Parasite (Parasitology, #1)(32)

I couldn’t think of anything. I balled my hands together in my lap and said, in a very small voice, “I’m happy at the shelter. I don’t want to talk to any reporters. They’ve only just stopped trying to call me at the house, and I don’t want to remind them who I am.”

Dr. Banks frowned. For a moment, he looked at me not like I was someone to cajole and convince to come over to his way of thinking, but like I was a science project on the verge of going wrong. “Really, Sally, I hoped you’d be more willing to help the company that has done so much to help you. Don’t you want to help us?”

The part of me that had just been through six years of cognitive therapy and endless psychological tests recognized what he was trying to do. By using the word “help” so many times so closely together, he could make me feel like I was somehow letting down the team by not jumping right in to do my part. It was linguistic reinforcement, and it might have worked six years ago, when I was still less sure of who I really was. It wasn’t going to work on me now.

The other part of me—the small, scared part of me that dreamt of darkness and drums and waited constantly for the next axe to fall—was convinced that refusing to do what Dr. Banks wanted would result in him cutting off all medical support, leaving me to die the next time I went into anaphylactic shock for no discernible reason.

It was the calm part that won out, and I heard myself say, in a much more confident voice, “I do want to help, Dr. Banks. I just don’t think speaking to the press would be a good idea for me right now. I’m at a very fragile place in my recovery. I wouldn’t want to risk losing ground. It would look bad for everyone, and you know the media would be watching to see whether there were any changes in my condition right after I gave an interview. This isn’t the right time.”

Dr. Banks kept frowning… but slowly, he also nodded. “I suppose I can see where you’re coming from, Sally, and I appreciate hearing that you’re so concerned about SymboGen’s image. I still hope that you’ll consider it.”

I managed to force a smile through the cold wall of fear that was wrapped around me. “I’ll try.”

The rest of our “talk”—really a lecture, with me as the sole attending student, and Dr. Banks as the professor who didn’t know when to leave the podium—was the usual generic platitudes about the wonders of SymboGen and the Intestinal Bodyguard, interspersed with the occasional softball question about how I was doing, how Nathan was doing, how Joyce and I were getting along. All the usual pleasantries, all asked with a fake concern that was somehow more insulting than rote disinterest would have been. When he pretended to care, I had to pretend to listen. It didn’t seem like a fair exchange.

After what felt like a hundred years, but was really slightly under an hour, Dr. Banks glanced ostentatiously at his watch, and stood. “I’ve enjoyed our time together, Sally, but I’m afraid I have a meeting I can’t reschedule. Do you know what the rest of your day with us will look like?”

“Not yet,” I said, taking the hint and getting out of my own chair. I’d been sitting still for too long; my legs felt like jelly. “Chave brought me straight up to see you.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve got some exciting adventures ahead of you.” Dr. Banks started walking toward the door. He didn’t gesture for me to follow him. He knew that I was going to do it, just like he knew that he would eventually be able to convince me to accede to the interview with Rolling Stone. Being his kind of rich made it easy to shape the world to suit your standards. “I’ll check with my secretary. Maybe we can have lunch together. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Sure,” I said. For a change, I meant it, at least a little. Eating lunch at SymboGen was part of the visitation process; they probably observed me for some set of symptoms I didn’t even know I was supposed to be expressing. The company’s main cafeteria was excellent, but the executive cafeteria—where I’d eaten every chance I got since remembering, or maybe learning, that food could get better than macaroni and cheese with applesauce on the side—was something special. They hired five-star chefs, and their menu was never the same two days in a row.

“There’s something you’ll have to do for me, of course.”

I paused, giving him a wary look. “What?”

“What’s the newest piece of slang you’ve learned?”

Fortunately, this wasn’t one of the insulting ones. “Taking the Mickey,” I said. “It means making fun of somebody by telling them a fib. I think it has something to do with Mickey Mouse, but I’m not quite sure.”

Now he laughed, a big, bold sound that filled the room like the drumming filled the darkness in my dreams. I flinched, barely stopping myself from clutching at my ears. “Mickey Mouse, huh? Truly, Sally, you are an endless delight.”

“Thank you, Dr. Banks,” I said.

“And like all endless delights, you have other lives to brighten.” He pushed open the door, revealing Chave standing still as a statue on the other side. She looked monumentally bored, and a little bit annoyed. For her, that was the equivalent of kicking her feet and screaming. “Are you here to take Miss Mitchell to her next meeting?”

“If you don’t mind,” said Chave, in her usual cool tone. “We’re already twenty minutes overdue for her appointment in the blood lab. Did you feed her?”