"Honey, I'm not saying that we need to invite her for Christmas," said Michael, his voice fatigued. "But at the very least, we need a sample from her."
"I'm not convinced that's necessary."
"It may not be, but we're not the experts here."
Helen pondered this for a moment. "That damn documentary," she muttered.
"You think that's why she contacted us?"
"How else would she know that Megan has anything wrong with her? How else would she know she even exists?" Helen rubbed her eyes. "I'm sure she is only trying to help, but she's managed to create a whole mess in the process. It seems to be her way."
"Let's get a sample, Helen," Michael urged her. "Your mother's story is insane, certainly, but her DNA may help Dr. Greene figure out why this is happening to Megan."
"You may be right, but I'm not quite comfortable with it," Helen sighed.
"What if-- what if we just talked to Dr. Greene about it? She'll know whether or not it would make a difference." Michael looked for Helen's approval, but she didn't answer. She was suddenly staring, hawk-like, towards the ceiling.
"What is that?" she said darkly. "Is that-- water I'm hearing?"
Michael heard it too, the whisper of water flowing through the pipes. He shrugged. "Megan probably just used the bathroom," he offered.
Helen didn't move; her eyes remained locked on the ceiling, her body tense. "It shouldn't still be on, though," she said, rising.
Michael was about to suggest that the toilet gasket must be loose, but then he remembered Megan at the museum, and the way she was gazing at the fountain.
His eyes met Helen's, and suddenly they were dashing up the stairs to the closed bathroom door. Helen went to open the door and found it locked.
"Megan?" she called. "Are you all right?" There came no reply. "Megan?" She turned to Michael. "Get the screwdriver," she instructed him, and he dashed back downstairs as she resumed pounding on the door. "Answer me. Now."
She suddenly became aware of a damp sensation on her toes, and looked down to see a puddle of water beginning to spill out from under the door. "Oh my God!" she screamed. "Michael!"
Michael came running back upstairs; Helen began flinging herself bodily against the door.
"The bathroom," she gasped, "is flooding."
"Oh God," shouted Michael. "Stand back." Helen obeyed, and Michael ran at the door, throwing his full weight against it, over and over until it finally gave way and flew open, the lock splintering the frame. Seeing the scene inside the bathroom for the first time, Helen screamed in horror.
Megan was in the overflowing tub, thrashing wildly, her head and arms and feet completely covered by the black rash. Her eyes bulged and she was gasping frantically for air, sending her body into convulsions with her efforts.
Michael splashed across the flooded tile floor and dropped to his knees beside the tub. He struggled to lift his daughter, but the wet hives that covered her were slippery, and he couldn't keep his grip. Helen fell down beside him, trying to help, but she couldn't hold onto Megan either. She punched the tub faucet closed to stop any more water from entering, but it was too little, too late. Megan had made the bathroom into a deathtrap.
Then Megan's leg spasmed out violently, kicking Michael away so forcefully that he fell backwards against the vanity, smacking his head and knocking him unconscious.
"Michael!" cried Helen, but he didn't respond. She flung a frantic look at his slumped body, but Megan still writhed and wheezed, and Helen had to turn her attention back to the child. She kept struggling fruitlessly to grasp the girl, whose seizure was growing more and more violent. "Megan, please, honey, stop fighting me," she begged, but the child could no longer hear her. The allergy had overtaken her, and she was lost.
Not on a boat.
Realizing that she wouldn't be able to pull her out of the tub, Helen despaired, trying to think of anything she could do. The thrashing and gasping was unbearable to witness, much less experience.
Not on a boat.
Her daughter was no longer able to breathe.
Not on a boat!
With a scream, Helen suddenly jumped into the tub on top of Megan and threw all of her body weight onto the girl's arms, chest and head.
Not on a boat! Not on a boat!
Megan struggled, the spasms nearly bucking Helen across the room, but Helen held on. With strength she never knew she had, she forced Megan's head under the water with shaking, insistent hands and held it fast. Megan whipped her head back and forth, her eyes full of fear and panic; Helen, sobbing through her clenched teeth, forced herself to look into them. Stay with her until it's over.
Gradually the seizure eased. Megan's limbs jerked violently, then less so, and less and less, and then, after what seemed like ages, at last lay still.
"Not on a boat," sobbed Helen, looking piteously at her daughter through the water. "Not on a boat."
Michael splashed across the flooded tile floor and dropped to his knees beside the tub. He struggled to lift his daughter, but the wet hives that covered her were slippery, and he couldn't keep his grip. Helen fell down beside him, trying to help, but she couldn't hold onto Megan either. She punched the tub faucet closed to stop any more water from entering, but it was too little, too late. Megan had made the bathroom into a deathtrap.
Then Megan's leg spasmed out violently, kicking Michael away so forcefully that he fell backwards against the vanity, smacking his head and knocking him unconscious.
"Michael!" cried Helen, but he didn't respond. She flung a frantic look at his slumped body, but Megan still writhed and wheezed, and Helen had to turn her attention back to the child. She kept struggling fruitlessly to grasp the girl, whose seizure was growing more and more violent. "Megan, please, honey, stop fighting me," she begged, but the child could no longer hear her. The allergy had overtaken her, and she was lost.
Not on a boat.
Realizing that she wouldn't be able to pull her out of the tub, Helen despaired, trying to think of anything she could do. The thrashing and gasping was unbearable to witness, much less experience.
Not on a boat.
Her daughter was no longer able to breathe.
Not on a boat!
With a scream, Helen suddenly jumped into the tub on top of Megan and threw all of her body weight onto the girl's arms, chest and head.
Not on a boat! Not on a boat!
Megan struggled, the spasms nearly bucking Helen across the room, but Helen held on. With strength she never knew she had, she forced Megan's head under the water with shaking, insistent hands and held it fast. Megan whipped her head back and forth, her eyes full of fear and panic; Helen, sobbing through her clenched teeth, forced herself to look into them. Stay with her until it's over.
Gradually the seizure eased. Megan's limbs jerked violently, then less so, and less and less, and then, after what seemed like ages, at last lay still.
"Not on a boat," sobbed Helen, looking piteously at her daughter through the water. "Not on a boat."
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