Human Remains

by Melissa Yi

  "Dahiyyah. Excuse me, I can't find my condenser. I think someone moved it."

  I blinked. It sounded sort of like da-HEE-yuh. Ducky was easier to remember. I opened my mouth to ask another question, but her shoulders lifted, as if to block me out, and I knew she didn't want to talk to me. Not in front of Dr. Hay, and maybe not ever.

  Dr. Hay crossed to our side and said, in a ringing voice, "Ducky is very busy. I don't know how this lab would run without her!"

  "Yes," I said, but I was looking at Ducky. "You're the lab research assistant? Or are you an undergraduate or graduate student?"

  "Ducky has a bachelor's of science and will be applying for a Master's degree next year. She is absolutely invaluable to me. I can't live without her," intoned Dr. Hay.

  "How long has she been working here?"

  "Over two years now, I'd say. And treasured every single day."

  Dr. Hay was a Ph.D. who worked with oncogenes. And yet she couldn't pronounce the name of the woman who'd worked for her for two years? "Okay. Nice meeting you both. I only have one more person to invite. I see him in the office." I knew Dr. Hay was watching me and wanted me out, but ignored her and pushed open the door to the office area.

  Three out of four desks sat empty. I cut through the central aisle, between the pairs of desks, to the one guy typing at the computer with his back to me, at the front left corner of the room. The sign on the grey fabric cubicle wall said Stephen Weaver, so I'd come to the right place. His desk was the one closest to the office hall door, so he was sort of on my way out.

  "Hi."

  He didn't look up. He kept typing, frowning slightly. He didn't need glasses, unlike most academics. He was okay-looking, if you like the rude, silent type.

  In addition to his name, he'd printed out blow-ups of a few organic molecules. He also displayed his undergraduate degree from Duke in chemistry, his Masters from Stanford, a Ph.D. from USC Davis, and a poster on Rift Valley disease.

  The most striking poster photo depicted an animal lying on its left side, a miniature cow with brown and white skin.

  Its eyes were closed. A sliver of pink tongue protruded from its mouth. Blood spilled from the stump of its umbilical cord onto the ground, near a ruler conveniently located to show how big it had been, maybe three feet head to tail.

  This calf reminded me of Lawrence Acayo. For a second, I couldn't speak.

  Instead, I read the caption: Bovine fetus afflicted with Rift Valley disease emphysema. The skin is stained with meconium.

  I swallowed hard.

  I guess if your mission is to eradicate Rift Valley disease, some visible reminders around your cubicle might keep you motivated. I've seen worse in my embryology textbook, which I once abandoned in the bathroom, leading my housemate to yell, "Hope's leaving textbooks of dead babies in the toilet!"

  But I didn't pin pictures of dead babies on my office wall.

  Behind us, I could hear Dr. Hay ordering Ducky to make her some rooibos tea.

  I'd better get a move on. "My name is Dr. Hope Sze. I'm the medical resident who started working at the Zinser lab."

  "I know who you are." He spoke to his computer monitor. His tone was even. Matter-of-fact.

  I couldn't tell if he knew I was a doctor, the new research grunt, or about my notoriety as an amateur detective, so I decided to keep cheerleadin' on. "Oh. Well, great. I was going to invite you to the get-together we're having at Petra's—"

  "I can't leave my work." After a pause, he said, "But thank you."

  Someone had obviously beat some manners into him, although not without a great deal of difficulty.

  "That's too bad. I was hoping to get to know you." I tried to turn on some Summer-like charm, even though it felt leaden.

  He snorted. "You want to solve the case."

  My stomach dropped, and not only because Dr. Hay was taking in every word from Ducky's bench twenty feet away. "It could be both."

  For the first time, he looked at me. Not checking me out in any sexual way. He was cataloging my hair, my expression, the smear of dirt on the cuff of my red blouse, the baggy waist of my dress pants, my boots, my hands clenching at my sides. He was assessing me.

  Well, fine. I checked him right back. He was probably medium height or taller. Hard to tell while he was sitting down. Black hair buzzed short and square, wire-rimmed glasses (not hip, not throwback; unmemorable). His requisite lab coat covered his clothes. Square jaw, slight bump in the nose, brown eyes. Again, nothing to swipe right or left over.

