapping the handles of the silverware on the table's wooden surface. As I headed back the short hallway to the bathroom, I could hear Halle scolding him quietly, telling him how he'll wind up putting a knick in the table. I took a longer shower than I intended, deciding that while I was in there, I might as well do the job right, then threw on clean clothes, not bothering with shoes now, and headed back into the kitchen to claim the remains of the pizza. When I reached the kitchen, the two were still sitting there, both doing so quietly with clean, empty plates sitting before them. "What's wrong, guys? Pizza no good?" I asked. "We just thought," Halle began, her face lowered slightly, as though she might expect to be scolded for speaking, "Since you were going to eat too, we might as well just wait for you." I stopped for a second, smiling at the idea that they had waited but feeling a sudden rush of guilt building up behind it. That feeling eased some, but stayed with me as I flipped open the pizza box for the second time (Halle had closed it to keep the pizza warm, no doubt) and handed slices to each of them before taking a piece for myself. I sat down and took a bite before asking Tim how school was going. "Good," he replied. "But not too good." I looked to Halle. "You?" She shrugged. "I'm doing okay." "Doing okay," I repeated, nodding. "Doing good but not too good." Timmy grinned when I repeated his words. "Okay, tell me about it, both of you." And they did, Tim getting overanxious every time Halle would talk for too long, and Halle letting him talk until he was finished, then starting again where she'd left off. When we'd finished eating, we took our conversation to the living room, turning the television to whatever show Tim wanted to watch, which gave Halle and I a few minutes of peace here and there to talk. It was an odd feeling, having children again, but I'd noticed what was missing. How could I not notice? Throughout dinner, I caught myself glancing at the fourth chair as if she were still sitting there, having a pizza with the family the way we used to, crammed around that small table as if we all could fit. As it neared nine-thirty, I decided it was time to put them to bed. "No," Tim insisted, whining as his sister took him by the hand and tried to lead him to his room. "No, I wanna stay up with Daddy." "Actually, buddy," I returned, crouching before him. "I've got to go to bed too, so we may as well all go, right?" "No," he returned, shaking his head vigorously. "C'mon, I'll tuck you in." He continued to shake his head, but when I picked him up and carried him to bed, he didn't struggle. I tucked him in, listening to him insist that he wasn't tired, claims that were interrupted by yawns and eye-rubbing. He was asleep before I reached the door. I turned off the overhead light. "He needs the nightlight," Halle said, catching me just as I was closing the door. I went back inside, turned on the nightlight, then closed the door behind me, seeing Halle standing in the doorway to her room, the door open just enough for her to be fully visible. "G'night, dad," she said. "Good night, Halle," I replied. "Um..." She glanced around, shifting her eyes as though she weren't sure how to continue. "See you tomorrow?" I answered without thinking, the way a father does when asked the easy questions. "Yep. Tomorrow morning." "Okay," she replied, sounding far from convinced, then closed the door behind her. I thought about going in and tucking her in as well, but I guessed that it would be best to give her more space than that for now. I'd been gone for too long, and for a while at least, Halle would find it hard to trust me. I headed down the hall, wondering what all I'd missed. Had they needed help with their homework? Had they thought to knock on the door to the garage? Had they knocked? For all I knew, they might have. But I'd made it clear they weren't to come in and bother me. Not even Tim, persistent as he was even after so much time, dared more than once to open the door when it was closed. On that one occasion, I'd spanked him for the first time since we'd buried his mother and sent him to his room crying. Those thoughts were moving through my mind when I unlocked the door to the garage and opened it, stopping dead. The stranger sat on the edge of the heating bed, looking at me from halfway across the garage, eyes meeting mine with confusion. "Where are my clothes?" She asked. I said nothing, couldn't say anything. "Honey, what happened?" There was no worry in her voice. But then, she trusted me, and here I was, with her, in our home. I examined her from across the garage, considering the reality of what I was seeing. Just a few hours ago, the body had been motionless, lifeless, regardless of my intent to change that. Though I'd often referred to it as Gwen in my own mind, it had merely been an object to me, after all. A body. Lifeless; taking up space; really nothing more than the object of a dream. But now, it was moving, sitting up, talking, the heart pumping blood through veins and arteries, lungs taking in air as if they'd always done it, without a moment's rest. Now it was Gwen, or almost her at least, alive and asking me where her clothes were and what had happened. And what could I tell her? My heart thudded in my chest and I took a few half-staggering steps toward her, closing the door behind me. I stopped just a foot or so away from her, never once taking my eyes off of her. She looked around the floor as I approached, wondering, I guessed, if the clothes she should have been wearing were there somewhere. "Gwen," I said, my voice almost a whisper. I reached out, took her hands in mine. "What happened?" She asked again, raising her face to mine. "Where are...my clothes?" Her brow wrinkled as she looked at me, confused, then her face fell slack for a moment and a smile stretched across her lips, faltered, then returned stronger than before, her blue eyes lighting up as I never thought I'd see again. She'd lost interest in what had