With exaggerated formality, Luke took the coffees from me and dropped the rubber band in my palm. I raked my hair back and twisted it into a knot that thumped against my neck. Then I followed Luke into the lab, racking my brain for anything to say—anything that might diffuse whatever had just passed between us. But Luke beat me to it.
“What are you doing here?” he said. “Visiting your friend?”
I shook my head. “Not today. The more interesting question, I think, is what are you doing here?” I said, glancing at Luke’s workstation. The glass wall of the hood was only up about four inches, just high enough for his hands to reach through and conduct experiments within it. A 50 mL flask, crowned with a condenser, rested in an oil bath beneath the vent. The oil shimmered as it warmed, approaching 50 °C which was—give me a second to do the math—about 120 °F. Just like that, I was transported back to senior-year science lab. I was surprised by how eager I was to run an experiment. At graduation, I didn’t think I’d miss anything from high school.
“It’s a kinetics reaction,” Luke explained as he sipped his coffee. (He went with hot.)
“Oh,” I said, trying to keep up. “For, um, what? I mean, what purpose?”
“Well,” he said, pausing dramatically, “I’m going to cure cancer.”
“Good,” I replied. “It’s about time somebody got on that.”
“No kidding,” he said wryly. “To be honest, though, my experiment so far is doing an excellent job of finding substances that don’t cure cancer. But, you know, maybe this one will be the one, right?”
“So why cancer?” I asked. “Of all the diseases out there? Isn’t everybody trying to cure cancer?”
“Actually, I’m more interested in combinatorial chemistry,” Luke began.
“Making something out of nothing,” I said, quoting my old chem teacher, Mr. Reese. Pretty much everybody would roll their eyes and die of secondhand embarrassment when he got started—he was just so earnest about science and how much he loved it—but his giddy enthusiasm had made a big impression, I guess. He’d done this whole PowerPoint presentation about careers in science, trying to dazzle us with state-of-the-art technology and the promise of discovery.
I glanced around the NU lab and realized that I was finally in a place where I could publicly geek out as much as Mr. Reese—maybe even more—and nobody would judge me for it. In fact, everybody else in the lab wanted to be here. They’d probably be geeking out too.
“Yeah, or actually making something new out of other somethings,” Luke corrected me. “But all the money is going to biochem these days. So I’m just being practical, really. This way I can get funding for my combinatorial chem. And if one of these compounds proves to have some medicinal benefits, well, God, that would be amazing.”
“So…” I said, hoping I wasn’t about to make a total fool of myself, “do you have a nuclear magnetic resonance spectrometer? In this building?”
“You bet we do,” Luke replied. “It’s in the basement. I definitely get my exercise. Six flights down to the NMR, five flights down to the ice machine in the student lounge…”
“So not the best design.”
“No.” He laughed. “Not really. But at least I never need to go to the gym. Except to shower and stuff.”
I must have given him an odd look because he turned away fast and made a big show of checking the thermometers. “Almost there,” he said. “When this hits sixty, I’ll plunge it in the ice bath—”
“Wait a sec,” I interrupted. “Why would you go to the gym just to shower?”
“Well, because the emergency decontamination station in the corner only has cold water,” he cracked.
“Do you live here?” I asked, keeping my voice as even as I could. “In the lab?”
“That, uh, depends on your perspective,” Luke replied. “Is that more or less weird than living out of my car?”
I tried to smile like normal, but I don’t think I pulled it off.
“No, don’t look at me like that,” he said quickly. “I had an apartment all set up for the summer, see, but it fell through at the last minute, so I was kind of camping out here for a few days while I tried to find something else, and then I realized, well, this isn’t so bad. Why spend two thousand dollars to rent an apartment for the summer when I wasn’t going to spend any time in it anyway?”
Oh my God, I thought. But Luke didn’t pause, not even for a fraction of a second.