  Except the feeling I got from him. He was cold, like Dr. Hay. Still, I forced myself to keep talking. "I hear you're working on Rift Valley disease."

  He continued to stare at me in a way that made me uncomfortable, so I opened up the box holding the last few Timbits. "I have a bribe for you, if you come."

  He didn't even glance at the box. "No one's going to eat those."

  "Well, they're still good." My voice faded. I had a tendency to inhale anything that was even faintly edible. One day during my surgery rotation in med school, none of us had breakfast, so a resident managed to scare up a few digestive cookies and pieces of cheddar cheese, and convinced us to eat them like a sandwich. "Sweet and savoury," he told us. For once, I balked—I nearly choked on the salty cheese mixed with the sweet cookies—but all that happened was that I ate first the cheese, then the cookies as dessert. Food does not go to waste around me.

  "They're garbage," he said. "Now, Ducky's almond cookies were almost edible. But for the most part, I prefer a fruitarian diet."

  I blinked at the little dough balls rolling around in the bottom of my cardboard box. I considered telling him that in the hospital, any food is ravaged, including the next day. When you're working around the clock to save lives, food is a precious commodity. You're not going to subsist on fruit alone.

  But when I opened my mouth, his eyes burned at me so fiercely that I took a step back.

  For the first time, the corners of his mouth hitched in a smile. "That's right. Some of us have to work." He turned back to his computer, already dismissing me, even though I was still in the room.

  That pissed me off.

  I stomped toward him. Good thing I'd kept my boots, because he couldn't ignore the clunk of my heels on the linoleum.

  Stephen raised his eyes to study me again.

  My heart bashed around in my chest, but I stared right back at him in a silent challenge.

  The ungraceful part was that I did have to leave. It wasn't a movie where we could cut away. This was his study, not mine.

  My phone buzzed.

  I straightened involuntarily from the vibration.

  That was enough for his tiny smile to flicker to life. "Go home." He started typing on the computer again, and this time it was over.

  Except I had to have the last word. I was born in Ottawa. Ryan and my family lived here. True, my mailing address and at least part of my heart were registered in Montreal, but over my shoulder, I informed Dr. Stephen Weaver, "I am home."

  Chapter 13

  My exit was marred by the fact that I needed a key card to escape, and I didn't want to ask Stephen Weaver for help, so Dahiyyah had to release me through the lab while Dr. Hay glared at both of us.

  My cheeks were still burning by the time I hit the hallway. Wow. Did I ever deserve a drink.

  Only the fact that I'd survived worse kept me striding toward the lab while another memory side-swiped me. No, not 14/11. That was a day of rage. This was a day of burning humiliation.

  The Fateful Day of Burning Humiliation: November 26th

  I'd fallen asleep in Tucker's hospital bed, and the nurses hadn't kicked me out. What can I say, near-death has its privileges.

  But when I woke up, instead of meagre sunlight and a lukewarm breakfast tray, a white, narrow-faced blonde girl—she reminded me of the singer from Walk off the Earth, only as a teenager—stared at me with dark, avid eyes.

  "Eek," I said, raising the thin, flannel blanket over my face.

/>   Her hand reached for the edge of the blanket, so I tightened my grip, shrouding my hair, shrinking down into the soft mattress, nudging closer to Tucker's warm body. Unlike me, his head was still exposed above the blankets.

  Tucker woke up. His arm slid around me automatically, which made me smile, despite the current horror. It was like I fit there. Against him. Against the world.

  "Sissy, what are you doing here?" said Tucker. "It's not visiting hours."

  Sissy? I calculated the near-whiteness of her hair, the eager intelligence of those brown eyes, plus her sharp nose and thin upper lip, and I realized yup, she was Tucker's sister. He once told me he had two of them, but this was not how I wanted to say how de do.

  I'd hide here until she went away. She looked like she was maybe fourteen, or a young sixteen. You can get away with looking weird in front of young people.

  Of course, she'd tell the rest of her family in approximately 2.2 seconds, if she hadn't already texted them a picture.

  "Mom talked to the nurses, and they said it was okay. Because you're a hero." Sissy burst out laughing, but I was realizing that a girl this young might not have driven herself—

  "Good morning, John," said a woman's voice, and now I really wanted to die. No, not die. but at least conveniently re-materialize in another plane, instead of getting caught in Tucker's bed.

