The Wonder Test Page 11

  Without warning, the tears come, slowly at first, then gushing. I rummage in the glove compartment for tissues, but who am I kidding? It was Fred who stocked the glove compartment with tissues and other sundries. I used up the last of them months ago.

  A guy pushing a Bugaboo stroller down the sidewalk is staring. He looks both ways and crosses the street. Then he’s standing by the Jeep, gazing through the driver’s side window. Warm brown skin, two-day beard, Zendesk hoodie. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, thanks, just allergies.”

  What’s a guy with a baby doing checking on a strange, sobbing woman in a car? For a moment professional paranoia kicks in, and I wonder who sent him. Then I see a movement in the stroller, a furry head peeking up. It isn’t a baby but a miniature schnauzer.

  “This is Miranda.” He turns the stroller so I can get a better look. “I got her in the divorce. Then she got a fibrocartilaginous embolism, so now I drive a stroller.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “The divorce or the embolism?”

  “Both. I hope she’s not in pain.”

  “No, she’s blissfully medicated. She’ll be fine in a couple of weeks. So, this is abrupt, but do you want to grab a glass of wine sometime?”

  “Thanks, but I’m—” I was about to say I’m married, but I’m not, am I? “My husband—”

  He glances at my left hand on the steering wheel. “Oh, right, sorry, didn’t see the ring at first.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It was a nice gesture. Woman sobbing in the car and all.”

  “So it’s not allergies?”

  “Nope.”

  “If it’s any comfort, I sobbed in the car a few times after the divorce.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I use a dog in a stroller to pick up women, so . . .”

  “How often does it work?”

  “About half the time?”

  “If we run into each other again,” I say, “will you give it one more shot?”

  “That’s a promise.”

  I smile, start the car, and pull away. In the rearview mirror, I take one last look. He’s ridiculously good-looking in that casual San Francisco way. The dog is cute. Fred would find it hilarious: the first guy who asks me out after my husband dies is pushing a dog through the Marina District in a thousand-dollar stroller.

  On the way home, I activate voice text and send a message to George on the encrypted app. Ever heard of the Dolphin Club?

  Swimming? he texts back. Good for you, clear your head.

  No, it’s about the kid. Caught a thread.

  Give me a minute.

  I’m cresting Skyline when he texts again. Membership at the Dolphin Club is tough. Long waiting list, but I have a friend. He’ll give you a tour Saturday, says you have to swim with him beforehand. 5:30 a.m. His name is Timofey.

  5 WHAT?

  Good luck!

  More than I bargained for. Typical George. I just wanted to get into the clubhouse to have a look around, ask questions. I never intended to actually swim in the bay. Although I’m tempted to cancel, I resolve to take Timofey up on his offer. What’s the worst that could happen? Death, I suppose, by drowning or maybe even sharks. I could be dragged out to sea, screaming, bleeding, embarrassed. To be honest, even that doesn’t worry me. I’ve never feared death, but I do fear leaving Rory alone.

  One last text comes in from George. I’ll be in town again next week. Can you witness? Same place. Monday. 1:30 p.m.

  I’ll be there.

  At pickup, I glean from the fake smile on Rory’s face that the election didn’t go in his favor. He climbs into the front seat, Caroline into the back.

  “That jerk Dopey Barrett!” Caroline blurts before the doors are even closed.

  “No big deal,” Rory says, but I can tell he’s disappointed.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Caroline protests. “I polled more than thirty students, and I couldn’t find a single person who voted for Dopey.”

  “People lie,” Rory says, “especially in exit polls.”

  “No, there’s something else going on,” Caroline insists. “Something fishy. I hate that kid.” She takes on an upper-crusty accent, “On my passport, it reads Edward Douglas Barrett, but you can call me Dougie. If you need me, you can find me up Superintendent Kobayashi’s ass.”

  I catch Caroline’s eye in the rearview mirror. “You think the election was fixed?”