“I know how it sounds,” he continued. He was talking really fast. “But, you know, I’m here for at least twelve hours a day anyway, and the dining hall is open all summer, and I can shower in the gym and sleep downstairs in the student lounge. It’s not so bad.”
I knew all the feints and fake-outs of being poor. I knew how vital it was to hide the absolute soul-crushing worst of it. I didn’t know Luke that well, but to show him that I was shocked—I mean, he had just told me that he was technically homeless—would have been devastating. It was obvious that he wanted to act like it was no big deal, and the kindest thing I could do was pretend along with him.
“Hey, whatever,” I said with a shrug. “Whatever works for you, right?” I leaned close to the thermometer and said, “Almost sixty. What happens next? The ice bath?”
“The ice bath,” he confirmed.
“To stop the reaction?”
“Exactly!” he said, and I saw a small spark light up his eyes before he yawned, covering his mouth with his hand at the last minute.
“I’m sorry,” I said, laughing. “Am I keeping you up?”
Luke shook his head and looked a little embarrassed. “Sorry. I’ve been here all night.”
“For real?”
“Yeah. We’re coming into hour…sixteen,” he replied, squinting at the clock on the wall. “Only two to four left.”
“Isn’t there anybody who could take over for a while?” I pointed across the lab to where another guy worked under another hood, ignoring us so completely that I wasn’t sure he’d even heard me come in. “So you could get some sleep?”
“Like I’d let him!” Luke laughed. “No, this experiment is all mine. It was my idea, I wrote the grant, I got the funding, and I’m running it. And hopefully I’ll have something publishable by the end of summer.”
“Wow,” I said, and I couldn’t help sounding impressed.
“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” he said, suddenly modest. “It might amount to nothing. I just don’t know yet.”
We sat quietly for a few minutes, sipping our coffees as we watched the warning-red glow of the hot plate and the viscous oil swirling around the flask. I couldn’t tell if our silence was tipping into awkwardness, so I glanced at the clock. “I should go.”
Luke followed me to the door. “Thanks for the coffee, Julie,” he said as I took off my goggles. “And the visit. Sometimes these long experiments can get pretty—”
“Boring?” I suggested.
“Lonely,” he said at the same time. And then, I’m not even kidding, he blushed.
“Well, good luck with it,” I said. “I hope you get the results you’re looking for.”
“Me too. And if not, I’ll just skew the data. No, I’m kidding. I would never do that.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
And then, hiding my smile, I walked away…without looking back.
Chapter 8
November 12, 1917
Dearest Walter,
I have heard that for some soldiers, the novelty of war loses its appeal once they undertake the actual fighting of it. I see from your letter that this is not the case for you. There is a great sense of excitement in your letter, and I wish I could muster some on your behalf. In truth—and no doubt I’ll regret posting this letter—I cannot see this cause with such vivid clarity as you do. To know that you walk close to death in all your waking hours makes it hard for me. I can neither breathe nor sleep nor fully be of this world, with all our ease of living, until you are back in it with me.
The y
ear is in decline. The blazing glory of autumn succumbs to the grim gray sweep of winter. Already it is so cold, and yet not nearly so cold as it will get. I see mud in the gutter and think of mud in the trenches; I see frost on the pavement and think of soldiers shivering in ice-crusted woolens. I take no satisfaction from the comforts of my simple life, not when so many suffer without end and without cause. How much longer, how much more can we all endure? For months, we were promised that the war’s duration would be but a matter of days. Now there seems to be no end on the horizon. I worry that this war will drag the whole world to hell with it.
I am gloomy tonight; I apologize. I set out to write a letter full of cheerful news from home. But I am under a pall—we all are—because Edna Parsons died yesterday. It was not entirely unexpected, I suppose, as she has been too ill to receive visitors for several days now. And yet it is sobering to know that a chum can slip away so suddenly. It is never far from my mind that I have usurped her—taken her position at the factory, where I sit in her chair and hold her paintbrush—when Edna should have enjoyed a great many more years on this earth.
