13
HARRIET
It was probably the craziest week of my life.
The craziest, most exciting, most incredible week of my life!
My two professors were wonderfully accommodating to my sudden Africa trip; they insisted I could complete my work at my leisure, and that focusing on the expedition with Bernard Cardiff--Bernard frigging Cardiff!--should take precedent. But as gracious as they were, I hated the idea of putting two classes on pause while I was gone. I knew myself: the looming work would drive me nuts in Mozambique, a constant distraction from what I should have been focusing on.
So I bought a coffee maker for my apartment, one that made entire pots rather than single-servings, and crammed two months of work into one week.
I tackled my Ruminant Nutrition class first. It had a final exam rather than a term paper, so I spent Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday pouring over textbooks and research analysis. I took the exam Tuesday night and walked out with the calm relief of someone who knew they'd nailed it.
Physiology of Growth and Stress in Pachyderms was much harder. That class required a 20,000 page paper rather than an exam, and writing wasn't my best strength. For the next four days I was a machine that turned pots of coffee into scientific prose. With limited time, I didn't have the luxury of reading all the material before sitting down to write, so I wrote my paper along the way. That required tons of adjustments, constantly going back to tweak things I'd already written, but it was the only way. Metabolism regulation? I knew it like the freckles on my face by 1:30pm on Wednesday. Anabolic agents were memorized by 4:45pm. Immunoneutralization among transgenic pachyderms to increase resistance to fungal-based diseases? That junk was easy as pie by the time the sun rose Thursday morning.
I typed, and read, and guzzled coffee like a sorority pledge in a drinking game, and every now and then I caught a few minutes of sleep.
Somehow, I finished the paper by Saturday morning. By then the words didn't make any sense to my eyes, but I was done, and I crashed right there on my couch once the accumulated exhaustion buried me like an avalanche.
I woke up that afternoon, gave it a final read-through (the first 10 pages, at least), and then emailed it away. The sound of the mouse-click sending the email felt like the grand finale of every firework show I'd ever seen.
Like a zombie, I wandered around my tiny apartment after that. I began packing, which was something I hadn't thought about until that exact moment. It was summer in the southern hemisphere. Did I have enough shorts? I needed a wide hat to keep the sun off my face and shoulders. I hoped they had sunscreen there. Girls of my complexion didn't do well in the sun all day.
But they were only passing concerns. My dream was coming true. I was going to Africa to study elephants!
I microwaved an instant-burrito, and while watching it spin behind the glass my thoughts turned to Roland.
It had been easy keeping him out of my head all week. My work had left barely enough room in my mind for basic necessities like eating and sleeping, let alone him. But now that the work was done, images of his face and rippling body came flooding into the vacuum.
My hand moved on its own and pulled out my cell phone. His single "I'm sorry" text was the last thing either of us had said. The inadequacy of his apology angered me anew. Who did he think he was? I was Harriet Reckmeyer, soon-to-be elephant field researcher. He had no right to treat me that way. It wasn't fair.
I knew I should brush it off, but I couldn't. The memory of his body wrapped around mine was woven into my nerves, refusing to let go.
And then an illogical thought came to mind: what if he thought I was running from him? He bangs me, blows me off, and then I suddenly go to Africa? He'd think he hurt me so bad that I had to leave the frigging continent. Obviously it wasn't true, and he'd probably never talk to me again regardless, but I didn't want him to have that power over me. Even the illusion of it.
Before I knew it, I'd sent a text to him: hey, can we talk?
Once it was sent I began to panic. He ant hill had been kicked, and at any minute the ants would come marching out in a frenzy, and something I didn't have to worry about previously would now be an ordeal. I sat at my table and picked at my molten burrito and waited.
But he didn't respond.
Not only did he not respond, but I never got the "Message delivered" notification. So he wasn't looking at his phone. Maybe he was at a fight.
Or maybe he'd changed his settings to not automatically send those notifications to me.
I did some laundry, and tried to ignore him, but I couldn't shake this feeling in my chest. Finally broke down and dialed his number. It rang four times and went to voicemail, and I panicked and hung up without leaving one.
But by then I was like a dog chasing a tennis ball.
I called the bar, but the dude with the Russian accent--who was surprised and frustrated to hear from me again--said Roland hadn't fought in almost a week, and wasn't answering his phone.
I wasn't the kind of woman who had one-night stands and brushed them off. It wasn't in me; I needed closure. Loose threads ate away at my brain like cancer. If I didn't find out what was going on with Roland, and at the very least tell him I was going to Africa for three months, I wouldn't be able to focus on my research. That would be worse than any embarrassment of confronting him here.
Besides, I needed to swing by the pharmacy and get travel-sized toiletries. I would be near his apartment anyways.
I made the walk to Cambridge on feet that were numb with exhaustion. Now that the craziness of the week was over, my body needed to catch up on sleep. Crashing on the couch this afternoon hadn't come close to chipping away at that sleep deficit.
I wondered what Roland would say when he saw me. I had a speech rehearsed in my head, a verbal version of the text I'd already sent. I felt my hair and wished I'd spent a few minutes curling it; it probably looked crazy after being cloistered in my apartment all week. I wasn't even wearing makeup.
Good, said a voice inside my head. You're not going over there to impress him.
It took me 15 minutes to find his apartment; all the buildings looked the same over here, and I hadn't paid much attention the morning I left. Eventually I found it, and made the slow walk up three flights of stairs to the top floor. The door's brown paint was cracked and faded, and I hesitated for several heartbeats while deciding if this was what I wanted to do.
I knocked three times.
Now I really felt foolish. My flight impulse tugged at my legs, begging me to run away and never come back. Whatever I was looking for here, I wouldn't find it. All Roland would give me was more pain.
I stood my ground and waited. I couldn't hear anything inside; no footsteps, or TV noise, or anything else. Was he even here? I'd made the trip for nothing.
The door opened, and then there he was.