  “Definitely. But that’s not even the big news of the day.” She taps Rory on the shoulder. “Tell your mom what Gray said in gym class.”

  He shoots her a look, like maybe he wasn’t planning on telling me right away.

  “Tell her.”

  “First of all, he said you interrogated him at movie night. Not cool, Mom.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it an interrogation. We talked about the Giants. What else did he say?”

  “Gray said to tell you he’s not going to be the last one.”

  “What?”

  “He looked at me in this crazy way and said, ‘There will be others.’ But the way he said it, I couldn’t tell if he was for real. I thought he might just be messing with me because you were all up in his business.”

  “What does your gut tell you?”

  “All I know for sure is that kid is messed up.”

  26

  True or false: rare earth minerals are neither rare nor mineral.

  At 5:15 a.m. on Saturday, I pull into the near-empty parking lot at Aquatic Park, strip off my sweatshirt and sweatpants, struggle into the wet suit I rented yesterday at the surf shop in Burlingame, and walk over to the beach behind the Dolphin Club. I dip a toe in and shudder. I detest the cold.

  George’s friend Timofey turns out to be a fit, muscular Russian guy in his sixties. His two friends are younger Americans, one bald, one bearded. Timofey wears two rings on his left hand. I suspect one ring represents a family back home, abandoned though not forgotten. Next time, I’ll ask George how they met. The few other agents with George’s rare talents refer to their counterintelligence sources as targets, recruitments, even conquests, but for George, they are all simply friends.

  “You are as lovely as the picture George painted for me,” Timofey says. In the thick wet suit, “lovely” is a stretch, but I thank him anyway. Russian men of his age, in our business, have a natural ability to charm.

  I hold up the long fins I rented with the suit. “Is this cheating?”

  “Not if they keep you alive, my dear.”

  His friends and I exchange brief, silent nods. I struggle into my fins, and we wade into the freezing water. The three men are smiling, enlivened by the cold. My feet and hands are instantly numb. When I put my face to the water and plunge in, the water shakes my brain awake, and I lift my head, gasping as the salt water burns my nose. We swim and swim and swim, farther than I’ve ever gone before into the bay. The water is choppy. I struggle to keep the pace. I fall behind. I catch up. I’m nervous about drowning, more nervous about sharks and boats. My legs are aching, my face freezing. Every stroke is a challenge, and I’m tempted to turn around and go back when I raise my head and see the three of them treading water, waiting for me.

  As I swim in closer, arms burning, I take a moment to get my bearings. I kick myself up higher to get a view over the swells, lungs tight with the cold. I see Alcatraz in front of me, the Golden Gate Bridge on one side, the Bay Bridge on the other. I try to focus on why I’m here: Gray. Is it possible that he did some of the swimming himself while the swimmer with the red cap towed him through the water? He was a star athlete before the kidnapping. In his condition, would he have been able to kick and hold his head above water? When he was found, he was naked. But surely the kidnappers didn’t throw him into the bay naked. How could he have survived the cold? The Polar Bears do it, of course, and so do many of the
experienced open water swimmers who brave the journey from The Rock, so it’s possible, but Gray was already in such a weakened state.

  I swim up beside Timofey and his friends, panting, trying not to panic, trying not to think of the billion gallons of water that pour straight out of the bay twice a day underneath the Golden Gate and into the wild Pacific. I hope low tide isn’t anytime soon.

  “Unfuckingbelievable,” the bearded guy says to Timofey, as I join their circle.

  “These are my old friends Bobby and Luther,” Timofey says. “And this is my new friend Lina.”

  “What was unfuckingbelievable?”

  “The shark. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “Shark?” I echo. The two friends burst out laughing, and I realize they’re messing with me.

  “You’ll pay for that,” I shoot back, grinning.

  We tread water. My lungs fill with cold, clear air. “So, how do you like it?” Timofey asks. “Swimming so early in the morning in this beautiful bay. Is good for the soul, yes?”

