. . independent stem cell studies . . . raised ethical questions . . . gene manipulation on a human subject . . . led to child’s early death . . . cleared of misconduct . . .
I sit back against the headboard, sick inside. I don’t completely understand what I read, and I’m not sure that I want to. What kind of man was Dad back then?
Iris’s answer brings relief, if not understanding: The same man you knew.
Desperate to believe her, I skim the article again, then with an unsteady hand, grab my phone off the nightstand and punch in Ty’s number. He answers after the first ring. “I was just about to call you,” he says.
“Don’t leave in the morning. I read the first article. It was about one of Dad’s projects.” My voice falters as I add, “A little boy died, Ty.”
He hesitates, then says, “We need to talk. I’ll come out there. I didn’t want to tell you about it in front of Wyatt.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it.”
“Don’t worry.” He exhales. “It wasn’t your dad’s fault. I’ll tell you what happened.”
“Okay, but I don’t want to risk Mom hearing us. Meet me at the Daily Grind at six thirty. I want to leave the house before she wakes up. If I can’t get away for some reason, I’ll call you.”
“I’ll be there,” Ty says.
We hang up. I need to find those keys.
16
I leave Mom a note saying that Paula called from the Daily Grind and asked me to fill in for a sick employee. It’s something I do sometimes, since I worked there last summer, so I think she’ll buy it. I spent all night looking for the keys, but didn’t find them, so I walked to the main road and caught a ride on the six o’clock bus that shuttles county workers into town each day.
I arrive at the coffee shop before Ty and choose the table farthest from the counter. Other than Paula and her employee Rhonda, who are busy preparing for the morning rush, I’m the only person in the coffee shop. I order two hot chocolates and wait.
Minutes later, Ty arrives. I melt like the marshmallows in my mug when he steps inside the door and sees me and his mouth tilts up into a lopsided smile. There’s a part of me that can’t help being drawn to him, no matter what he has or hasn’t done.
He hurries over to the table and sits across from me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Motioning toward the mug in front of him, I say, “I took a chance and ordered you a hot chocolate.”
“Thanks.” He lowers his head to blow into his mug.
Now that we’re alone, I’m self-conscious and off balance. I can’t stand to think of him leaving today. Watching him, I say, “So . . . tell me about my dad.”
Ty looks up. “Your dad was a genius,” he says without hesitation. “He was also ethical, but he’d bend the rules if it was the only way to help someone. Some people might have a problem with that, but not me. That’s why I was researching his work, and why I had to find him—for Kyle’s sake.”
“So you did have another reason for coming here.”
He nods. “The stem cell research he was doing in the early nineties? What he did for that boy? It had to do with healing brain injuries like Kyle’s.”
I take a moment to let that sink in. “Surely that sort of research has continued since then, hasn’t it? I mean, haven’t other scientists or doctors made even more progress? Why didn’t you go to one of them?”
“No one else has had the same level of success regenerating injured neurons in a human brain. They’ve transplanted brain cells from donors, but damaged brain tissue usually has poor blood supply, probably because of swelling and scar tissue. So the transplanted cells don’t get the nutrients they need to grow.”
I want to ask him to skip the science speak and get to the point, but I tell myself to be patient. I have a feeling he’s giving me the key to understanding my father and the choices he made.
“A lot of different studies have offered possible solutions, and animal testing has produced some good results,” Ty continues, “but the standard protocol is to wait a certain period—years, even—to make sure negative side effects don’t show up in rats or monkeys or whatever animal they’re testing before trying something on humans.”
“But Dad didn’t wait. That’s what got