happened, was no longer concerned about her clothing. She took a deep breath and blushed as she let it out, beginning to giggle lightly. "You haven't looked at me like that in so long," she said, that smile taking over her face. "How's that?" I asked. I wasn't sure if I was smiling or frowning, just that I was looking into eyes that were almost hers, touching hands that would one day very soon be hers. She smiled, disbelieving. "Like you're head-over-heels in love," she replied, her voice stricken with awe. "You ever doubted that?" I asked. She lowered her head then, hiding her blushes I was almost certain. Too much attention had always affected her that way, made her uncomfortable, though not necessarily in a bad way. She was pulling out of the immediate situation but if history proved correct, she'd return to it in a moment, still blushing I would bet. Her cheeks were still red when she raised her face to mine again. "At times," she said. "At times I wasn't so sure." "Well," I began. "I am, and it's never faltered, or skipped a beat. We've just..." "Been together for a long time," she finished. "I know. But right now, you don't seem that way, like you did yesterday when..." The argument we'd had before we left the house, a few hours before the accident. I'd awaken in a bad mood, not over anything in particular except work and lack of sleep, nothing that I should have allowed to affect things at home. But I was brooding then. The fight had been over...well, I don't even remember why we'd fought; it was that trivial. "Sometimes you don't know what you've got till it's gone," I replied, looking into her eyes like I might find buried treasure there, and in a sense, I had. A treasure I hadn't realized the value of until it was no longer mine. But I wouldn't let her go again. Never. "Gone?" She asked, brow wrinkling again, shaking her head slowly. "Baby, what do you mean 'gone'?" Her eyes had me though, locked in place and almost unable to speak. I couldn't say it yet, couldn't respond. Where would I find the words to? Faced with her, the reality of her, I couldn't force my mind to focus on the technical jargon to explain what I'd done and how I'd done it. I wanted to hug her, to tell her I loved her, and to cry in her arms for all the days I'd missed her. "Baby?" She asked, her voice concerned. The word, no her voice, sent vibrations through me. I stared at her for a second, realizing fully that there was no chance I was dreaming this. I was really standing there, awake and looking into the blue eyes of a woman who, somewhere inside, was my wife. The wife I'd loved. The wife I'd adored, though not often enough. The wife I'd missed. I took in a deep breath, my heart thudding to life in my chest, feeling as though it might burst out and sending a rush of adrenaline through me like I hadn't felt since well before she died. My bottom lip quivered, my hands shook slightly at the end of my arms, and my chest swelled as I inhaled. I steadied my hands by gripping her hips lightly, the feel of her skin still a little clammy beneath my palms and fingers, oddly rubbery, though it had regained most of its natural texture. Time would solve that, but for right then, the skin would feel a bit surreal. She sensed the change in me, her arms raising to my shoulders and sliding around my neck, pulling me closer, her breasts pressing into my chest. A new spill of adrenaline surged through me. Now, it was my crotch's turn to swell. I looked into her eyes for only a second, then leaned my head down and pressed my lips to hers. Gently at first; I was almost afraid to believe this was real. Then with more vigor as need overtook fear and I gave in to the situation, for better or worse. Her arms squeezed tighter around my neck, her lips pressing back equally hard, her tongue parting my lips and stretching inside. Mine met hers, the two dancing roughly for a moment, before she pulled back some, parting our lips. "Wow," she whispered. "You haven't kissed me like that in..." I smiled, more at the sensation of her warm breath on my face than her words. My hands were working her sides, rubbing the skin there as if I intended to warm her. I leaned lower, intending to kiss her again, but she drew her head away, keeping her lips just out of reach. I opened my eyes then, looking into hers, almost expecting to see rejection awaiting me. Instead, I saw a pleasant joy. She grinned up at me, apparently having forgotten the oddness of awaking naked in the oddly furnished garage for the moment. "Are you...um...thinking what I think you're thinking?" She smiled, then glanced away, almost embarrassed it seemed, something else I hadn't seen from her in the last so many years of our marriage. Her cheeks were blushing slightly, adding more life to the newly created body. The Spirit of Frankenstein I smiled back, possibly reflecting her embarrassment, as she turned her head and blushed again. When she looked back, I nodded. Her gaze lingered for a few long moments; she was biting her bottom lip as if to pinch back that smile and shifting her glance from one of my eyes to the other. Then she chuckled quietly and leaned toward me again, kissing me long and hard, aggressively even, driving her tongue deep into my mouth. As we kissed, she settled her feet onto the floor and urged me backward. I conceded, not fighting her in the least, and a few seconds of travel left me with my back to the door leading into the kitchen. When she pulled her lips away again, she took hold of the bottom of my shirt and pulled it over my head. My shirt gone, my hands quickly found new focuses, one gripping her left buttock while the other massaged her right breast, but not for long. She kissed me once more on the lips, only a peck, then pressed her lips against my cheek and began kissing her way from beneath my left ear to the base of my neck, then down past my shoulder and to my chest. My right hand lost its positioning as she lowered her body some, her buttocks slipping out of reach. I moved it to the small of her