1 Minute to Midnight
Part 5: Dr. Khatereh Nazari
Written by Juliet Clare
Khatereh flexed her hands. Outstretched, wrinkles gathered around her knuckles. Knicks and scars — badges earned over the years — left faint marks on her skin, like a picture half-erased. She contracted her muscles, pulled her fingers in, drawing her hands into fists, palms facing down. The loose skin stretched over her boney knuckles, the wrinkles easing into smoother skin.
She released her hands again, her fingertips reaching out in front of her. For the first time she noticed how swollen her joints had become. With the help of anti-aging techniques, she had been able to ward off the effects of arthritis well into her early 90s. Now, at 94, it would seem that time was finally beginning to catch up.
Khatereh had felt this with increasing awareness over the past several months. Every day it became marginally harder to complete a manual task than the day before. She refused to yield, however. ‘Mind over matter’ was her mantra, and thankfully, her mind was sound. This was both a blessing and a curse.
Khatereh retired just after her 87th birthday. By this time, her position had become less one of function and more one of decoration.
As time became paradoxically more available and limited, Khatereh’s mind had begun drifting to the most pivotal moments in her career. The definition of “pivotal” had changed over the course of several decades, as it does for most when looking back on life.
No longer did that mean the most scientifically significant, but personally significant; the moments that defined her character rather than career. There was one occasion that continued to haunt her — it had defined her by forcing her to question her own morality.
Thirty-odd years ago, a young boy sat in the waiting room of the lab Khatereh worked out of in Beckley, West Virginia. He must have been around eight, maybe ten, it was hard for her to tell.
Khatereh peered at him from the hall leading to the examination rooms. The young boy sat on one of the plastic chairs, legs swinging beneath him. His eyes were pinned to the floor, registering little around him. Occasionally his nose would wrinkle accompanied by an intake of air; a sniffle was the only noise he made.
Back in the examination room, Khatereh looked at the patient lying in front of her. Thankfully, she had been sedated by the medical staff. Khatereh opened the woman’s robe revealing tennis ball sized abscesses on her chest and arms.
After initial infection with the bacteria, the patient was advancing on the schedule Khatereh and other officials had mapped out, meaning Khatereh’s vaccine had failed. Again.
Frustrated, Khatereh took a cotton-tipped applicator from a glass jar nearby. She brought the tip of the swab to the surface of the wound. The skin had curled back away revealing the muscle beneath. Another three days and the patient will most likely be dead.
Her eyes moved to those of the woman on the table, who blinked slowly at Khatereh. Saliva was building up in her mouth, spilling past her lips. Khatereh placed the swab in a safety-sealed container. The label on the container read, Diane Inch — #273.
As impersonal and horrific as her work might be, Khatereh still believed in maintaining the dignity of all her patients. To her, they were more than test subjects — they were humans. People who sacrificed their lives for others… though they may never know that.
Khatereh grabbed a cotton swab and dabbed at the drool sliding from the corner of Diane’s lips. Her eyes rolled in Khatereh’s direction, barely registering her presence.
Khatereh moved to her living room. Outside the window, Boston spread out around her. No longer the historic city it once was, the majority of buildings had been demolished and replaced with high-rises, in a renovation effort started in the 2030s. The last remaining wooden structure was Paul Revere’s House, though it was only a matter of time before that too would be replaced.
Lights from other apartments reflected off the smog hanging low in the sky. She looked down her floor to ceiling window. Below, gliding silently through the air, were the blinking lights of a drone. It zipped on its scheduled route; beneath it, its 360 degree camera captured everything.
Khatereh switched on the reading light next to a chair and fell into the cushions. They pushed up around her, hugging her thighs. Her muscles were sore; she rubbed her legs, as if by doing so, she was somehow pushing life back into them.
They had made a point of only choosing participants with no family. Any applicants with children or partners were immediately disqualified. This had concerned Khatereh since the beginning. The offer of financial assistance to low income Americans could cause individuals to falsify facts. However, the rest of the committee disagreed, highlighting urgency rather than due diligence. Khatereh was merely a vehicle for information and, with any luck, a vaccine. Her opinions were received but not noted; a handcuff that made her feel uncomfortable and dishonest.
Khatereh found it difficult to compartmentalize the work she was doing. “The ends would justify the means,” she told herself. An oft repeated phrase by those involved.
Outstretched on the chair, Khatereh flexed her hand once more. A recent weakness starting in her palms and extending through the tips of her fingers had made gripping things more difficult.
At the end of that day in Beckley, Khatereh pulled her handbag’s strap up over one shoulder and switched off her desk lamp. In the waiting room, she waved to the receptionist and turned to leave. The young boy was still there; presumably his legs had grown tired because they no longer pumped the air beneath him. His head rested on his hand, eyelids occasionally dipping as he drifted off before forcing himself awake again.
“He came in with patient #273?” Khatereh asked the receptionist.
“He’s been sitting here for hours,” the receptionist added with a nod.
“Do you know his name?”
“He wouldn’t give it to us. He’s just been there. Silent.”
Khatereh looked over and caught the young boy’s eyes. There was a burning sadness in them that cut Khatereh like a knife, twisting slowly in her side.
“I’m Dr. Nazari,” Khatereh said in a higher-pitched tone usually reserved for speaking with children. As she approached him, he looked up, assessing for signs of danger.
“What’s your name?” She added.
Having so rarely interacted with children, Khatereh was unsure how to address him. Following some inherent impulse, she knelt down on the ground in front of him, matching his eye line.
“I can’t help you unless you tell me your name.”
The young boy’s lips moved imperceptibly. Khatereh softened her face, trying to encourage him to trust her. Finally, his jaw unclenched and a name moved past his lips, clinging to his mouth as it exited, causing his voice to waver.
“Morgan.”
The graze of a shoe against the floor could be heard in the hallway behind her. Khatereh returned from her thoughts and shifted in her chair.
“Where are you going?” Khatereh asked, her voice reaching out into the space between the living room and the hallway.
She heard the shoes turn and step in her direction.
“There’s no space for me here. But I know a place where I can exist. Fully,” Sofi said, speaking to Khatereh’s back.