And oh, Walter, I should not even write of it, but the way she died…The girls spoke of it all day long in terrible whispers, as if speaking the words in a hush could somehow diminish their horror. That complexion problem that troubled her…Well, that pustule on her chin swelled and swelled, filled with a toxin so foul that it ate a festering crater through her skin, right to the bone of her jaw, and she died from it. Oh, of all the many miserable ways to die!
Edna’s funeral is in two days, and I do not expect that I will attend. As I said, I didn’t know her well. I am also hesitant to be away from the factory, even for half a day, when I am still so new and inexperienced. And, I can admit to you alone that I am haunted by how I failed poor Edna. What if—what if—the Evr-Brite might have saved her? I tried to get some for her, and now I fear I should have tried harder.
I try to remind myself that there were many things that could have contributed to Edna’s demise. The unhealthful air. The lack of good, nourishing food. Albert’s long absences. Would one small bottle of Evr-Brite have helped?
I suppose we will never know.
I can redeem this letter with at least a little good news. My speed continues to increase, and so does my pay. I find myself quite at home in the dial-painting studio, though I don’t like the liberties that Mr. Mills takes with the other girls. A leering smile here, a sneering remark there, even a pinch from time to time! He hasn’t tried any such indignities with me, thank heavens, but I guard against it. I do not smile when he is near, lest he think I encourage such behavior. Some of the girls try to match wits with him, tit-for-tat—and of these, my own Liza is the worst! The way she thrusts up her chin and stares into his eyes as if they are equals. It is positively a disgrace.
I am more vexed with Liza than usual, as you’ve no doubt noted, even as I marvel at her dial-painting skills. She is so very fast that I wonder how she ever got so good, and she won’t tell me, which I think is very small and mean-spirited of her, don’t you? I know some of her secrets, though. I know that she paints her name and address inside the back of each watch that crosses her workstation, in hopes that a lonesome soldier overseas will find her message and send her a letter. You will tell me if one of her watches should pass through your hands, won’t you? I will try not to be cross that you did not receive one of mine instead. (I have a confession: should one open my watches they will find my initials glowing on the back. I don’t want letters from any other soldier than you, but I would be ever so pleased if one of my watches did somehow find its way to you, and now you will know if one has.)
And I know another of Liza’s secrets: she has six jars of Lumi-Nite powder hidden beneath her bed. I awoke in the night from an unsettling dream, and I could see the light they cast while she slept. I crept across the room with as much stealth as I could muster to confirm my suspicions. The light is so enchanting, Walter. It even transforms the dust beneath Liza’s bed into an otherworldly wonderment. Not even her buzzard snores could shatter my reverie. I would like to bask in this light always. It is somehow soft and yet bright, casting a warm glow though it is cool to the touch, and it brings gentle comfort as it illuminates the darkness. I can’t fault Liza for wanting some for herself. I would like a jar to call my own as well.
I would never tell Mr. Mills that she has pinched some Lumi-Nite from the factory. But I wonder what Mother would say. This is a secret I will keep to myself…for now.
As I am now paid for my painting, Mother is taking in less laundry than before. I strive so that our little family may no longer engage in such work. One might expect Charlotte to be grateful, but something troubles her. She has always been a sweet girl, yet she’s become moody, retreating to her room and her writing whenever she has the chance. I should shower her with extra affection now that I am so often away from home. She has always looked to me, more than Liza, for guidance and support. I see in Charlotte the glimmer of great things to come, Walter, and consider it my duty and my privilege to give her all that she requires to achieve them.
Know that I work to make you as proud of me as I am of you. That no matter how dreary or despairing my days, there is one thought that ever brings a smile to my face: your safe return.