back, feeling the shape of the muscle beneath the skin there. It retreated further up her back to between her shoulder blades as her knees found the floor. My left hand joined it as her breast fell out of reach as well. She kissed my stomach, paying special attention to my naval, as she worked my belt loose and undid my jeans. In the past, at this point, I would have been fully erect, ready for anything, but the past two years had left me without this sort of physical contact, and my body had lost some responsiveness to it. As she brought my jeans and boxer-briefs down to my knees, my half-erect penis bobbed in front of her. She didn't seem to mind or even notice the difference, just took the base in her hand and licked her way up the shaft from underneath to the head. More blood rushed in, causing it to twitch in the air a few times in tune with my heartbeat. She watched it do this, then opened wide and took it into her mouth, taking it down to the base and sucking as she withdrew until her lips were wrapped around the head, then pressing forward again, moving straight into a moderate rhythm. A few seconds of that and I was fully erect, almost ready to beg for attention should she cease for some reason. She didn't cease, nor did she really have time to. Within thirty seconds, I felt the sensations building inside me. I groaned, my hand finding the back of her head and pressing there, urging her to continue. She worked more vigorously at it at first, and I could feel her eyes focused on me as I closed my own and rocked my head back. The sensations weren't much, nor were they particularly satisfying, but in thirty seconds, what else could I ask for? And after two years of missing it, I was pleased just to feel what were almost my wife's lips wrapped around me again. "I'm gonna' come," I groaned, feeling her lips stop just below the head. She sucked lightly for a second, waiting, then I ejaculated, letting loose two years frustration and tension in a few quick and thick blasts of semen. When she was certain I was finished, she turned her head and looked around, searching for a place to spit. I took in a few deep breaths, my body relaxing. "Over there," I said, pointing. She found the small circular drainage vent I pointed to and leaned to one side, spitting onto the holed plastic cap that covered it. "You must have really wanted that," she said, grinning up at me. I smiled back, nodding. "Yeah. Can you...uh...keep going?" She looked at me, surprised. I couldn't remember ever asking her to do that before, and I doubted she could either. She hesitated for only a second, then leaned forward and took my shrinking penis into her mouth again, sucking away, trying to persuade the blood to return. At first, I thought it would never work. The sensations were arousing, but my penis remained flaccid in her mouth for almost a minute before the first signs of regaining erection occurred. Then, as if my doubts had dared it to respond, it began to grow erect again, egged on by her soft, milking lips and warm, caressing tongue. After realizing the change, she let it slip from her lips and smiled up at me, her warm breath striking my skin in a sudden rush as she exhaled. "That doesn't happen everyday," she said, her voice thick, her grin genuine. No, Gwen, I thought. It doesn't. I've got too many surprises for you today, I think. She lowered her lips again and went back to work, keeping me at attention for a few moments longer before I stopped her again. I waved her to her feet, reaching out to her with one hand and pulling her lips to mine before she had gained her full balance. She kissed back, holding tight to my hips to keep herself steady. I paced her backward, guiding her toward the air mattress, not the ideal place for lovemaking after so much time without her, but I felt certain that no matter how things went, I would remember them as perfect anyway. We'd have time for more romantic encounters in the future. Now that we were together again, man and wife, till death do us part. A shiver crept up my spine as the thought ran through my head. Till death? Only then? Her heels found the mattress, and I pressed down on her shoulder with my right hand, my left still holding her lips to mine. She followed my lead, lowering herself onto her knees, me in tow. In a motion most lovers performed without thinking, she was on her back, and me on top of her, our bodies less than an inch apart as I supported my weight with my right hand and left elbow, still kissing her. Her hands ran along my sides, slipping underneath to my stomach as they moved up and down along my ribcage. As I shifted my focus to her neck, pressing my lips tightly there and tasting her skin, I fought awkwardly to remove my pants the rest of the way, using one foot to press the jeans off the opposite leg. After a minute of struggling, my legs were bare and my feet free. By then, I'd moved even lower, my lips finding the skin above her breasts, moments later, between. Cupping one breast in each hand, I let my weight rest on one elbow, lips disconnecting with skin only long enough to let out and take in heavy, panting breaths. Her right hand groped along my stomach, stretching toward my waist but unable to reach what the fingers wanted to grasp. Without thinking, I shifted my weight upward, returning my attention to her neck and feeling her fingers wrap around my penis and immediately begin to stroke. As though acting of their own accord, my hips began to move in pace with her fingers, pumping into her hand. I balanced my weight on my left arm, sliding my right hand down between her legs, testing her for moisture. More than prepared. Normally, I would have taken the time to kiss my way down and tease her with my tongue, some cunnilingus play, but tonight, uncertain of whether or not my second erection would hold up after being gained so soon after the first, I let impatience get the better of me. I drew my weight back, pulling my penis free of her hand, then took hold of it and pressed the head against