  A man's voice. "Heyyyyyy, Buddy."

  "Hi, Dad." I felt Tucker's stomach tremble with laughter. Yes, he would find this funny. Fucking hilarious, actually.

  "We brought you a breakfast sandwich," said another girl's voice, from further away.

  Fantastic. The entire Tucker clan was here. I'd miraculously avoided them through my misanthropic ways until this very moment.

  Tucker said, "I'm not hungry yet."

  "He's got a girl under there!" Sissy told her family.

  Heat flamed in my face. I tried not to breathe. I pressed my body against Tucker's. I'm not too big. I wouldn't make that giant a lump under the blanket.

  Or I could brazen it out. Act like this was an ideal way to introduce myself to the Tucker clan. I was a medical doctor. I'd confronted murderers. I'd escaped a hostage-taking. Some people said I was a hero too. But I felt ill, breathing in the warm blanket air while Tucker's family hemmed us in.

  "What are you talking about, Cecilia?" said the mother.

  "Hope! You know, that girl he's always talking about? At least, I think it's her. She's Chinese!"

  Tucker's core muscles tensed. He said, "Sis, it's none of your business."

  "But you're supposed to be recuperating." The way Sissy pronounced the word, I could tell she was imitating her parents. "Does that mean sleeping with girls?"

  "It means you can take your Egg McMuffin and leave us alone," said Tucker, but inside, I groaned. Us. He'd admitted I was there, hiding in his bed.

  "John Roderick Tucker," said the mother. "Is that how I raised you?"

  Tucker's body shook with laughter. "Yeah, pretty much."

  I suppressed my own grin. Roderick? I don't know why, I never thought to ask him his middle name. I knew Ryan's already, because it was his Chinese name.

  "We're going to leave now, so that Hope can have some dignity," said the mother.

  I wasn't crazy about the dignity part. In the twenty-first century, shouldn't Tucker be as embarrassed as I was? But I fully adored the "leaving now" part. If I could ever look his mother in the eye, I'd thank her. Like, in a decade or two.

  "But Moooooooom! I want to see her. I never met her. She's famous!"

  "I want to meet her too. I can give her the sandwich!"

  The first one was Sissy and the second one was the younger sister. Already, I was getting to know his family, even if I had only laid eyes on one of them.

  Tucker stroked my hair under the blanket. He was still laughing, but I could tell he didn't want me to go. He wanted me to stay bundled against him, despite the fact that his family had destroyed whatever vestiges of romance we'd managed to kindle the night before. He couldn't keep his hands off me. I pressed my hand on his warm, quivering chest. I loved him so much that I could almost feel it surging out of my body, even though I was simultaneously dying of awkwardness.

  "Mom's right, Sissy. Let's go." The dad's voice brooked no argument, even though Sissy said, "I'm not going. This is the best thing that's happened all day!" and the mother answered, "It's only 7:45 a.m., Cecilia. I'm sure you can find something else to do today."

  "I have to give him his sandwich!" protested the younger one. Her feet tapped toward us before they receded.

  After an eternity of a few minutes, Tucker murmured to me under the blanket, "The coast is clear. I can have my evil way with you."

  I didn't trust him. Or Cecilia. I clawed the blanket away from my head to take a quick peek. No additional Tucker clan eyes lingered at the doorway. But what if they hovered outside? His sister(s) would love to ambush me.

  Tucker rolled his chest over mine. "You think I'm joking?"

  We were so close, I had to alternate looking into one of his eyes or the other one. Both of them were bright with amusement. He had morning breath. But none of it bothered me as much as the fact that his entire family had CAUGHT US IN BED TOGETHER. "This is not the time for joking, Ryan."

  Tucker's body stiffened, not in a good way.

  My own words echoed in my ears. "I mean—"

  Tucker said, "I know what you mean," and rolled off me. The mattress shifted with his weight.

  Suddenly, we were left feeling like used 4x4 sponges. When I sat up and leaned forward, he didn't meet my eye. I didn't try to kiss him.

  I blinked back sudden tears. He was a hero. He deserved better than my waffling heart.