Love,
Lydia
Chapter 9
It should’ve been simple. I mean, we’d very clearly agreed that Lauren would text me on Thursday morning when she got up, and we’d search for more glowing paintings. Not that I really needed her input—I had already googled every consignment and secondhand store within fifty miles and plotted them on a map, using colored pencils and India ink to mark each one. I already knew where we were headed, just as soon as Lauren got up. So I waited. And waited. And waited for her text.
But it didn’t come.
While I waited, I sat down to paint. The night before, I had started a brand-new canvas. Acrylics, quick to dry and easy to clean, were the obvious choice for the next stage of my glow-paint experiment. A sandy shore, speckled with gold, a twilight of indigo and amethyst, rose-tinged wisps of cloud in the sky. Real sand was more beige, but I wasn’t interested in realism right now. I wanted to paint a candy-colored romance, something bright and sweet and irresistible. The special glow-in-the-dark paint I’d ordered would arrive any day now. When it did, I wanted to be ready for it.
Lost in my art, the morning slipped away from me until I suddenly glanced at the clock and realized it was lunchtime—and I still hadn’t heard from Lauren. She’d left me no choice but to set off on my little expedition without her. I shrugged off the twinge of guilt by reminding myself that I didn’t have the luxury of wasting my day while Lauren slept in. And foraging for paintings all by myself was definitely faster. I went straight to the art section in each store and left immediately if I didn’t find anything.
The first two stops were wastes of my time—worse than wastes, because they brewed a new worry in me: that there were no more paintings, that I’d missed the chance to buy the ones that Andrea had told me about. This is hopeless, I thought. This is worse than searching for a needle in a haystack. They could have been sold, or maybe the person who had them changed his mind—kept them for himself—
Stop, I told myself. Focus. Breathe.
My luck changed at a used bookstore, of all places, where the air was perfumed with the scent of yellowed paper and crumbling adhesive. I found exactly what I was searching for: the same simple frame, the same bold strokes. On the canvas, streamers twirled across the ceiling of a cavernous hall, where half a dozen couples danced together. The guys were in uniform and the girls had ribbons in their hair, toy soldiers waltzing with china dolls. Despite their old-fashioned clothes and high-button boots, they hardly seemed dated at all. Looking at them—the girls, especially—I got the feeling they were depictions of real people the artist must have known, or at least seen before. One girl had high cheekbones and arching brows. Her face was long and hollow lik
e her angular body. Another girl’s nose turned up just a touch, matching the joy in her grin and the crinkles of happiness around her eyes. These girls could’ve been my friends. I could’ve been painted into this scene.
Only one person wasn’t dancing, a girl who hovered in the doorway, watching, as if she was reluctant to join in. I looked for a single guy—maybe her date?—but didn’t see him; I wondered if she’d gone alone. Did girls do that back then? If so, who had given her the delicate rose corsage that was twined around her wrist?
This was not a complex composition: people in the foreground, a pop of color in the streamers to catch the eye. Even so, I couldn’t stop staring, wondering what would appear in the dark, on the dance floor, among all those starry-eyed couples.
There was only one way to find out.
I wasn’t going to rush home to the darkness of my closet without checking for anything else from the original owner. If I could find a name, a date—anything—
“Anything,” I repeated to the guy behind the counter. I couldn’t tell if he was stoned or just terminally bored, but my presence seemed to be a major inconvenience for him. He didn’t even bother to stifle his sigh as he punched a few numbers into the computer.
“This client is also selling a box,” the clerk replied. “And a silver-plated brush-and-mirror set.”
“Can I see them?” I asked. I tried to act chill, but inside I was all A box! A box! Who knew what it might contain?
But the guy shook his head. “The set sold,” he replied.
“And the box?” I prompted him.
He peered at the computer and sighed again. “Still here,” he said. “Hang on.”
A few minutes later, he placed a wooden box on the counter. It was as plain as the paintings’ frames, with no decoration except a tarnished clasp. My hands felt too big, too clumsy as I coaxed the hook out of the latch and pried open to the lid to discover…
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