her opening, sliding it up and down there. I watched as her eyes closed and she inhaled deeply, then I pressed the head in and let the shaft follow, entering her entirely in one smooth motion. She held her breath as I penetrated, then exhaled as I reached the deepest part of her I was capable of and stopped, pausing for a second. She opened her eyes, looking impatiently up at me. I pulled my hips backward, then pressed forward again, doing so in slow, methodical, direct strokes at first, then gaining some speed and rotating my hips. Her impatience melted away, her eyes closed, lips curled into a temporarily satisfied smile. Her hands found my hips and moved in unison with them, ready to give me direction should she feel the want or need. I spread my own legs further apart, lowering my base, then leaned back so I was perched on my knees between her legs, gripped her thighs just above the knees, and pressed them back toward her chest. She pulled her hands back, moving them around her legs so they weren't hindered, then spread her legs further apart, trying to keep my efforts from overly condensing her body. From where I was, I could see either breast just inside the inner curve of a thigh. I looked her in the eye for a moment, returning the pace of my thrusts, which had ceased during this quick position change, back to what it had been before. When they closed again, that smile returning full force, I let my eyes scan down her body, seeing her breasts rise and fall in slow but fairly heavy breaths. Even at that moment, the scientist inside was awake, paying close attention, taking mental notes; my attention was focused more between them and down the line of her stomach to her navel, where the incisions I'd made and sealed in order to replace the organs were barely visible lines, slightly lighter in color than the tone of her skin. Her skin? I thought. It isn't her skin, not just yet. I let go of the analytical for the moment, unable to shut it down but capable of pushing it to the back of my mind for the time being. I let my gaze slide lower still, taking note of the area where my wife would have possessed neatly trimmed pubic hair but this body part's previous owner shaved altogether. Not a second later, I was watching as I penetrated her, keeping pace with the movement of her hands, now bent behind me and pressing on my buttocks. A couples minutes like this was enough to satiate the voyeur inside, and I looked back up to her face, seeing her watching me, smirking at her husband's simple fetish as she had so many times before. I smiled back, half-embarrassed after so long without that gaze fixed on me but somehow fully comfortable behind that feeling. I glanced down again, watched a moment longer, then released my hold on her legs and let them ease away from her shoulders. I slowed my rhythm to a halt, then pulled her legs back toward me until one was to either side again. Leaning over her again, I slid my arms under her and leaned back, pulling her weight with me until I was upright once more, with her straddling and facing me, chest to chest. She smiled, slightly surprised by the action, then wrapped her arms around my neck and squeezed her legs tighter around me, holding herself in place. I slid my hands down beneath her buttocks, raising her weight a few inches. She bowed her head some and kissed me, mouth wide open, tongue probing. My tongue met hers with equal aggression as I started to press upward, slowly grinding into her. When she drew her lips from mine, for only a second or two, she expelled a sudden gust of warm breath into my face, half-shuddering, then pressed her lips to mine again, moaning lightly as I ground upward. I knew from past experience that that moan in particular meant she wanted more speed, faster strokes. I pressed slowly upward a few more times, then pulled my lips away from hers, not wanting our teeth to strike together, and pressed upward faster. She pulled herself closer, holding on tightly as I moved my hips steadily faster until her pants, in time with my thrusts, were two or three per second. I could feel her hips, fighting against my grip to return my thrusts. Her eyes were closed by then, and her breaths expelled into my face with sudden force. Normally, she would try to avoid doing something like that, would turn her head to one side or raise her chin, but just then, her mind was elsewhere, exactly where I wanted it in fact. I could feel and hear as her breaths became shorter, heard them hitch at times, as though one breath out of every five was too thick to properly exhale and became caught in her throat. I lowered my head, kissing the nape of her neck as gently as I could and listening as the seconds passed and those hitches in her breath became more frequent and were joined by a whimper every other breath. Her grip tightened around my neck as her efforts to meet my thrusts became more aggressive. She let out a sudden, loud moan, her chest and shoulders actually shaking as she did. I held her tighter, finding it difficult to keep her under enough control to maintain the pace and depth I'd managed until then. I decided then that control might not be the best idea anyway. Keep doing what I was doing, the best I could, let her dictate any changes, consciously or otherwise, and let things follow their course. And I stuck to that, my neck being squeezed a little too tightly as she spat loud moans and whimpers into my ear, her body seeming to vibrate from within. Then fell silent and relaxed some for a moment or two before the shaking commenced into a second round and her moans returned louder this time, and met at one point by a sound similar to a growl. When she relaxed a second time, she settled against me, breathing in long, heavy breaths, her head bowed to rest against my shoulder. I tried to continue to press up into her, inspired to pursue my own climax then, almost helpless not to. "Wait," she said, her voice thick in her post-orgasmic state. "Just give me a second." I conceded, but with an effort. We