I suspect she had to also battle stereotypic first impressions. She is tall and striking, with long jet-black hair and blue eyes. It’s a look I’ve always found stunning and unnerving at the same time. But I had rarely seen her with her hair in anything but a sloppy bun, wearing heavy black-framed glasses, purposefully camouflaging her allure and communicating a don’t-mess-with-me persona. Sometimes I wanted to sit her down and tell her she didn’t have to carry the burden of women in science on her shoulders by being so serious and always one step ahead of her male counterparts. I’d seen this too often in young, talented women, maybe even recognized some of this in my younger self. Neil helped me to navigate my transformation during graduate school, though my hard edge could always use some softening. If only Megan would let Jamie be her Neil. I frequently coaxed her to come have a beer with us. And on the rare occasion when she did, chemically modified by alcohol, she let her guard down and even sometimes her hair, and offered insight on the world of science that was dead on. I was in awe of her killer instinct.
And then there was her sneaky sense of humor. “Shhhhh,” she’d whispered the evening that I found her at Jamie’s bench, secretly rearranging his equipment to mess with his obsessive organization. The next morning, back in her serious costume, she reminded me of Sofie when I found her lying next to a pile of food wrappings from the trash: Whoa, how’d that happen?
They had flipped off the main lights in the lab; a blue glow laminated the room, backlighting the bottles on the shelves into a modern art bar graph. Cells silently grew in the incubator, DNA strands microscopically peeled off bases tallied by the automated sequencer, quiet clicks and ticks, and tiny colored lights whispered like night creatures of the lab.
I stood up, stretched, and looked out across the campus at bundled-up students scurrying along pathways and darkened buildings dotted by illuminated rectangles. Science majors were still shackled to the lab bench, history majors gone home to their computers. A little longer in my quiet space and I would head home.
The house was still, my daughters were asleep, and Chris was sitting at his computer reading the newspaper. Odd that I still thought of it as “paper.” Ania and Sofie wiggled quietly at my arrival. I knelt down, taking comfort in the everyday reminder of their devotion. They trotted behind me to the study.
“You’re up late.”
“You’re home late.”
Silence.
“You get all my texts?” I asked, pulling up a chair beside him.
“I think so. Tess was picked up and delivered to Max’s, Diana was picked up, delivered, and picked up again from piano, and Tess has an orthodontist appointment tomorrow at 10 that I have to take her to,” he said flatly.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“No you’re not. You’re pissed.”
He turned his head toward me, looking over his reading glasses, and gave me his I don’t get pissed at the little stuff look.
“Okay, peeved. I’m sorry I’m so late. Sorry I missed the evening.”
“Diana is upset about something, but I can’t get her to talk.”
“She’s fourteen.”
He shook his head.
“I’ll talk to her.”
“We had cereal for dinner.”
“That works.” He knew my growing disdain for cooking dinner, and that I did it because we had agreed to split the duties. I got dinner, he got the bills. I didn’t know who got the better deal, but I didn’t keep my part of the bargain tonight.
“I would have made something if I had more notice,” he said.
“Cereal is fine.”
“Dogs are fed too.”
I left the study and wandered through to the kitchen/family room. Standing in front of the sink, I poured a glass of water and stared out the window, but only saw a tired me staring back. Chris followed me in a few moments and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind. I settled into his embrace. He was the best at keeping us moving forward together.
“Anything you want to talk about?” he asked.
“No. Well yes, but not tonight. I’m exhausted.” I turned to face him as he leaned down and kissed me gently.
“Then I’m off to bed,” he said. “You coming?”
“Not yet. Need to decompress a bit. And read through some info I bookmarked.”
“That’s not decompressing, that’s working,” he said. “‘Night.” He headed down the hall, Sofie bouncing behind him, leaving Ania laying on the floor, watching in anticipation of my next move.
“Hey, thanks for holding down the fort,” I called after him.
“You got it, partner,” echoed down the hall.
That he is.
The morning was rushed. The girls jockeyed for position in front of the mirror, endlessly checking and rechecking their wardrobe selection and makeup application. Lunches tossed in their stylish lunch bags, we hurried out the door to meet the bus at the insane hour of 6:15. Our four-minute walk left us little time to talk. Diana was fine.
“My biology teacher snapped at me and embarrassed me, but all I was doing was trying to fix something. If she only would have given me a chance to explain, but she’s a butthead and thinks we’re stupid and can’t imagine that any of us would be talking because we were actually trying to help another student understand.”
“She’s human. Let it go,” I said. “You can’t let something that small set your whole mood. And how about we not call someone a butthead, especially a teacher?”
But she is fourteen, the mysterious age at which girls’ brains seem to misfire and make it impossible for them to modulate feelings, behavior, communication, life. You would think that teachers, witness to this phenomenon every year, would keep that is mind. Thank God it is only one year and then the magic switch at fifteen smoothed them out a bit. The difference in maturity between my fourteen- and sixteen-year-olds was astounding. I waved off the bus, grateful that the girls are still okay with me taking them to the bus stop, ignoring the fact that it’s only because when it gets cold, they knew I would cave and take them in the warm car. They led the privileged life we created for them, embracing the latest technology, trends, and lingo with the energy only teenagers had. I struggled to find ways to infuse some reality, a greater purpose, a sense of social responsibility. Summer camps to help the needy seemed to only confirm their entitlement as we wrote the check for the experience they would post to social media.
