by Sara Shepard
“You talk to him all the time.”
“Yes, but not real talk.”
“So have a real talk with him.”
I wandered out into the hall, made a right, and entered my father’s bedroom. There was a bleached mark in the wood floor at the foot of the bed, the leather box’s old spot. There were no curtains to frame the big square windows, and the Lower Manhattan skyline spread out before us, missing a couple of its most essential buildings. Tiny lights strung on the tops of the South Street Seaport clipper ships twinkled and danced. Headlights drifted up the FDR.
“What are you doing?” Philip asked, scaring me. He’d changed into his pale blue hospital-scrub pajama bottoms. He’d had them since his mom had cancer, when he was a teenager.
I didn’t turn. “Why did you tell them about that research job?”
I could tell Philip was smiling. “I think it’s a great job for you.”
He had brought a printout to me a few weeks ago. The Developmental and Molecular Pathways division is looking for talented, self-motivated scientists interested in using Drosophila as a genetic model system for the elucidation of disease-associated pathways and identification of target genes and compounds. As I studied it, he stood back, arms crossed over his chest, an exuberant smile on his face.
“I didn’t want my father to know about that job,” I answered now. “I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Why? I know someone. You would at least get an interview.”
I glared at him. I’d known about RNA interference, which was what the job was mostly about, for a while. It was a process where a group of very tiny molecules stopped pieces of RNA from doing damaging things, like letting virulent viruses take over a cell and attack the body. The action the molecule performed was called silencing—I always imagined that they were clapping a hand over the RNA strand’s mouth, telling it to shut up and stop making trouble. The protein that cleaved the RNA strand in two was called a dicer, which made me think of the complicated gadgets we sold at Chow’s. Perhaps one day an RNA interference dicer would be packaged and on the shelves next to the Cuisinarts. I’d be the only one with the knowledge to sell it.
In private, uncensored moments at work, I considered the research job. I could see the clean, raw lights of the lab, the cool, quiet flutterings of the people working, the Drosophila in their little vials, their bodies so tiny they made no audible sound when they tapped against the glass. But then a customer would come, or one of the oven mitts would fall to the floor, and I’d think about the other applicants’ résumés in the human resources administrator’s in-box. Their illustrious education, their previous work and research experience, the fellowships they’d taken.
Philip looked small and shadowed in the empty room. “Just stay out of it,” I said. “I don’t need help.”
His face fell. As he walked out of the room, his pant legs dragged on the floor. Outside, a siren howled. The wind pressed up against the windows. Someone’s high heels clacked against the sidewalk below. I wondered what Rosemary and my father or Angie and Steven were doing right now. They were probably lying in their hotel beds, being nice to one another. I heard Philip sigh as he sank into bed. Something broke inside of me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, entering my bedroom.
“It’s all right,” he mumbled, his face to the wall.
I sank down in the wicker chair. Philip and I slept side by side each night in the little downtown apartment in Annapolis, clinging to each other, safe under our down quilt that we had bought at a nearby mall. But then Philip woke up in the morning and left for long, empty hours. I’d begun to talk to the plants around the house, just to hear my voice. I made small talk with the regular barista at Starbucks. At work, I chatted with customers unnecessarily.
Once, Philip had been later than usual, and I’d been looking out our apartment’s window, reflecting on how the neighborhood, which was close to the Naval Academy, looked at night, quiet and calm, the streetlights making soft circles on the sidewalk. Philip had appeared right then, bounding up the concrete steps and waving at me through the window. When he came inside, he said, “You looked like a little puppy, waiting for his owner to come home. It was so sweet.” I knew he’d meant it affectionately, but I’d curled up inside. It cut too close to the bone. I needed him too much.
I crawled into bed now, and Philip turned to face me. His eyes were so dark and thoughtful. The first time we saw each other again, he picked me up at the BWI Airport, the closest Amtrak station to Annapolis—I took the train from Pittsburgh, eight long hours. When I got in the car, I couldn’t stop staring at his hands. I didn’t remember them. They were so perfectly shaped, not knob-knuckled or Yeti-hairy or spider-fingered. I watched everywhere his hands went—as they opened doors, shifted the car into park, drummed nervously on his knees when he searched for answers to my questions.