sat there for a half-minute or so, just holding onto each other while her breathing returned to normal. When she felt she had calmed enough to continue, she drew her head from my shoulder and looked down at me. "Let me down on my back," she instructed, and I did so, lowering her weight in a manner similar to but opposite of how I'd initially picked her up. She drew her legs up again and reached behind me, instructing me with her hands to press forward again, as though we'd never changed positions at all. I gave no argument, merely went back to it, the need to come yielding to nothing else at that time. I didn't watch my thrusts this time, but looked up at her, locking eyes with her and wondering what she was thinking. Did she have a clue that things were different? Was she considering how or why just then? Those were questions whose answers would have to wait. There would be an asking time, followed by an answering time, and soon. But not just yet. She gripped my shoulders, pulling me closer, chest to chest, where she wrapped her arms around my neck, looking up at me, and wrapped her legs around my waist. I closed my eyes, my hips slapping hers now as I thrust into her as fast and hard as I could. Her hips rose to meet each thrust, egging me on. I could feel it building inside me again, and I knew already that the second time wouldn't be enough any more than the first had been. My body was growing tense, and she wrapped her legs around me, seeming to sense the end was near, using the leverage it provided to meet my thrusts with more aggression. I held tightly to her, hands gripping her shoulders from beneath as the feeling overtook me, and I heard myself groan loudly. A second later, I emptied into her, body shaking as I did, then began to slow down until I was still, hips pressed against the inside of her thighs. I trembled slightly, as if I had last eaten days ago instead of hours, if it had even been that long. I settled my weight against her, taking in deep breaths as my body calmed. I could feel her fingers running through my hair, front to back in that familiar manner. I could feel her legs loosen their grip and settle down on the air mattress to either side of me. We lay there together, my heart gradually returning to the pace it normally held, which might have been either too fast or slow for all I knew; I hadn't seen a doctor since I'd started my research. Priorities, right? After a few minutes, I pulled back, removing my flaccid penis from her and looking down into her eyes. Blue eyes that would soon be just like Halle's again. Guilt hit me then, sudden but strong, like it had when I'd seen the kids had waited for me to return before eating dinner. But why? Hadn't I done this for them, too? Brought their mother back to them? Our family back to them? She smiled, a questioning smile, and I shook my head, smiling back, and leaned down and kissed her, gently this time. Then I moved from between her legs and lay down next to her, reaching one arm around her and pulling her closer. In that moment, it felt as if she'd never gone, like this was the day after the accident for me as well. I closed my eyes, took in deep breaths and felt myself begin to doze off already. Sleep, I thought, would be sweet as well, now that our time apart was behind me. She muttered something, but I couldn't make out the words. Her low volume mixed with my half-awake state made recognizing the words impossible. "Hmmm?" I requested, less a word than a sound. She didn't respond right away, but instead sat up. I lay there, vaguely aware of her moving next to me. At one point, I could feel cloth swipe against my skin, and deciphered that she was putting my shirt on. Then she spoke again, and this time, the words were clear, though clearly she was thinking out loud. My heart pounded once in my chest, then stopped. "Sometimes you don't know what you've got till it's gone," she said, her voice distant. I opened my eyes, my heart pounding as it started up again. I was looking at her, trying to decide what she might be thinking, but doing so in vain. She turned her head when I sat up, her confused eyes meeting my nervous and scared ones. "What did that mean? Gone?" She asked. I didn't have the words, or know where to begin. But it was time. Her interest had already been sparked, and she needed to know eventually. Better to get things over with, while she sees the oddities of the situation and hasn't made excuses for them yet. Those excuses would become more and more rational, too rational after a while for her to deny them when faced with the truth, especially given the far-fetched nature of this truth. "Honey, um..." I began. I glanced around at the various pieces of equipment and chemical vials that lay around the garage. Her eyes followed mine, shifting among the items carefully, her brow wrinkling more and more as she did. A moment later, our eyes met again, hers even more confused now. I had seen this coming, but hadn't been sure how to deal with it. Her last memories would have been two years old, but seemed like yesterday. She'd already said that word, "yesterday," referring to the morning before the accident. In her eyes, just yesterday this garage had been empty compared to the clutter of things it contained now. It had been a regular garage, not a laboratory. The various vials and bottles that were covering the workbench had replaced a few household tools, screwdrivers and hammers and nails, measuring tapes. The shelves that lined the wall opposite the garage door had held books on home repair and carpentry, books I seldom even opened leaning up against one another because the shelves were half empty. Now those shelves were stuffed full of textbooks on biology and chemistry, manuals specializing in DNA alone, not to mention my personal notebooks, filled with handwritten notes as I'd worked out what I needed to do to every detail. I'd worked hard, and fast. What should have taken me five years or more was finished in two and crammed sloppily onto those shelves. And