  On the other hand, calling him Ryan was an honest mistake, and now I had to do the walk of shame away from his room and potentially into his family's hands. That was punishment enough, wasn't it?

  I heard wheels trundling down the hall, and the nurse calling out good morning to the patient next door. I leapt out of bed and said, "'Bye, Tucker." I wanted to say more than that. You know how some people say "Never go to bed angry"? I've never really subscribed to that. Ryan and I left each other mad before bed plenty of times, before we broke up. Okay, that wasn't the best example. But the point was, I didn't want to leave Tucker. He and I knew better than most that life could turn evil in the blink of an eye.

  But it took courage to say, "I'm sorry." The words clutched in my throat. New esophageal spasms at the age of 27.

  He still didn't look up, but his fingers played with the covers.

  I added, "I love you, Tucker" before I hurried out of the doorway. I was already around the corner before I thought I heard him say, "Love you too."

  My heart was thundering. I blinked back tears. I didn't want to leave him like this, in a hospital, post-gunshot wounds and mentally screwed up, even if he'd technically survived.

  A black nurse rolled a blood pressure monitor down the hall. She paused when she saw me. I nodded at her.

  She said, "Spent all night with him, did you, girl? Good for you." With an agonized look, I confessed, "His family's here."

  She stared at me before a grin broke over her face, and I realized that I'd gift-wrapped the gossip of the day. Now it would be all over the nursing station that I'd slept with Tucker and that his parents had caught us. I sprinted for the stairs, praying that his entire family had withdrawn far, far away. As I pushed open the door at the bottom of the stairs, I checked my watch and thought, Okay, gotta brush my teeth. I've got teaching in five minutes. I don't have anything to eat, but I can drink water. I think I've got some gum in my bag. That'll give me sugar and sort of brush my teeth at the same time.

  From behind me, Sissy called, "Booyah," and I almost screamed.

  Chapter 14

  By 7:45 p.m., after three shots of the alcoholic persuasion, I was feeling mellow. Yes, I'd found a dead body, I'd been deserted by my two boyfriends (Ryan was at work; only Yahweh knew what had happened to Tuck
er), and I never wanted to face Sissy again, but it all just meant that I should buy my new friends some more drinks!

  "What are you all having? My treat!" I called. The Tragically Hip sang "Courage," which seemed like a good sign.

  Summer held up her half-finished Bollywood Diva cocktail. "I'm good!"

  "You shouldn't be," said Mitch, waggling his eyebrows. He'd polished off two Heinekens already.

  Chris flipped his hair over one shoulder. He seemed comfortable in Petra's, an underground bar panelled in dark wood and red brick with gleaming brass rails. I liked the cute waitresses wearing black tuques even though it had to be almost 30 degrees Celsius inside.

  Stephen Weaver and Dr. Hay had boycotted us, as expected. Tom had some sort of function with his wife. The Arabic guy, Samir Al-Sani, had said he had to work, and Dr. Wen, the older Chinese scientist, had stared at Summer and me and said, "Many Asian people fail to metabolize ethanol because of a lack of alcohol dehydrogenase and aldehyde dehydrogenase."

  Now I held up the chocolate martini Summer had bought for me and said, "To alcohol dehydrogenase!"

  "And aldehyde dehydrogenase!" she screamed back, and we burst out laughing.

  My phone rang with a 514 area code. I grabbed it in case it was Tucker borrowing someone's phone, even though, when I'm eating and drinking, I try not to touch my hospital germ-laden phone. A man's voice said, "Hope, it's Jonathan Wexler of the CBC."

  "Hey, Jonathan." Egads, one of the media hounds. I tried to sound normal. Should I hang up? Summer caught my eye, and I had to choke back a laugh.

  "Hi, Hope. Thanks for taking my call. I understand you found a dead body in Ottawa yesterday. Tell me about it."

  "I can't. I'm with my coworkers." There. That sounded nice and official, even though Mitch had wandered to the bar and was gesturing at a banjo mounted on the wall, trying to persuade the bartender to let him play it.

  "That's a shame. Let's discuss this another time. Could I have your e-mail?"

  "How did you get my phone number?"

  "It was listed."

  "My cell phone number?" I wasn't that drunk. "On our tips line."