We stopped at a little park off the highway. There was only a picnic table and a parking lot, and I didn’t understand why this park was so special. “You’ll see,” Philip said, getting out of the car. “We just have to wait.”
The air had a savage bite to it. We sat on top of the picnic table, the feeling seeping out of our legs and hands. Suddenly there was a small, distant roar growing from the horizon. A spot emerged in the sky. “Lie down,” Philip said. Suddenly a plane was above us. United, it said on the side. It flew right over us, so low that I thought we might get caught in its propellers. We shaded our eyes. The wind was so strong, it felt like it could lift us into the air. When we sat back up, we accidentally bumped hands, except it wasn’t an accident, at least on my part. “Were you screaming?” Philip asked. “I think you were screaming.”
“I wasn’t.” I patted my hair back down. I tried to be as poised as I could, as together as I had been during our phone conversations. Philip knew everything that had happened in my life, but in a tempered, elegant way. I didn’t want to ruin my chances. I was already starting to feel vulnerable.
“It’s okay,” Philip said. “I screamed the first time, too.”
Outside my old Brooklyn bedroom, a siren howled. The moon spilled in through the window, and I watched Philip close his eyes. His hand was still wrapped around mine. Often, I tried to get back the feeling of being underneath those airplanes, the loud noises they made, the big shadows they cast.
“We’ve been together for a year,” I murmured.
“Mmm-hmm,” Philip said back.
“Isn’t that scary to you?”
“Mmmm.”
In two more minutes, he was asleep.
twenty-six
Philip had a computer in the spare room of our apartment, an old thing from his college days. It had dial-up Internet access, same as the computer that Stella and I used in Cobalt. A few weeks after moving in, I began to look up people online. First Dr. Hughes. Then some girls from the NYU biology department. I looked up Alex, who was still working at the genetics clinic, and I looked up Samantha, although she wasn’t lost to me. Samantha had her own Web page, with her picture in the upper left-hand corner. She wore a blue blazer and a large smile, beckoning people to shoot her an email about any of the houses listed on her site.
And then, finally, I looked up the person I really wanted to find: Claire Ryan.
It hadn’t been easy to find her. Claire hadn’t contributed information to the Peninsula alumni website about her education, marriage, or career, as many others had. She wasn’t listed on Classmates.com, and she didn’t appear to have a blog. I found plenty of other Claire Ryans, including lawyers, track stars, physicists, and a soprano in an ensemble musical group. I finally found her, though, in a Craigslist post: someone had found three kittens in a vacant lot. She was looking for good homes for them, preferably families that didn’t have dogs. The contact email was Claire’s first name and last name at something called Howell United, which I later found out was an environmental action group. When I clicked on the Craigslist ad’s accompanying picture, there was Claire, holding a squirming o
range kitten in her arms. The straight smile, the teal eyes, still beautiful. It was hard to tell if she was fat or thin.
She had posted on the Washington, DC, Craigslist page. I couldn’t believe our close proximity, and I wrote her immediately. A few nail-biting days went by, but finally she wrote back. Not that you could gauge emotion from how someone wrote an email, but part of me had anticipated an ecstatic response, so I was startled when Claire seemed almost blasé that I’d found her. We decided to meet at her office near the Smithsonian after she finished work and take it from there.
I took the Metro into DC and got there way too early. Since I had a few hours to kill, I walked around the Mall, which was strangely empty, perhaps because it was a weekday and the middle of winter. My footsteps rang out on the marble floors of the Air and Space Museum. I bought a Bio Dome Habitat in the gift shop, which promised to house four separate species under one plastic shell. It even came with a little magnifying glass so that I could take in the action up close—the ants burrowing through tunnels, presumably. It reminded me of my father’s snow globes.