  “I’m not sure that’s how I’d describe it,” I pant. But the icy water does make me feel strangely alive, shocked to alertness. I see how you could get addicted to the swim, the smell, the weight of the water against your legs.

  Timofey motions back toward shore. “Let’s introduce Lina to the Dolphin sauna.”

  The return swim feels endless, each stroke more difficult than the last. I keep looking up, expecting to see the shore fast approaching, but it never seems to get any closer. I fall into a rhythm of exhaustion, the pain giving way to numbness, my vision adjusting to the murky water splashing against my goggles. This is a thousand times harder than cycling.

  I feel it before I see it—the sandy bottom brushing against my legs. Relieved, I drag myself up onshore.

  Timofey extends his hand to help me stand. “Good workout, yes?”

  “Wonderful. Now how about that sauna?”

  I follow them up the beach. Bobby and Luther exchange hugs with Timofey before disappearing through the back door of the clubhouse. Timofey leads me toward the women’s locker room. The same woman who turned me away a few days ago is standing outside the door, ruddy cheeked after her swim. “Good morning, Margaret,” Timofey says. “I realize it’s members-only day, but this is my dear friend Lina. I’m sure you’ll make her feel welcome.”

  Margaret beams at Timofey. It’s a total transformation from her surliness the first time we met. “Take as long as you like. Wander around. Clean towels over there. No bathing suits in the sauna, please.”

  I thank her. My legs are still jelly, struggling to hold me upright.

  Timofey pats my cheek with the palm of his hand. His attention feels paternal, comforting. “Please, make yourself at home. We swim every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. Same time, same place. Join us anytime. If you would like to become member of club, I make this happen. For you, no waiting period.”

  “Thank you, Timofey. You’re a doll.”

  He takes my hand, holds it between both of his, as if we are old, dear friends. “Until next time, Lina.” I imagine that whatever he did before he met George, in whatever capacity he worked for his country, his natural charm paid off in spades and made him dangerously good at his job.

  The locker room is clean and smells of chlorine and shampoo. The blue metal lockers and tile floors probably haven’t changed since the 1920s. There’s still a pay phone on the wall outside the locker rooms. Old San Francisco is getting harder and harder to find these days, but this club is a reminder it still exists. I hang my wet suit on a hook, wrap the thin towel around me, and wander into the empty sauna. I love the smell of the sauna—cedar and heat. I scoop some water onto the rocks and the room fills with steam. The bay has frozen me to the core, and the heat feels like heaven. As my body slowly thaws, I drift off, thinking about Gray, the woman in the red bathing cap, the trawler, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together in my mind.

  I don’t know how many minutes have passed when I hear a hiccup. I open my eyes to realize a woman is sitting on the lower bench opposite me, legs and arms splayed, staring at me unabashedly. How long has she been here? How did I not hear the door? She’s ginger-haired, blue-eyed, attractive in a sturdy Viking way. The thin layer of fat covering her from head to toe and those broad shoulders tell me she’s a competitive swimmer.

  “The boys sure worked you out this morning. I saw you out there. Awesome. A shark too? You should become a member. We need more women.”

  “So there really was a shark. I thought they were messing with me.”

  She winks. “There are always sharks.”

  “I’m Lina.”

  “Christine.”

  Christine is thirty-eight, a dermatologist at Kaiser. I ask about the club, the swimming, and eventually steer the conversation in the direction I want it to go. It takes a lot of conversational gymnastics to get us there, but eventually I ask, “Does anyone in the Dolphin Club wear a red bathing cap?”

  “That’s random,” she says. “I have a bunch of them in my locker. You can always borrow one.”

  “You have red ones?”

  “No. They do have some neon-green ones at the commissary, though. Safer, more visible to the sailboats. It gets crowded in the late summer.”

  “A college friend of mine had a red one. She told me it was a special Dolphin Club thing.”

