I walk briskly along the corridor, heels echoing in the empty space, the sound bouncing off the walls of the old building. I stop when I reach the doors and place my hand on the copper leaf-shaped door handle. And wait looking at the floor.
It has been seven months.
And I am broken.
Time heals all wounds? I think I must have said something like this to my friends in my past life, but . . . I don’t believe it.
Not now. Not anymore.
I’m broken, shattered in a thousand pieces all over the globe, wherever he is, wherever he might be.
I close my eyes tight so my tears don’t escape.
He’s alive.
He’s alive.
He has to be alive.
He needs to be alive.
Even if I never see him again.
And then the tears roll down my face, again, falling onto the old stone floor.
EcoRI enzyme cuts GAATTC sequence, SmaI cleaves CCCGGG, DNA ligase seals it . . .
After repeating my mantra over and over again, I slowly manage to calm myself down. I wipe the tears away from my face with the back of my hand and wait a few moments, until I’m sure my eyes are not red anymore. Then I enter the auditorium.
The buzz of more than a hundred chatty students slowly stops, and they turn their faces to me.
I am Agatha Manos.
I was born in Greece, but my parents moved to the US when I was two years old. Feeling patriotic, I recently moved back to Greece, but I still keep in regular contact with one of my friends back in Boston, Sarah McGregor, and her family.
I teach genetics at the National University of Athens, and since my Greek is rusty, I have to teach in English.
I also run a microbiology laboratory that does research on pathogenic strains of bacteria: a laboratory that recently became famous worldwide.
I turn to my students and begin.
“Last time we talked about normal carbon metabolism. Let’s change gears today and talk about a recently published paper describing the metabolism of rapidly multiplying pathogenic bacterial cells.”
The students start knocking on their desks and stomping on the wooden floor. It’s a sign of great respect, a tribute for the work done in my lab.
My lecture class normally has about forty-five students.
Today, the auditorium is full because they know the topic of today’s lecture: the study of the Crazy Gro cells and their efficient blockers that my lab published few months ago.
I’m still receiving daily requests for collaborations from various labs all around the world. Even several global pharmaceutical companies have offered to start clinical trials for the reagents.
It all turned out exactly as Sam planned it.
I turn to face the whiteboard and start.
Black lines, words, drawings. I’m presenting in a confident voice. No one knows what’s hidden beneath the façade. I’ve practiced my lecture enough.
Forty-five minutes pass in a blink.
The bell rings.
I turn around and say, “And I was just about to tell you the most interesting part, but I guess you’ll need to wait until the next lecture.”
Students laugh, and then some of them clap and some knock on their desks.
I smile and nod once in acknowledgement. The applause and knocking gradually stop as students stand up to leave the auditorium, making a drumming noise as they walk down the wooden floor. Many of them come up and shake my hand, offering praise for the research my lab did and ask additional questions.
The doors keep squeaking as students continuously open and close them.
Standing takes a toll on me these days, so I sit awkwardly on an office chair behind the desk and turn to the window. The sunshine is reflecting off the old scratchy glass surface and I can’t see the university buildings on the other side of the road. I don’t really care: I love the blinding sunshine.
The buzz is now outside and I’m finally alone.
I look down to the floor, knowing what I will do next. Because I always do the same thing.
I open my bag that’s lying on the desk and pull out the scrap of well-worn newspaper. Above the article is a picture of a burned-down building, with still some smoke coming out of the windows and many firemen surrounding the premises.
The title reads: “EXPLOSION AT CRYOBANK-TWO DEAD.”
Subtitles explain: “At 9:20 p.m. yesterday evening, a series of explosions shook the neighboring village as a bio-storage facility, run by the privately owned Cryobank Genetics Inc., burned down due to the faulty wiring of laboratory equipment. The company handled the storage of various biomaterials. Two security guards were killed in the fire and the entire stock of genetic and bacterial samples has been destroyed.”
I glance at the text I know by heart. Then I look again at the bright window and take in the light.
I am certain that this Cryobank was where Crazy Gro was stored. And I am also sure that Sam and his Sentinel team were the ones who set off the explosions.
The first time I read this article, I was ecstatic. And, embarrassingly enough, it wasn’t because he managed to destroy the dangerous pathogen.
I was ecstatic because I thought—I hoped—that he would now come. He would come to me and we would live the life I want. My life with him.
That was six months ago.
He didn’t come.
I lower my gaze to the floor, fighting tears again.
I clench my jaw and shake my head. Soon enough, I will have to be strong. And perhaps it won’t be so difficult, when the day comes.
I slide my palm slowly along the side of my large, round belly. And just this makes me feel a lot better.
I hear the creak of the wooden floor just behind me and I turn around quickly.
“Very interesting lecture, Dr. Manos,” says an elderly man.
I slowly stand up, holding on to the armrest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there was someone still here, Mr. . . . ?”
“Mr. Moore,” he says, his face wrinkles multiplying as his lips spread into a smile. He’s hunched over and has shoulder-length, messy gray hair, pulled back by a blue baseball cap. His eyes are shadowed by the cap shield.
I don’t trust him.
I lift my head and push my chin out. “The lecture is finished, Mr. Moore. If you have any questions, please bring them up at the beginning of the next lecture.” I raise my hand, pointing to the doors. I’m hoping it will make him leave.
But he doesn’t move. Instead, he looks down at my pregnant belly.
I swallow and my heartbeat picks up. I’m trying to stay calm, but I automatically put my hand over my belly.
“I was,” he continues slowly, “surprised to find out that . . . you’re expecting a child.” He looks up into my eyes again.
My right hand folds into a fist and all my muscles tighten. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Mr. Moore.”
He tilts his head to one side, and I am suddenly surprised by this familiar motion. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that. . . I would very much like to make it my business.”
Then he straightens up from his hunched position, squaring his shoulders and taking off his cap to reveal the most amazing dark blue eyes.
My jaw drops and my knees give in.
Before I fall, Sam catches me, just like on the first day.
And the only thing I can do is stare into his eyes.
“You don’t mind the wrinkles, do you?” Then he winks at me and kisses me with his waxy lips.
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