where the heating bed sat, where she'd awakened a short time ago from what some might believe a holy slumber, is where the red Dodge Durango would be parked, freshly washed and waxed, shining beneath the overhead light. On the other side of the garage door, the black Ford Taurus coupe sat, desperately in need of rain to rinse the crust of dirt and dust that had settled over it and clung to its paint. Where the metal cabinet filled with raincoats and galoshes had once sat, now we sat, both on an air mattress, looking at one another. Her brow was furrowed above confused eyes wanting an explanation. It had taken two years for these things to change, but in her mind they had changed overnight. Everything had changed, and in certain places, cobwebs and dust had even settled. The Spirit of Frankenstein "What...?" Her eyes fell to my chest, eyeing the skin there as though it held the answers. "What's that last thing you remember, honey?" I asked. "We had an argument," she said. "Then we got quiet, and we didn't talk for a while, then you decided we should take a ride. My mother had the kids, so..." "Is that all?" She thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. "The car was here," she said, pointing. "Right here." "I know, baby," I returned. "But more happened that day." "That day? It was just..." She trailed off. "When we went out for that ride," I began. "Wait," she interrupted. "Someone pulled out in front of us, while we were talking." "Yes." "A semi," she said. "There was..." "An accident." She nodded, then glanced up at me, even more confused. I looked away, unable to hold that gaze for another second. "This is going to be hard for me to explain, honey, but I need you to listen to me," I looked at her, meeting eyes with her for a moment, ensuring I had her absolute attention before I continued. "There was an accident, and we were both hurt, you worse than me, okay?" She nodded her head, shifting her glance away in thought, appearing as though she remembered something about that. I was relieved to have those eyes removed from me once again. "But I...I was..." She stuttered, unable to continue. "You were hurt very badly," I replied, my hand finding hers without looking. She gripped it tightly and held it to her chest. "But, baby," she began again. "I don't remember anything after that...and I'm..." "Shhh," I insisted. "This is the hard part, and I need you to listen carefully." And I told her, watching her eyes become narrow, her face shocked, her lips retreating from her teeth in a scowl. I didn't hesitate in my telling, or pause, or leave anything out. How could I? If I stopped for even a second, I might not be able to get started again. When I had finished, she let go of my hand, and recoiled, finding the edge of the mattress and looking back at me, disbelieving but still believing. She was piecing things together, searching for other explanations, and hopefully finding none. Finally, she shook her head slowly. "No," she muttered. "No, there's no way. How could I have...and still...?" I reached out to her. She pulled away, getting to her feet and leaving me on the mattress alone. I watched as she moved toward the workbench and scanned the notebooks I had laying there, open to whatever page I'd last used them for. She leafed through a couple pages, then examined the far corners of the garage, eyeing the cobwebs that had gathered there. "How long?" She asked. "Two years," I replied, getting to my feet. "Far too long to be without you." I wandered over to where she stood, her body froze as she looked at the vials of fluids I'd left on the workbench, then to the lab table in the center of the room. "How?" She asked. "It wasn't easy," I replied. "But with the right motivation...I missed you. I couldn't live without you in my life." She saw it then, and her eyes grew. I should have known better than to leave it there, but it simply hadn't occurred to me to move it. My mind had been on other things; her mostly. It'd been there for years, since she'd removed it from the master bedroom, not knowing where else to put it. When she'd died, it had already been there three years. She rushed over to it, no doubt thinking back to what I'd told her and finding herself unable to resist. She wiped at the dirt and grime that had settled on the mirror as though obsessed, managing to clear out a large enough circle to see her face in. She froze then, staring into eyes that should have been her own but belonged to someone else. She shook her head, disbelieving, then closed her eyes, lowering her head and reaching out blindly to continue wiping at the mirror's surface. Tears spilled down her cheeks as her lids closed, but she didn't open them again, just wiped at the glass, clearing a space large enough for her to clearly see her face and some of her upper body. When her eyes opened again, tears fell from them in steady streaks, but she focused them on the image that stared back from the glass. "How...?" She lowered her head, leaning her weight against the mirror with her right hand and cupping her face in the left. "That'll change, honey," I insisted, stepping closer, reaching out to take her in my arms. As my hand touched her elbow, her left hand darted out from her face and struck the mirror, spider-webbing it in a move so quick I recoiled, startled. She inhaled, fighting back a sob, then drew back her right hand and punched it forward as well, sending the mirror to the floor in long shards, several of which shattered in turn into tiny fragments. She cupped her face in both hands, sobbing and moaning as she did. I reached out to her again. When my hand touched her this time, she shoved me back with a motion just as sudden as the jab at the glass had been, sending me backward a few steps, staggering, my hips finding the corner of the workbench and sending several of the glass vials there falling to the floor, shattering and spreading their contents across the cement. I found the bench with one hand and steadied myself, watching her backpedal toward