I sat on a dried-up fountain outside Claire’s office building. I saw her come out right away; she walked with a few other women, deep in conversation. She recognized me immediately. “Hi, Summer,” she said. “Good to see you.”
Her voice sounded so smooth, so adult. She sounded as though she meant it. She wore no makeup, had big red earmuffs on her ears, and there was still something substantial about her size, but in a comforting, Mother Earth way. Her blond hair stretched down her back, nearly to her coccyx. She reminded me of the women I used to see in Washington Square Park, wearing tie-dyed shirts, banging on bongos, and singing.
We looked at each other for a moment, the cold wind swirling around us. “Hi,” I answered, my heart pounding hard. For a moment I couldn’t remember how old I was or where we were.
A convoy of policemen on motorcycles passed, going around the traffic circle like they were on an amusement park ride. I expected a big fanfare, a light shining down from the sky, indicating that reconnecting with Claire was good, was right. Claire touched my arm. “Do you mind if we stop back at my place? It’s not far from here.”
She lived in a block of apartments with spindly terraces, rickety carports. The walls were drab blue cinderblock. Music thumped behind one of the closed doors, and another had a big flag bearing the Virginia Tech football logo draped over the little peephole. Claire unlocked the apartment door and walked in first. A young girl, probably a college student, sat on the bare floor, her legs outstretched. A little blond girl of about kindergarten age sat next to her, making a tower out of gigantic Lego blocks. “That’s beautiful,” the college student said, handing the kid another block. When the kid saw Claire, her eyes lit up and her mouth spread into a wiggly smile. “Hi!” she screamed, then ran over to Claire and wrapped her arms around Claire’s legs.
Claire looked at me. “This is Frannie. Frannie, this is Summer. Remember how I told you that you were going to meet someone named Summer today?”
Frannie stepped back from Claire and looked at me solemnly. “Hello,” she said.
“She’s yours?” I asked Claire, flummoxed.
Claire nodded. “Indeed she is.” She picked up Frannie and put her on the couch. I took a tentative look around the apartment. The furniture was a warm butter yellow. There was a Greenpeace poster of a snow leopard and a framed black-and-white Ansel Adams print on the far wall. A red milk crate filled with dolls, plastic tools, and more blocks sat in the corner. Next to the crate was a battered rocking horse whose white, ropy mane had been arranged into four fat braids. There were at least twenty photos of Frannie on the TV stand. A pair of manly-looking shoes lay next to the coat closet door. I glanced at Claire’s left hand. It was bare.
Claire thanked the girl and gave her some cash. The girl silently stood up and shrugged into her coat. When she left, Claire turned to me. “Jen has been a godsend. Most of these kids, they won’t baby-sit for less than ten bucks an hour. I mean, seriously. That’s like two hundred dollars a week! And so many of them come in here and smoke pot. That’s the last thing I need.”
“What about day care?” I asked tentatively, not really sure if I had the right to give an opinion. This whole thing struck me so weird, suddenly, Claire complaining about something so adult and with such familiarity, as if we hadn’t been apart for years.
Claire shrugged. “There are so many kids at day care. Maybe we’ll try that later. But Frannie likes Jen for now, don’t you? You guys built that big Playmobil village, remember?”
Frannie had migrated to the other side of the room and was feverishly drinking from a plastic sippy cup. “And then the hurricane knocked it down.”
“She loves hurricanes,” Claire stage-whispered. “She was named after one.”
“I was named after a tropical storm,” Frannie said sharply.
Claire started to put Frannie’s toys back into the milk crate. “So you were. I was in labor during Tropical Storm Frances. Even though she never became a hurricane, she was still powerful. She caused $500 million in property damage in the South, after all!” Claire rolled her eyes good-naturedly.
“Are we going to go to the pool now?” Frannie sounded bored.
“Well, I don’t know.” Claire took off her coat. She wore a long turtleneck sweater made with variegated red yarn. “Do you have any interest in going to the pool, Summer? We could have coffee after.”
