Eva studied Jim as he peered into a holographic heads-up display that projected from his dataslate. His eyes tracked back and forth as they scanned. Corneal implants, a bit like contact lenses of a prior generation, allowed him to read the holographic text. His eyes widened and narrowed as they pored over the file. His brows pulled down—first puzzled, then annoyed, and then angry.
“Eva. What the hell is this? You call this public health?”
“No, you idiot. It’s exactly what it looks like: a simple over-the-counter remedy to fix a medically unimportant problem that no one has addressed. We don’t need FDA trials for this. Labeling? Public process? Panel review? Yes. But clinical trials? No. The active ingredients are already approved. Just read a little further and you’ll see why I picked this to start.”
Jim shook his head. “Eva, you know something? You can be a real pain in the ass.”
She beamed. It was her habit to get the better of others lest they get the better of her. It wasn’t easy with Jim, but she counted coup.
At first, Jim’s face betrayed no expression as he read on, then he grinned and started to laugh. Eva stiffened. He thinks this is a joke, she thought. She flushed and turned to leave. Now even the quiet Voices were raucous. Mama shrieked in derision.
“No, Eva,” Jim managed to get the words out. “Stop.” He threw an arm around Eva’s shoulders and gave a fraternal squeeze. Eva stiffened for a moment, then softened and leaned into Jim’s half embrace.
“Eva, you’re too much. This is great.” Jim was still chuckling. “I underestimated you. You’re two steps ahead of us, as usual. I’ll talk to Plant Lady tonight.”
Marta Cruz was steeping herbs when Jim palmed open the front door of their Brookline apartment. The low-grade fever was back. Fatigue and pain pulled the muscles in her face tight. She rubbed young stinging nettle leaves on her skin to produce an irritation that brought blood to the surface and reduced the swelling. Then she sipped her tea: false garlic, cascarilla, and chinchona bark. She’d been taught the remedy by her grandmother, her abuela. The brew had little to recommend by way of taste, but it would ease the pain.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Come kiss me.”
Jim smiled and complied.
“Te quiero,” they both murmured. I love you.
“You look tired,” Jim said. “Hard day?”
“The usual,” she said.
Marta had been stricken with JRA—juvenile rheumatoid arthritis—when she was nine. The autoimmune disease provoked swellings, fevers, and rashes. It held a vise grip over her knees, elbows, and hands and lent a slight S-curve to her spine. On the days when it was difficult to stand, she used the herbs Abuela showed her in El Yunque, the rainforest.
Jim embraced her again and the two stood silently, each drawing strength and comfort from the other. “Don’t just stand there. Kiss me again,” Jim said, parroting his wife’s command. He held the embrace and pressed his face into her hair and inhaled. Then he kissed her again.
“Well, big boy, you’re in a good mood. Did you have a good day at work?”
“In fact, I did.”
“Something special?”
“I have something exciting to tell you. But I want you to keep an open mind, okay?”
Marta stiffened in his arms. “Does this something have anything to do with Eva? Did she come to see you today? Friend in need?”
“Marta, please. Just listen.”
“Every time you ask me to keep an open mind, it’s about Eva. That woman is toxic. Did she say that you owed her?” Marta looked at him and shook her head. “You don’t have to say a word. I can see it in your face. Well, you’ve paid your debt just by being her friend.”
“She’s changed. Just hear me out.”
“Changed? I doubt it. The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. And I don’t trust her when she’s around you.”
“Marta—”
“Sorry, but that’s how I feel.”
“If it weren’t for Eva—”
“I know that. But she’s a thief and she’s carrying a torch for my husband. You expect me to welcome her back with open arms?”
“I’m hoping that, finally, you will. What she did was wrong, but she was young.”
The room went silent. Presently, Marta drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She pinched her ear. “Okay. Tell me what she’s up to. Tell me why I should ever work with her again.” Her voice sounded resigned, but she stilled herself and listened.
He began, “You have to admit you two made a formidable team in college. Your work in biology, her work in chemistry, and her business skills? You did some good science.”
“I’m not sure it makes up for the rest. What makes you so sure that Eva won’t do the same thing all over again?”
“There’s no guarantee,” he conceded, “but Eva seems more mature than she was at Harvard. Maybe running a business helped her control herself.”
“No, that was the problem. She wants to control everything, and I don’t want to have to be looking over my shoulder again.”
“Look, Eva is the most driven person we know. When she puts her mind to something, watch out. All we have to do is keep her pointing in the right direction.”
Marta considered. “It’s tempting. Like a jewel heist is tempting. Okay, what’s her grand scheme this time? No promises. Just tell me.”
As Jim started to explain, Marta thought back to Harvard, to Eva, and everything that threatened to take her away from her rainforests. Oh, Abuela, things haven’t gotten much clearer since our summer together. I wish you could tell me what I should do now…
3
TAÍNA
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
EL YUNQUE, PUERTO RICO
APRIL 2022
The night before she left for Puerto Rico—the day after the funeral—thirteen-year-old Marta Cruz asked her father about the old woman’s prediction.
Rafael Cruz didn’t seemed to hear her or had chosen not to answer. Marta thought he looked lost in his own kitchen, gazing without focus around the East Los Angeles apartment. Marta’s awards, drawings, and report cards covered one wall. A montage of photographs of a tropical forest covered another. Father and daughter sat at a worn grouping in the tiny kitchen, a table and three straight-backed, caned chairs. One chair was empty.
Marta moved with grace despite her limp, open-faced despite her sorrow. A halo of glossy black curls framed her pale skin, a remnant of the Spanish conquistadores who mixed their blood with the conquered—her father’s caramel-complected people of Mexico’s northern mountains, her mother’s broad-faced Taíno, the native people of Puerto Rico. A roll of the genetic dice and recessive traits from each bestowed Marta with fair-skinned beauty, a hint of Iberian bronze that would deepen in the sun. Delicate facial bones outlined sharp features. Her eyes, as dark as her father’s, were permanently curious and gave the impression that everything she saw was new.
“When I met your mother she was every bit as beautiful as you. Her hair was glossy, black, and straight. She brushed it one hundred times every night.” He gazed into his memories, then shook his head and turned back to the inescapable present. “That was before the cancer ate through her.” His voice trailed off.