the mattress, her face again in that disbelieving scowl. I watched her go, staying perfectly still, afraid that any movement might set her off again. I should have seen this coming, should have realized that it would be incredibly difficult for her to accept what had taken place, what I'd done, but I hadn't thought this far ahead, hadn't thought over how she would deal when things were finished, but merely how to get her breathing again, how to bring her back to me. I wondered if her psyche would hold up; the strain had to be intense. She wrapped herself in the sheet and wept silently for what must have been twenty minutes, her head hidden beneath her hands. When she finally raised her head again, she saw me standing in exactly the same place as when she'd first sat down there. "So," she said. "I guess it doesn't matter that I wasn't a part of this decision? That this might not have been what I wanted?" I had no answer. I hadn't even thought of it, to tell the truth. She dropped raised her knees before her and rested her chin on them. I decided it was safe to move and carefully made my way over to the mattress. She made no movements as I sat down next to her and placed an arm around her shoulders. Silence between us, a silence like we'd never had between us. It seemed to sink into me, to make my skin crawl with discomfort. I opened my mouth to speak, uncertain what I would say but knowing that the silence would eventually drive me mad. She spoke before I could. "Something isn't right," she said, her hand rising to her chest. She held her palm there for a moment or two, her face showing an odd discomfort, making her appear as if she had indigestion or heartburn. "It's all right, honey," I said. "It's just the difference in bodies. It'll take some time to adjust, and by the time you do, the genetics factored in will..." I trailed off, seeing her shaking her head. "No," she said. "It's not that. It's something else. Something's...something's wrong." Her face looked worried, but that expression was gone in a second as her face contorted suddenly in an expression of pain. "Are you okay?" I asked. "Describe the pain, maybe I can..." She shook her head, her face contorting again. A sharp pain, I realized, then it passes, then another comes, apparently sharper than the first. What could...? I stood up. "Baby, describe the pain." "Sharp," she said, then her face contorted again and she held her breath until the next pain passed. "Sharp, right in the center of..." In theory, it could have been anything, and my judgment was greatly dulled by my concern for her. I kept thinking, I just got her back, how can I lose again her so quickly? Her face contorted a fourth time, then she turned away from me, supporting her weight on her palms as she heaved onto the floor. I expected a dry heave, given that she had consumed no food. Instead, blood struck the floor in thick drops. "No," I gasped, realizing what was going on. Her body was rejecting the DNA injections. I hadn't expected this. It had been the least probable failure, and I'd taken it for granted it seemed. I was at the workbench then, shifting through sheets of paper that I should have known would be useless to me now. A second heave, this one producing a small, thick puddle of blood beneath her face. She inhaled deeply then heaved again, producing even more blood this time. I stared at her for a moment, blood hanging in strings from her lips, which were peeled back, revealing red-coated teeth beneath. One hand supported her weight; the other gripped her stomach as she heaved again. More blood; the puddle grew. Four heaves now; all of them producing blood. I wondered if it would be worth the effort of beginning a transfusion and dismissed the idea. I could have a bag up and ready in a minute, if that, but what good would it do? A race to replace the blood as fast as she lost it, while the reason for losing it persisted? She gripped her chest with the hand that had held her stomach a second ago, her body tensing, her face freezing in an expression of severe pain. "Honey," I mumbled, but she couldn't hear me. With the pain she was apparently in, she might not have even known I was there with her. And a second later, I was right next to her, sitting on the floor and pulling her closer to me, cradling her. I felt her body relax as the pain passed, and she settled back against me, crying now in loud sobs of both pain and fear. Blood, mixed with saliva, was running from her bottom lip, hanging in strings down to her chest, wetting my arms. Is this why I brought her back? I asked myself. How could I have failed her like this? Put her through the pain of dieing all over again? "I'm sorry," I spat, realizing then that I was crying as well. "I'm so sorry, baby." She didn't turn her head at all, didn't try to speak, but I felt one hand reach back some, gripping weakly at my left side. Were it not for that hand, I would never have known I even existed to her then. Having felt it, though, made me want to squeeze her tighter to me. I fought the urge, afraid such actions might restrict her breathing or cause her more pain. It seemed better that I had, as a moment later, her body tensed again, her hand leaving my side and gripping her chest again, met by the other hand. For a moment, she was dreadfully silent, not moving, not making a sound, her body frozen in place like a statue, face contorted in that expression of pain again, then the contraction passed, the pain lessened, not much but enough to allow her to breath again, to seem alive again. She let out a loud whine then, inhaled and began to sob again. Only for a few moments though, then her stomach tightened and she heaved a fifth time, blood spilling from her mouth and pouring down her chest in a sudden rush. More this time than in any of the others, or at least it seemed so. Too much in any case. I held her, not knowing what else to do. She cried, then vomited a sixth time, then cried again, her sobs becoming weaker. I closed my eyes, lowering my head to her