Chris was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, coffee cupped in two hands, obviously not having looked at himself in the mirror yet.
“Nice hair,” I teased. We are a perfect match even in coiffure.
“Thank you, I came up with it in my sleep.” Puffing up his chest, he posed proudly. I find if I give him credit, it only encourages him. He refilled my cup as I set it on the counter. “So want to tell me what’s up?” He headed our big comfy chair, motioning me to come sit beside him.
“Well, we decided that we can’t ignore what’s going on with CRFS, so we spent most of yesterday coming up with some ideas and investigating funding sources.”
“Really? You’re going to jump in on this? What’s your angle? And how in the hell are you going to go about getting samples from any of the dogs involved?”
Putting the milk back in the refrigerator, I headed toward him. “Why not? We do have a lot of dog DNA laying around the lab.”
“And the house,” he pointed out.
“So that’s what I was doing for the last few hours last night,” I said, trying to slip in my excuses. I folded up my legs and sat cross-legged facing him. “Interestingly, two pharmaceutical companies are offering grants to investigate CRFS, and the AKC has a roster of all the dogs who attended the shows and ‘is coordinating with AVMA and its member vets to obtain samples from as many dogs as possible.’ Their intent is to split the samples between the two companies under the agreement that they will give out grants for work on CRFS.”
“No doubt the deep pockets
are eager to find the cause so they can capitalize on any prevention or treatment that results.”
“No doubt. You and I know the potential for profit is a big motivating factor for them.” I looked at him and shrugged. “We’re both guilty of taking big pharma money at some point in our careers, so we’re all in cahoots anyway.”
“True. So who are the magnanimous supporters this time?”
“Well BeneVivite is one.”
“Ah, ‘Living Well,’ the giant mega-pharma, and let me guess. The other is Regnum.”
“Yup.”
“And you just happen to know the Chief Scientific Officer at Regnum.”
“Yup.”
He nodded, affirming the connection.
“You don’t have a problem with that do you?” I asked.
“With Neil? No, I never have. I just don’t want you to set yourself up for disappointment.”
“How so?”
“Well, I can’t imagine that he can be anything but unbiased, but as long as you accept that . . .”
“Of course I do. I think my work stands for itself. I can hold my o—”
“Hold on there, cowgirl, I wasn’t disparaging your work. If you honestly have no expectation of him elevating your proposal, then it’s all good.”
“You don’t sound like it is.” I was a bit defensive. “Neil and I are good friends, were good friends, I should say. Seeing him barely once or twice a year I don’t think really constitutes good friends anymore.”
He smirked at me. “You were much more than that.”
“How many times do we have to have this discussion, Neil and I nev—”
“Never slept together. I know that. I know and believe that every time you remind me. But you loved him, and there was—will always be—something special, and a strong bond between you two.”
“I think you’re—”
“Methinks thou doth protest too much.” He put his arm across my lap. “I’m okay with it, I’ve told you that a thousand times. Just don’t ignore your feelings or you may get hurt. And don’t expect anything from him that he can’t give. You’re the one who keeps bringing it up.”
“Um, I think you did this time with your snarky lemme guess comment.”
“I was just kidding.”
“Bad joke.” We both paused to close that chapter and open a new one.
“So okay,” he proposed, to start fresh. “Tell me your plans.”
I told him how we wanted to look at any of the dogs that were potentially exposed, particularly those that were housed at the shows near the affected dogs. We were going to look for signs of a receptor—a protein or level of some expressed gene—which would indicate a potential causative agent. We wanted to keep our investigation simple; the less dependent on a succession of positive findings, the more likely that we would contribute at least something.
“Regnum’s offering grants of up to $350,000 for innovative research related to CRFS.”
“Geez, that’s big in our world!”
“Huge. To them, peanuts. The main catch is that instead of the usual six or so months to work on the proposal, we have just four weeks to submit the application. They want to make the award in forty-five days.”
“Wow, that’s tight. They’re that eager to get moving on this?”
“I would guess that the urgency is due more to the upcoming veterinary medicine conference in late November, rather than the immediate need to save dogs.” Regnum was known for hosting a lavish evening session at the annual conference where they announced the year’s grant recipients, but only after two hours of corporate propaganda. The event was always packed.
“We’ll have to scramble,” I said. “Once we get the proposal fleshed out, the university still has to approve it, after they tack on their huge fee, of course.”
Chris rolled his eyes in agreement. Our building, our lab, the accounting department—it all cost money. I got that. But it was still painful to watch close to 40% of the grant money disappear into the school’s coffers before I saw my first check.
We wanted to submit applications to both companies, but each had indicated that the proposal needed to be exclusive.
“Why not just group the dogs by AKC group since they are each housed together at shows? Aren’t there CRFS dogs in each?” Chris asked.