  “Hmmm.” She studies me with her frank expression. “Did she? I haven’t seen that. We did sponsor a swim team from Half Moon Bay for a while. They wore red. That was years ago, though. Funding has been sparse lately.”

  I make a mental note to check out the Half Moon Bay swim team. Maybe it’s nothing, but maybe it’s something.

  After the sauna, I stand on the deck and take in the view one last time, enjoying the cool air on my skin. Out in the bay, cargo ships move along the shipping channel. The kayakers bobbing in the waves look so small, so vulnerable. And this is only the bay. I think of Gray Stafford in the open ocean. I think of the woman in the red bathing cap. I think of what Gray told Rory in gym class: There will be others.

  27

  The recipe for chocolate chip cookies requires 2.25 cups flour, 0.75 cups sugar, 0.875 cups brown sugar, 1 teaspoon baking soda, and 1 teaspoon salt, to yield thirty-one cookies. If you only had three measuring instruments—one cup, one half cup, and one teaspoon—what is the fewest number of cookies you could accurately make? If you made forty-eight cookies, how would the taste differ from a batch of thirty-one?

  On Sunday evening, Rory and I relax in the lounge chairs behind the house. The sun is setting, mist settling over the trees. An aircraft is idling on the runway at SFO, the roar of the engines echoing down the canyon. I’m posting items for sale and for free on Greenfield-Neighbors.org. Rory is reading Martin in Space, but he’s distracted, his eyes darting back and forth between the book and his phone.

  “Read me something,” I say.

  Rory flips to a dog-eared page and reads aloud: “The dial on the control panel spins endlessly, the pinprick of green light bouncing right and left and back again, scanning for a signal, a radio wave, a sign of life. I search for my own center, my anchor, a clear point of reference, but I find only boundless space.”

  His next question surprises me. “Do you ever feel that way?”

  I think about it for a moment. “Sometimes. Do you?”

  He lays the book facedown on his knee. “Yes, ever since Dad died. It’s like Dad was the anchor for our family, and now we’re just sort of floating.”

  It feels like an opening to a deeper conversation. I want to reassure him, to promise we won’t be floating forever. But before I can respond, Rory checks his phone again and mutters, “This is so weird. Caroline was supposed to come over tonight. I texted her three hours ago, but she didn’t respond. She always texts right back.”

  I close my laptop. “I’m
sure she’s just busy.”

  “No, she had her final Wonder practice test today.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “She had one yesterday too. She was supposed to text me on her walk home today. We had plans to watch a movie.”

  “The test probably went long.”

  “Impossible. Nothing about the test ever goes long or short. Everything is precise. Nothing is left to chance. If any teacher went off script today, especially with Caroline’s group, they’d have to answer to Kobayashi.”

  “What do you mean, especially with Caroline’s group?”

  “She’s struggling to improve her score. Which tells you how arbitrary the test is. She’s one of the smartest kids I know.”

  “Why is today so important?”

  “Mom, what planet are you on? The Wonder Test starts tomorrow. We have it every day this week, then again on Monday and Tuesday of next week. Haven’t you read any of the emails from Kobayashi?”

  I groan. “What did I miss, aside from the date?”

  “I’m supposed to be taking omega-3 supplements, eating high-protein, high-fiber breakfasts before school every day, and sleeping at least ten hours a night.”

  “Sorry, I’ll make you an omelet for breakfast tomorrow. We must have some omega-3 supplements around somewhere. Grandpa was really into vitamins.”

  “Those regular brands are crap according to Kobayashi. He wants us to take a proprietary blend, the Wonder Pill, which was created by a neuroscientist whose kid graduated from the school.”

  “That sounds unethical,” I say. “Bordering on illegal.” Still, I feel guilty. Have I put Rory at a disadvantage by not keeping up with these details? “I’ll start opening the emails, I promise.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Kobayashi means well, but he’s obsessive. Actually, the pill makes kids break out. Most of them just throw it away.” He types into his phone again, frowning.