Chapter 2
Friday 9:12 p.m.
I walk out of the elevator into the brightly lit entry hallway. My sneakers make a squeaking sound as I walk past the large bronze sculpture: two tubes, one smaller than the other, the bigger one hovering over the smaller one. It apparently represents “Unconditional Love,” or so it says on the sign, but I can’t see this at all by looking at the sculpture.
I shrug. Maybe I’m just not the type to understand modern art.
I come to the tinted glass door and I see Linda bent behind the reception desk, reading a magazine. Her hair is plaited into what must be hundreds of small braids, all of them tied together in a low ponytail. I push my ID badge against the scanner and the door clicks open. As soon I step into the entrance waiting area, Linda lifts her head and smiles at me, her white teeth pearling against her dark skin. “Evenin’ Jane! How’re you doin’?”
I stop to chat, leaning my elbows on the dark wood of the reception desk. “Doing well. And you?”
“Truckin’ along.” She tries to smile but I can tell she’s tired. It must be difficult for her to work such late shifts.
“Where is Jeffrey?”
She waves her hand once. “Oh, he’s with his dad this weekend. I’ll pick him up on Sunday evening.”
“Oh, okay! So it’s not too bad having the late shift.”
“No, no. I chose this shift.” Then she continues in a lower tone, “It pays better, you know.”
I nod firmly. “That’s good. I’m glad it’s working out. How long do you need to stay?”
“Till midnight.”
“Can you get home okay?” I look at my watch. “I could stay for a bit and give you a—”
“No, no! Really, it’s not a problem, Jane. I need to take only one bus line and that takes me straight home.”
“Are you sure?”
She smiles. “You’re so sweet, you know that? Yes, I’m sure. Don’ worry about me.”
I sigh, then push away from the front desk. “All right. Have a good weekend, Linda!”
“You too, Jane. Bye!”
The large front glass door automatically slides to the side and my reflection in the glass window disappears into the dark as the cold air sweeps into the heated hallway.
I walk down a few steps and turn right to the parking area, hugging myself to keep warm. My breaths make little clouds of warm air, which I disperse as I walk into them.
I quickly walk toward my yellow Beetle, parked in darkness, just between the two focal points of light coming from the parking lights above. I take off my glove and dig into my bag for the keys.
I’m already at the car, but my fingers are touching everything else but the keys.
Why didn’t I do this when I was still inside? I huff, a warm cloud of air bubbling up around my head. I always do the same thing.
Finally, I find them and pull them out, peeling my sleeve off the Velcro of my handbag at the same time. The car is covered in a fine layer of frost, and I hope the 1986 VW lock is not frozen too, or I might be spending the night at the campus.
It unlocks, and I breathe out the air I wasn’t aware I’d been holding in.
I scramble inside and quickly close the door to keep out the cold, bit it’s futile, because inside is as freezing as the outside. I push the keys into the lock, missing a few times in the dark. After a third try, I manage, and the car springs to life.
Poor old thing! It had been my grandmother’s. Then it was handed down to my mom, and then to me. I’m amazed it still works, but perhaps that’s just the old-school production, when they made stuff to last.
In a few minutes, the windshield thaws and I can finally head off.
After several right and left turns inside the campus, I come to the gate. The barrier opens while I’m still driving and I wave to the security person in the bright cubicle, then drive away.
I find my way, half on autopilot, while I reassess my last experiment.
I’ve taken care of all the issues from the last time. It should work now. It really should.
But the issue with research is and has always been the unknown. If one knows all the premises, one can design an experiment accordingly. Provided all the premises are true, the experiment gives positive results. Negative results happen more frequently—much more frequently—and they exist because there is an unknown in the equation.
And then I start to doubt.
Perhaps the reagent blocker is still not good enough.
Perhaps there’s something in the bacterial cell sensor that I overlooked.
I turn right onto the Harvard Bridge, passing several joggers, a string of condensed air behind them like a steam trail behind an old train.
Maybe I should have tried—
Jane, no! Don’t go down that hole again.
Let’s see if it worked first. If not, we’ll devise a new strategy, because if it didn’t work, that means a new strategy is possible. It means there has to be another way.
Only—it also means my scientific paper will not appear as soon as I’d want it to.
And as soon as David wants it to, it seems. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him pressing me on my results like this!
I turn onto Buswell Street and slow down, looking around, hoping to get a free parking spot. There’s nothing, however, but I find a parking place in the street parallel to mine. I squeeze my car between two larger ones and step out, the freezing cold stopping all my thoughts for a few seconds.
I lock the car and walk quickly, trying to warm myself up. The street I live on has several four-story buildings on both sides. Mine is the one in the middle on the left, red-brick walls with smooth, off-white stairs leading to the entrance door.
I climb up, holding on to the railings, and walk in. As soon as the door closes behind me, the air is warmer. I take off my cap and gloves, then check the mailbox, pushing my fingers through the letter flap just to see if anything came in. It’s empty.
I enter the elevator and press for the third floor. The wiry, metallic sounds echoes above me in the elevator shaft.
I head to the last door on the right, but the door just before mine is open, the light shining in the dark hallway.
Strange. This place has been empty for months.
I stop quickly and glance in.
“Good evening, Mr. Kublabicz!” I say loudly, knowing his hearing is not at its best.
He turns and smiles with one side of his mouth, the other limp and unmoving. “Dr. McGregor!” he says and walks slowly toward me.
