Isabel stared, waiting.
Peter cleared his throat and positioned the mirror above her. He tilted its flashing surface until a face came into view.
Isabel found herself looking at a complete stranger. The scalp and cheeks were swathed in gauze. The nose was broad and smashed, with an absurd nose diaper taped loosely beneath the oxygen piping to catch the bloody runoff. Its flesh was swollen and blue, with specks of reddish purple. The eyes were slits between swollen pads of flesh and the white of one was scarlet. Trembling fingers appeared beside the face, and these were indisputably hers. The mirror disappeared.
Isabel took a moment to absorb what she’d seen. She looked to Peter for comfort but he was still clenching and unclenching his jaw.
MY HAIR? GONE?
“For now. You have fifty-some stitches in your scalp.”
TEETH?
“You lost five, I think. You can get implants. And the stitches, all under the hairline. When it grows back no one will know. Really, it could have been so much worse. You could have been burned.”
The clock ticked, the sleet pelted.
DID YOU CALL MY MOTHER?
“I did.”
AND?
Peter paused and reached for her hand. He brought her fingertips to his lips. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. I really am.”
The police came by that afternoon, two plainclothes detectives in dripping shell jackets. They stood some distance from the bed as they waited for the ASL interpreter, and were clearly uncomfortable. Isabel remembered the vision in the mirror and understood their reticence.
When the interpreter finally arrived, Isabel shook off her oxy-pulse finger clip and let loose with a flurry of double-handed signs.
The interpreter watched her hands and then spoke. “Are the apes still up in the trees? Have they had any water or food? It’s too cold for them. They’re delicate. Prone to pneumonia. Flu. One of them is pregnant. Who is with them?”
The detectives exchanged glances. The older of the two asked the interpreter, “Can you please tell her we need her to answer some questions?”
“Speak to her,” he replied, cocking his head toward Isabel.
“All right,” said the detective. He shifted his reluctant gaze to Isabel, who blinked expectantly. He cleared his throat and practically shouted, leaving a space between words and phrases.
I AM NOT DEAF, she replied. As an afterthought she added, FOUR, MAYBE FIVE.
“Did you recognize any of them?” The cop’s brow glistened and his eyes swung between Isabel and the interpreter, clearly unsure about whether to look at the hands that created the words or the mouth that uttered them.
NO. THEY WERE WEARING FACE MASKS.
The other cop spoke: “Is it true that Celia Honeycutt exited the lab immediately before the explosion?”
YES.
“Was she acting strange in any way?”
NO.
“Nervous? On edge?”
NO. NOTHING.
“The people who entered after the explosion-did any of them say anything?”
COULD NOT HEAR. EXPLOSION.
“You didn’t hear or see anything-”
COULD NOT BREATHE. COULD NOT HEAR.
“Dr. Benton said an animal rights group usually has a presence right outside the lab. Were any of them in the lab that night?”
DON’T KNOW. FACE MASKS. I ALREADY SAID.
“What do you know about them?”
ALMOST NOTHING. THERE’S A GUY NAMED HARRY, LARRY, OR GARY. MIDDLE-AGED. TALL. WELL- DRESSED. AND A GREEN-HAIRED KID. THERE’S ONE TATTOOED KID AND A FEW WITH DREADLOCKS AND SMELLY PONCHOS. A COUPLE OF PREPPY TYPES. MOSTLY THEY JUST LOOK LIKE STUDENTS.
“Have they ever threatened you?”
NO. THEY WAVE SIGNS WHEN WE DRIVE PAST.
“Have they identified themselves as part of an organization?”
I DON’T KNOW. HAVEN’T SPOKEN TO THEM.
“You’ve never heard them say anything about the Earth Liberation League?”
NO.
“Did you notice anything strange last night?”
YOU MEAN OTHER THAN BEING BLOWN UP?
The detective scratched his forehead with stubby fingers. “Before that. Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary?”
NO. BUT THE BONOBOS DID. THEY KNEW SOMEONE WAS OUT THERE. THEY SMELLED SMOKE. ASK THEM WHEN THEY COME DOWN.
“What?” The detective froze with his pen pressed to his pad. “No, never mind,” he said. He sighed, put his pad and pen in his shirt pocket, and massaged his temples. “Okay, well, thank you for your time,” he said, addressing a portion of wall between Isabel and the balding interpreter. “I hope you feel better soon.”
GET THE APES DOWN, said Isabel. AND TALK TO THEM.
She stared resentfully as the police thanked the interpreter and left. She knew they had no intention of speaking with the apes, even though it was clear the apes knew more than anyone. She knew the police thought she was nuts. She had encountered this reaction more times than she could recall, but never, never, had she felt so desperate about it.
A nurse brought Isabel’s dinner, which consisted of clear liquids. Juice of some sort, and a brown plastic thermos of clear broth with stiff green flakes sprinkled on the surface. The nurse, Beulah, turned to Isabel.
“You’re looking much better. Ready for some dinner? I know, it doesn’t look like much, but your doctors want us to take it slowly. How about some TV?”
Beulah raised the head of Isabel’s bed and flicked on the television. She took a seat by Isabel, dropped the bed rail, and reached for the juice.
“Don’t try to lean forward. I’ll come to you,” she said, guiding the straw to Isabel’s lips.
Isabel sucked some apple juice through the straw. It was almost painfully sweet. Her tongue was huge and clumsy, and she was suddenly aware of stitches along its side, poking out like the stiff spines of a caterpillar. It took a couple of tries to coax the liquid down her throat.
“You all right?” asked Beulah, looking momentarily back at Isabel.
Isabel nodded weakly.
“I can’t stand the news anymore,” said Beulah, reaching for the remote control. “Everything’s so depressing. The economy, that oil spill, the war…”
Isabel touched Beulah’s hand to still it. The scene had just cut to the parking lot of the language lab, with a newscaster standing out in the drizzle. She wore a yellow hooded raincoat, her shoulders hunched against the cold.