“I’m not sure they are always together, depends on the venue, but I think CRFS has hit all groups. I’ve seen at least one in terrier, sporting and non, working, and toy, but I don’t know about herding or hound groups. I’ll have to search that today. I did see that there have been cases in a number of the breeds prone to Addison’s − a Great Dane, two Rottweilers, and a Porti, but so far no standard poodles. So if we go with your idea and ask for samples from the groups they are in, we could capitalize on the data for our Addison’s research.” His perspective added to our study design, which we hoped would give the widest application of the data.
“I’m going to have to put in a lot of long hours in the next two weeks if I’m going to get this to the university in time. You okay with being a single dad for the duration.”
“You need to let the girls know though.”
“Okay, but I don’t know when.” I felt my abandoning them already starting, “I’ll try to call them this evening.” Tag team parenting wasn’t the way to raise children, but they are good kids and a few weeks of an absentee mom weren’t going to push them into therapy yet. I was a text away, or heaven forbid, a phone call, if they could bring themselves to use that old-fashioned method of communication. I packed up and left him in his home office. Darn it, I thought as I shut the door. I’d forgotten to ask how his day went yesterday.
As I biked to work feeling much colder than I had anticipated, my thoughts turned to the summer I met Neil.
I had been in the lab for six months and was finishing my last semester of classes for my Ph.D., to be followed by three more years of full-time, bench research. Neil had been in the lab two summers before as an undergraduate and was now returning to do his graduate research.
I had been told that he was good-looking, charming, and brilliant. Clearly there was something alluring about him, as all the female technicians and secretaries went wispy whenever talking about him. Even the guys were in awe. He had charisma.
We were to share low status as that year’s crop of graduate students. I braced myself for the comparison between our obviously polar opposite personas. I would never be described as having charisma.
Heading out to the hallway to grab a beaker from the glassware shelves, I turned and smacked right into him and yelped.
“Oh! Geez, sorry!” he said.
“Sorry!” I gasped. “I startle easily.” And I shoved my glasses back up in place.
“I’ll have to remember that. Hi,” he said way too cheerily, “I’m Neil. You must be Claire. I understand we’re a team!” Glancing at my gloved hands he pulled back from offering a handshake and instead offered a broad smile full of perfect teeth. I knew I was going to hate him.
He became my best friend. Long hours in the lab, late-night Fridays with nothing to do but chip in and rent a movie together, hundreds of carry-out meals scarfed down between sample runs, and infrequent road trips to loud clubs—we built a relationship to rival any of those I shared with my girlfriends. With Anna finishing up vet school and starting her new career, it was good to have someone to talk to. Neil arrived attached, briefly living with a co-worker he met while temporarily joining the working world, but that relationship ended as soon as he escaped to his own apartment closer to our lab. We spent the next three years alternating through a series of “what was I thinking?” relationships with other people, that we pulled each other through and over. We met each other’s families, celebrated holidays together, held each other through pain, loss, and occasional triumph. We dreamed up schemes for the demise of our major adviser: lacing his coffee with acrylamide, beta-mercaptoethanol, or just plain old potassium chloride, but the taste of that would be hard to hide.
/>
We had a deep love, a deep trust, and an unspoken freedom between us. Nothing was off limits. Sharing our most intimate selves, we unburdened our consciences of secrets of unfulfilled dreams and mistakes, and behaviors straddling the boundary of morality. He was so like Anna, strategically placing people in his life like a master chess player. Though her game was to keep them at a distance, his was to get what he wanted from each person. He was also more deliberate than Anna, but the effect was the same. I watched as he hypnotized people into thinking that they were close to him, simply by showing interest in their lives. He knew everything about everyone, he asked about their kids and their parties, they confessed infidelities and twelve-step programs. They all thought he was their best friend. No one realized that they actually knew virtually nothing about him. They were too busy talking about themselves.
Somewhere along the way we came to an unspoken agreement that our relationship was best as it was. The value of what we had was not worth the risk of shifting to a romantic or even sexual relationship. We were brutally honest with each other, and our support and advice was unencumbered by physical entanglements. That’s not to say we weren’t attracted to one another. Neil was perfectly built, his body sculpted by his Italian heritage mixed with his ancestral Ethiopian regal cheekbones and bronze skin that accented his disturbingly intense brown eyes. It was not easy to keep from drooling. Back then I was slender and fit, and my long hair was an asset. We flirted and talked graphically about our latest sexual adventures and fantasies, baiting each other to make the first move.
Maybe it was when we shared a room at the conference in Ithaca because our adviser was too cheap to spring for two. Maybe it was when he got snowed in at my apartment and slept next to me in my bed in his underwear. At each pivotal moment, we moved close, felt the challenge, and retreated back to the path we were on. By the time I met Chris, we were both in our final semester of school, making it easy to go our own ways—or so I thought. I ended up remaining in the lab through the summer, and the moment Neil left for a postdoc in California in late May, unexpected sadness and loss engulfed me. I felt abandoned and lost. Chris understood, probably better than I, the depth of Neil’s role in my life. Newly in love, Chris was willing to gently take my hand and lead me away. I tried not to look back.
Decoded Dog Page 5