“There’s a pool?” Out the window, the sky was steel-gray. It was cold enough to snow.
“It’s indoors, obviously, and just down the street,” Claire said. “Frannie’s obsessed. You and I can swim, too, if you want. The water’s warm. I have an extra suit.”
Going to a pool seemed as good as going anywhere else. Claire packed a bag quickly, and we walked back down to the street. Frannie ran ahead of us, dodging around people walking their dogs and piles of leftover slush. “So, this is kind of crazy, right?” I said. “You and me. Walking down the street like this.”
“It is.” Claire grinned, but really didn’t seem that surprised. “That’s the Internet for you, though. Everybody finds everybody.”
“So what happened to the kittens you found?”
“Oh, some lady took all three of them. She was one of those cat people.”
“How long have you been in DC?” I asked.
“I went to school here for a while, at the University of Maryland,” Claire explained. “One summer I got a job with Greenpeace. I thought I was really going to be doing something good, you know? But basically I was stationed at intersections, accosting passersby about the environment. If they walked on without saying anything, we tried to make them feel guilty—if all the ice caps melted, it would be their fault.” She sighed. “I hated it, but I did it all summer.”
“Why?”
“Well, because I needed the job, for one. And because Frannie’s father worked there. Or, I guess, her future father. Thomas. He accosted people, too.” She glanced at me and smiled. “I work for a different environmental group now, and so does he. We’re not yelling at people on the street anymore. We both work behind desks. I do the graphics, design the website, that sort of fun stuff. It’s nice, actually.”
“My brother does Web work, too,” I volunteered. “Steven.”
“Steven!” Claire’s mouth dropped. “How is he? Still obsessed with math and the military?”
“Not really,” I said with a laugh, touched that Claire remembered.
Claire ran ahead and grabbed Frannie’s hand before she swept across the street. As she pulled her daughter in closer, wrapping her arms around Frannie’s tiny body, she looked at me knowingly. “Thomas and I aren’t married. I saw you checking, earlier.”
“I’m sorry,” I said haltingly. “It doesn’t matter—”
“It’s okay,” Claire assured me.
Frannie tapped Claire’s arm. “Are we going to go off the high dive?”
“Maybe. If you’re good
.”
“Can I try a flip?”
“No.”
Frannie stomped her little foot. Claire ignored her.
“So what about you?” Claire asked when the light changed. “What are you doing in Annapolis?”
“My boyfriend lives there,” I said. I felt funny volunteering this, remembering how Claire had offered up potential boyfriends for me in high school, always people in her clique, and I’d turned them down. I felt younger than her, without responsibility or anything to show for myself. It was the same way I always felt around Claire. “We live together.”
“So it’s serious.”
“Well…I don’t know.” What did I mean? I didn’t know.
The Y’s lobby brimmed with kids. There was a big poster behind the desk with information about swimming lessons and participants. The swimming lesson skill levels were divided by types of fish: those just learning to swim were the Pike class, then Eel, Starfish, Polliwog, Guppy, and Shark. Frannie noticed me looking. “I’m a Starfish.” She pointed to her name on the poster. “I can tread water for ten minutes.”
“That’s wonderful,” I told her.
“She’s the youngest Starfish in the group.” Claire fished out her membership card. “It was terrifying when I first saw that they just let them swim. Without swimming arms and whatever. I thought for sure she was going to drown.” She handed her card across the table to the girl behind the desk, a teenager wearing a woolen hat with earflaps. “Now she’s going off that crazy platform diving board and everything.”
“So, do you like it here?” I asked Claire as we proceeded to the locker room. “In DC?”
“Sure,” Claire said, plunking her nylon bag down on a locker room bench. “There’s a lot to do here. My job is good.”
“Do you ever go back to Brooklyn?”
Claire looked down. “Not really. My parents both remarried, did you know? My mom lives in Virginia. So she’s close. It’s nice.”
In a flash of guilt, I remembered the Fun Saver camera I’d stolen from Claire’s mother. I opened my mouth and shut it again.