Revived

forty-four

Nomadic as I am, I try hard to see the positives about our new hometown of Alameda, California. A little island between Oakland and San Francisco, Alameda is the sort of homey place that a person could really love… if her heart wasn’t stuck somewhere in Middle America.

And yet, I try. Touring the city, I make mental lists of Alameda’s pros:

It’s hard to keep my head in this state. But Mason does his best to help.

When we drive into town two days before I start tenth grade for what I hope is the last time, he pulls into a driveway I mistake for someone else’s.

“Are you lost?” I ask, looking at the Victorian that could be a movie set.

“Nope,” he says, smiling and craning his neck to see the top of the three-story dwelling.

“Mason, are you messing with me?” I ask, eyeing the wraparound porch skeptically.

“I’m not messing with you,” he says, laughing. “It’s bigger than we need, but it’s a historic home and I like it. Plus, you never know—our family might grow someday.”

Before I have time to ask more about that last statement, Mason jumps out and heads up the front steps. He waves at me to follow.

When I walk through the door, I’m awestruck. For what Mason reports is over a century, this home was clearly loved. And why not? There’s dark wood trim and paneling along the grand staircase. There are built-in library shelves that make me want to live right in the sitting room. The kitchen is bright and airy, with modern appliances; the living room is massive. And there are five bedrooms. “I get my own bathroom,” I say. “And look at this closet!”

“You like it?” Mason asks sheepishly, as if the house is a gift he’s giving me. I guess in a way, it is.

“It’s awesome,” I say before taking a moment to look out each of my three bedroom windows.

“Even though it’s not in Omaha?” Mason asks.

I take a deep breath of California air.

“Even though it’s not in Omaha.”

On the night before school starts, I knock on Mason’s bedroom door. He’s in pajama pants and a gray T-shirt. He sets aside the novel he’s reading and gives me his full attention.

“I was just wondering how things are going with the investigation,” I say, lingering in the doorway.

“Oh, Daisy, there’s nothing new,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “They’re still thinking it’s going to take months to sort out. Apparently neither of them is being cooperative, and a lot is still unclear.”

“So the program’s on hold until they figure it out?” I ask.

“Unfortunately so,” Mason says. “All the files and lab equipment and the drug itself will remain under tight security until the director can determine whether anyone else was involved.”

“What do you think he’s going to do after that?” I ask. “Kill the program?”

“I suppose it’s possible, but not likely,” Mason says. “The director has a science background. My hunch is that he’ll take it under his wing and finish off the thirty-year commitment to tracking the bus kids. At that point, though, he might decide to bury it.”

“Why?” I ask, surprised. “Wouldn’t he want to move forward? Besides God going mental, the program’s been a success, at least so far.”

Mason swallows hard and looks away.

“Hasn’t it?” I ask.

“It has,” Mason says. “But you were right.”

I think back to what I just said, to what he could possibly be talking about. When I don’t say anything, Mason clarifies.

“Daisy, God caused both Nora’s death and the original bus crash that started the program. He actually bragged about giving Revive the push it needed. You were right. In fact, it appears from his program files that he was looking for another ‘bus.’ Another large group of people to be the second test group. He had schematics for places like amusement parks and movie theaters at his office.”

“Aquariums,” I say, remembering.

“Aquariums,” Mason says, realizing that I was probably right about the man under the ocean being God, too.

“How could anyone do that?” I ask, not because I’m particularly surprised but because I’m sad for all of us in the program, and for those of us who aren’t.

“He’d have to be a sociopath,” Mason says. “Which, I guess he is.”

“And what about Cassie?” I ask, horrified.

“We always knew she was a genius who graduated early and was recruited out of college,” Mason says. “But the truth is that it started much earlier than that.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, confused.

“Daisy, when God called Cassie Jesus that day in Texas, it wasn’t much of a stretch,” he says. “Cassie is God’s daughter.”

I gasp, then shake my head. Mason fills in the blanks.

“Her mother left when she was little, and I guess God saw that as an opportunity to mold Cassie into the person he wanted her to be,” he says. “When the director figured out their relationship through DNA tests, he went back through Cassie’s records more closely. She was rigorously homeschooled and never allowed to have friends. She was trained on weaponry and military tactics as a preteen. She was pushed into early graduation. Basically, she was bred to be an agent.” Mason pauses. “With a man like that raising her, she didn’t have a chance. She always wanted to please him, and I guess she never grew out of it.”

“Why do you think he placed her with us?” I ask.

Mason sighs. I know he feels bad for not sensing that something was very wrong with Cassie.

“I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure,” Mason says. “But my guess is that it was because of you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I think God was a little obsessed with you,” Mason says. It sends chills through me. “Back when the bus crashed, he wanted to find you another place to live. He didn’t want an agent taking on a child. But I fought for you.”

“Why?”

“Did I ever tell you about my wife?” Mason asks.

“No, but I know,” I say quietly. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve snooped in Mason’s personnel file. I did it regularly until I found out that he had a wife who died in a skiing accident. After that, I was riddled with guilt and never opened his file again.

“Good,” Mason surprises me by saying. “I’m not always the best at talking about personal stuff, but I’m glad you know.” He pauses. “You would have liked her. She was really funny. And she was a hell of a cook.”

I smile. “I’m sure she was great.”

“She always encouraged me,” Mason says. “She supported me through med school. Then, when the program first tried to recruit me, I thought I was too inexperienced to take part. I declined at first and she was upset; she said that I was blind to my own potential.”

Mason looks distracted for a second, then comes back to earth.

“But she died, as you know. We were on vacation in Colorado. She lost control on her skis and hit a tree. It was immediate.” Mason’s eyes cloud over. “But what’s not in the file is that she was pregnant at the time. It was so early that even she didn’t know.”

“I’m so sorry,” I nearly whisper.

“Thank you,” Mason says. “It was awful. But her death brought me to the program. I decided to pursue what she’d wanted me to. And then when you showed up, a child without a home, I saw it as my opportunity. It was as if I could feel Zoe pushing me forward, telling me to do it.”

“I’m glad you did,” I say.

“Me, too. I just hope that I didn’t negatively impact you in some way, like God did to Cassie,” Mason says, worried. “I’ve tried my best, but you’ve hardly grown up in a typical household.”

“But no matter where it’s been, it’s been a loving one,” I say. “That’s all that matters. And you’re nothing like God. You’re a real father. I’ll always be thankful for your decision.”

Mason holds my stare for a moment and smiles warmly.

“It was the best decision of my life.”

When I turn off the light on the day, my conversation with Mason fresh in my mind, a sick thought plagues me: If God was willing to go to such great lengths as purposely killing twenty-two people to start and protect his pet project, what else might he have done?

If, for example, he wanted Mason in the program but Mason wasn’t interested, would God give him—or his wife—a little push?

Could he—would he—kill Mason’s wife to lure him in?

And what about me and my accident-prone tendencies? Has it really been all about me? Sure, I’m forgetful, and yes, I do silly things. Everyone does. But I was under the thumb of a maniac and his ambitious daughter.

The thought that runs through my head much too late at night is this:

If he killed me once…

Did he do it again?