shoulder as her body reacted less intensely to the pain it was facing. A quick almost reflexive jerk, then relaxation. A seventh vomit, this one almost like a child spitting up while burping, then the body tensed a last time and lay limply in my arms. I held her, waiting for the body to become tense once more, or for her to vomit again. A sob even. Nothing. I'm not sure how long I sat there, holding her unresponsive body, no longer feeling her sobs or even any breaths. When I opened my eyes and turned her head to look at her face, I saw the eyes open, bright blue staring lifelessly out from beneath half-open lids. I tucked my head into her neck and let loose my own sobs then, holding her tightly to me, half-expecting her hand to raise to my head and cradle it like she'd done when my father passed away, to tell me that life would go on without. When I finally came to my senses, I eased the body down to the mattress and slipped from beneath it. Knowing that it couldn't be allowed to sit lifelessly in the warm air. I went to the freezer and opened the door, then lugged the body over and placed it carefully inside. The body would need some minor repair, but things could go different the second time around. I looked down at her, taking in a deep breath, telling myself that it wasn't over just yet, then reached inside the freezer and closed her eyes, whispering another apology. I closed the freezer door, gathered my pants and put them on, and went back to the mattress, letting myself fall onto it and curling into a ball. I wrapped the sheet around me, suddenly feeling cold and alone, and dozed. It was a deep, dreamless, seemingly endless sleep that I fought to hold onto even as I swam out of it, my body being shifted back and forth by some unknown force. I took in a deep breath, smelling the remnants of several chemicals in the air. The smell was distant, and I knew that their spilling had taken place some time ago. The rest of reality was catching up to the smell in the air, and as it did, it registered that something really was shaking me. A small hand carefully gripped my shoulder, rocking me back and forth. A child's voice, familiar and concerned, asked repeatedly, "Dad? Dad, are you okay? Dad?" I opened my eyes, looking at Tim and seeing him about to cry. "I'm okay, Timmy," I returned, hearing a whisper instead of my own voice. He smiled, a few tears dropping from his about to overflow eyes and leaving trails down his cheeks, but didn't stop shaking me just yet. I reached up with one hand and patted his. He stopped shaking me then. I fought to sit up, groaning in the process but managing without much effort. I wasn't hurt, after all, just tired, exhausted in fact. I looked over at Tim and wondered how long I'd been laying there. "I'm alright, Timmy," I said, my voice louder and clearer than before. "I'm just tired, that's all." I scanned the room, seeing the mess that remained after the long night before and remembering what had happened. I found the jars that had fallen from the workbench and panic set in, my heart leaping suddenly in my chest. "DNA," one label stated. The fluid from inside the jar lay spilled on the cement, mixed with another fluid that, by the color, I recognized as cerebral fluid. Both my whole supply; both useless. I had the blood, and the body, and all the equipment, but without those two fluids... I leaned against the wall and lowered my head, wanting to cry at what I was left with. Was she truly gone forever? Had I really lost her again, for good this time? "Dad?" I fought the tears, not wanting to believe it just yet. Couldn't I construct the DNA from a combination of Halle's and Tim's? And it wasn't as if the plans weren't still tucked away in the same manila envelope, in the same drawer of the same desk, where they'd been for months now. "Dad?" I glanced over at Tim. He looked back at me, his sky blue eyes focused solidly on my own, eyes he could only have gotten from his mother. I had noticed them the day he was born, those brilliant blue eyes shining up at me as I held his crying form, still waiting for the doctor to cut the umbilical cord. His sister had those eyes too. He stood there, his eyebrows crunched slightly and his lips set, the same way his mother's always were when she was concerned about something. "Are you sure you're okay, Dad?" I looked at him squarely for a few seconds, the urge to cry over having lost her suddenly seeming distant and foolish. I smiled back at him, suddenly faced with the urge to cry for a more important reason. "Yeah, Tim," I replied. "I'm fine." I looked at him, wondering when I'd last looked at him like this, taking in how he'd grown and what he'd brought to my life. "When was the last time I told you I loved you?" I asked. He shrugged. "It's been a while." "Well, I do," I replied. I reached out to him, drawing him near and hugging him. I held him for a few long but too short moments, then stood and took him by the hand, leading him toward the door to the kitchen. "What do you say you and Halle go clean your rooms while your Dad here takes a nap. Then, later tonight, we'll go see that movie you wanted to see? What was it called?" "Space-Age Nazi Hunters," he replied, excited. "Yep," I agreed. "That's the one..." Maybe I'd even call Krista (such a pretty name) and see if she'd like to go. The name had come back that easily, and it made sense that it should. She'd saved my life, after all, had patched my wounds and cared for me until I got to the hospital and had been a good friend after the fact. Once we were through the doorway, I turned and glanced back into my makeshift lab, eyes wandering over the items there. Standing there, I thought back to how she'd felt to me, not quite real, not human. It was the fantasy, I thought. That's all it was. It could never have really been her. No matter how much I wanted it to be. I shook my head, a man waking long overdue from a foolish dream. I'll clean this mess up later, I thought, then flipped off the light and closed the door behind me.