A few years ago, he had a stroke. It completely took the right side of his body, and for several months he wasn’t able to work at all. But now, besides some sluggishness in the movement of his right leg and paralyzed right side of his face, he’s able to continue as the janitor.
“Mr. Kublabicz, it’s Jane.”
“Yes. And it is Igor.”
He looks like a teacher I had in primary school and I can hardly bring myself to call him by his first name. “All right. Igor,” I say with a smile. “What’s happening with the apartment?”
He stops next to me but turns his head toward the apartment again. “Someone’s finally moving in.”
“That’s nice. Not much space, though, is there?” I stretch my neck to see further into the apartment.
“No. That’s why it was empty for such a long time.”
“Do you know who’s moving in?”
He mumbles something, then bends slightly and looks down. He shoves his left hand into his worn-out jersey pocket and takes out a folded piece of paper; then he straightens, shakily unfolding the note. He furrows his eyebrows and stretches his hand away from him as he tries to read it.
“Sorry, Jane, I don’t have my glasses with me.” He hands the paper to me. “Can you read it?”
“Sure.” I look at the paper. “S. Swift,” I say out loud.
He shrugs. “I’m sure it’s a very nice person,” he says, folding the paper and putting it back in his pocket, “because everyone in this building is. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to get in.”
I laugh. “So it’s like a portal? It lets in only the good people?”
“Of course.” A hint of a smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “All the bad ones get stuck between dimensions. Haven’t you noticed that already?”
“No, no. I missed that somehow.” I try not to laugh to keep the conversation going.
“That’s no wonder. You see, I round them up and clean them out regularly, so you might not have even seen them.”
Now I really have to laugh. “Okay. Next time, before you get rid of them, let me know. I’m curious to see what they look like when they’re trapped.”
He laughs as well. “Good. Good. I will.”
“Good night, Mr. Kubla—Igor. Don’t stay up too late.”
“No, no.” He shakes his head and starts slowly walking back to the apartment. “Just a few more things to fix before the new tenant moves in. Good night, Jane.”
“Good night, Igor.”
I walk into my apartment, the door squeaking as I open it. Same old welcome-home greeting.
Once inside, I close it and push the key into the lock. It jams while turning, as always, so I lean hard on the door and the key releases, the metal bolt sliding into place in the frame. I turn on the lights and take off my shoes as I walk through the hallway, leaving an untidy mess behind me. I pick up a bottle of beer from the fridge, take a small sip, and walk to the living room. The stereo remote control is hiding somewhere in my bookshelf system, and I bend a little to see between shelves and the tops of books.
It seems to have found a new living place on top of Gabaldon’s Outlander. I smile to myself as I reach for it. Well done, you. This is where I’d be sitting, too, if I was a remote control.
I push play button and Bon Jovi’s Greatest Hits album starts in the background. Dropping onto the couch, I put my feet on the coffee table and close my eyes.
What if the affinity of the blocker is not strong enough?
The next moment, I open my eyes, looking at the yellow ceiling above.
What if the blocker releases from the cell sensor before it starts affecting its life cycle?
I sit up and put my feet on the floor, thinking.
No, no, that can’t be. In vitro, the kinetic curve looks fine. The blocker protein binds to its sensor and stays in place.
No. It should be fine.
I lie back again. Unless, there’s something in the living cells that changes the affinity of the blocker to the—
Oh, shut up, Jane! You’ll find out soon enough. Stop dwelling on it.
The main window is slightly open and the breeze is moving the white transparent curtain into the room, giving me chills every time the cold air sweeps over the couch. I put the bottle on the coffee table and walk to the window to push it shut. The picture frame on the ledge by the window falls to the floor, but, softened by the carpet, it doesn’t break.
I look at the back of the frame near my feet for a long while, not wanting to pick it up.
After few minutes, I do.
Then I look at the picture.
Sarah is there with Mark and Danny and me, all of us laughing. It was taken in front of the amusement park in Las Vegas, almost four years ago. Sarah, wearing the bright blue summer dress Mom and I got her for her previous birthday, had just started dying her hair back into her natural honey-blonde color again. Mark has wavy chocolate-brown hair reaching to his shoulder, his teeth white under a thick several-months-old beard, and he is hugging Sarah with one arm and me with the other.
I’m wearing loose jeans and a brown string-top, my hair red and curly, making a wide aura around my head, too wild to stay lying down. My cheeks are red, my eyes half closed in a fit of laugher.
And Danny: perfect symmetrical smile, light-brown hair combed to the back, and smooth, clean-shaven face.
I remember saying to Danny, half-jokingly, that we should have a crash wedding right then and there. And he—jokingly—refused it.
I remember him telling me something later that same evening. He said that I shouldn’t wear string-tops anymore, or at least not until I get into shape, because my upper arms didn’t look very—what was it—appealing. I laughed then, pretending it was a joke.
I place the frame on the ledge, facedown, and bow my head low.
He wasn’t joking, I know that now. I knew it then, too, but I didn’t want to face it.
I rest my fingers on the back of the frame, shaking my head. I don’t even know why I keep this photo anyway.
To remind me, I guess.
To keep away.
I look up at the window, seeing my faint reflection through the white curtain. Then I close my eyes and keep them closed.
My world is science.
And that’s how it’s going to stay.
I close the window, not looking at my reflection, then turn away and walk to my bedroom.