The Valeditztorian (16 page)

“So will you think about it?” he asks.

“Think about what?” I say.

Thomas shakes his head at me
.

“Do you have early Alzheimer’s or
something? I want you to consider moving out to Michigan with me.”

“Okay,” I say
. “I’ll think about it.”

Hopefully I’ll think about saying “no
.”

Chapter Nine

Mentors and Memories

Ea
rly Monday morning I make two work-related stops. First I swing by Joan Riley’s lab on the fourth floor of Memorial Sloane Kettering. As I enter the lab, the woman is facing away from me, staring into a microscope, vigorously scribbling in a notebook. The tint of her long, wavy auburn hair reminds me of Connecticut foliage in the fall.

“Hi, there,” I shout from the doorway.

Quickly spinning around, Joan nearly falls off the stool.

“Oh, sorry
. I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she gasps, clutching her chest. “Who are you?”

“I’m
Emma Silberlight. I’m not sure whether Alvin Koh contacted you from Salvador, but I’ve got several….”

“Oh, yes
, Emma,” she cuts me off. “Sorry…so sorry. Alvin did tell me that you’d be coming. Have you brought the fungus?”

“Yes
. It’s right here in my backpack.”

“Well…I’m not getting any younger
. Let’s have a look.”

Joan zips across the lab to my side, just like that speedy road runner from
Looney Tunes.

Reaching into my backpack, she pulls out the twigs and closely examines each one, intermittently scratching at her cheeks with her short fingernails
. In contrast to her lustrous hair, her facial skin is dry and cracked, presumably from a bad case of eczema.

“So this is the famous fungus that Alvin won’t stop yammering ab
out,” Joan says. “You’ve done a good job keeping the samples watered, Emma. They haven’t dried out at all, which is impressive, considering you made such a long trip.”

She gives me a warm smile, which I return.

“Thanks.”

“Would you beli
eve I just received Alvin’s Fed-Ex package this morning?” she says, gesturing toward a large cardboard box sitting on the counter top. “We’re going to set up a duplicate experiment here.”

“Dr. Riley…
.”

“Joan, call me Joan
. I hate it when people call me ‘doctor.’ The title is such a burden.”

“Okay
, Dr. umm…Joan. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure
. Go ahead.”

“
Did Alvin mention that Grace Pae discovered the fungus?”

“No, he didn’t mention it
. But I remember Grace from a previous rotation. She seemed like a very nice young woman.”

“Well, Grace was the one who first noticed the fungus, and she
realized it might be important. She brought it to Alvin’s attention.”

“Good for her,” Joan
nods. “I always had the feeling that Grace would do well in research. At the very least, she’ll get a publication out of the study. If her findings hold up in humans, then she’s really done some good in the world.”

“Umm, Joan, do you think Grace will be credited with discovering GrR?”

Joan stares at me, narrowing her eyelids, hopefully comprehending what I’m trying to convey.

“What exactly are you asking me
, Emma?”

Before I can answer
her with words, my cheeks give me away. As though reading my mind, Joan flashes a knowing smirk.

“Don’t worry,” she
says, “Grace will get the credit she deserves.”

Running
a key noisily through the tape on the Fed-Ex box, she adds, “I know that Alvin can sometimes be a….” and then she stops. “Would you believe I used to be his mentor?”

Joan
sighs and starts emptying the box of its contents.

“Let’s see here
. Ah, yes. These are the plates with the melanoma cells. They’re going straight into the biohazard fridge. And what’s this?” she asks, holding up a clear vial.

“That’s GrR
. I recognize it from Alvin’s lab.”

“R
ight you are, Emma. Do me a favor and put these vials into the smaller fridge, the one against the wall over there.”

“No problem.”

When we’ve finished unpacking, Joan continues, “I know Alvin can be difficult, but trust me on this one—he’s an honest researcher.”

“If you say so
.”

She would
know better than me.

Joan then turns toward the doorway, drawing our meeting to a close
.

“I’m taking the fungus
upstairs now,” she says, pointing toward the stairwell. “Thanks again for delivering everything in good condition.”

“No problem,” I say
. “Will you keep me posted on your findings?”

“Certainly
.”

Joan scratches her head vigorously, waves
goodbye, and dashes out the door. Watching her back disappear, two words come to mind: Meep, meep! I nearly start laughing.

In the wake of my encounter with Joan
Riley, I proceed across the street to Walter Jackson’s lab at the main hospital.

“
Emma!” Walter beams when I arrive at his office. “Home safe and sound!”

Taking
a big step in my direction, Walter suddenly stops short, as though thinking about hugging me and changing his mind at the last second. He ends up tripping, nearly crashing into the side of his desk.

“It’s great to see you,” I say, rushing to his side and hugging him anyway.

“Likewise!” his voice booms, as he returns my hug in a reserved, awkward sort of way.

Tall and broad as a professional
football player, with a wise, salt-and-pepper beard, Walter intimidates many of my classmates; but to me he’s just a big teddy bear—fat, friendly, and ridiculously smart—similar to my dad.

“Why don’t you sit down Emma,” says Walter, “and we can spend a few minutes catching up.”

As Walter leans back in his large, leather chair, I settle into the smaller wooden one stationed across from his desk.

“So h
ow was your trip home?” he asks, scratching the hair on his chin.

“Oh, it was fine,” I say.

“Fine?”

“Yeah
. It was good.”

“Good?”

“Uh, huh.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really.”  

“Emma, you’re sounding just like
my teenage daughter.”

“How so
?”

“
Whenever I ask her about school, she always says ‘it was fine’ or ‘it was good.’ Getting details out of her is like pulling teeth.”

“I really don’t have much to report about the flight
. I mean, the food was okay, and I didn’t throw up on anyone.”

Ignoring my last com
ment, Walter takes a deep breath and says, “I wasn’t worried about the flight.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“Because I’d like to learn more about why you decided to leave Brazil early. When you cut your trip short, I was quite surprised and also a bit worried. I asked Luciano over the phone whether something had happened, but he was very evasive. So, Emma…is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” he inquires, raising his eyebrows.

The man deserves
credit for asking the question, but I’m torn on sharing the answer. While I’m desperate to divulge everything, just to hear his opinion, I’ve promised to keep quiet. Walter still has many contacts in Brotas, and I’m afraid that revealing the truth might inadvertently hurt Paula.

“I got homesick?” I ask
the floor.

It’s not a complete lie.

“Homesick?” he repeats disbelievingly. “Really?”

“No, there’s more
to it than that, but I can’t talk about it.”

“You know, Emma, Luciano said something simil
ar when I asked him the same question,” says Walter, pursing his lips. “If he did anything, well…
inappropriate
to you, I really need to know about it. I simply cannot send him more medical students if he’s going to put them at risk in some way.”

I look
straight into Walter’s worried eyes.

“Lucian
o didn’t do anything bad to me…at least not directly. But I still wouldn’t send him any more students.”

Walter
nods his head gravely.

“If that’s your recommendation, I won’t
. On a lighter note, I’ve been meaning to congratulate you on the work you did in Brotas. Both Luciano and Alvin said you did a great job.”

“Thanks,” I
mutter, feeling the blood rise in my neck.

“Which raises another question
. Now that you’re home and the school year is drawing to a close, what would you like to do next? Working with Joan Riley, at least until the beginning of fourth year, is a possibility.”

“Will Joan be studying
mice?” I ask.

Walter chuckles
. He knows how I feel about rodents.

“Indeed
. I think she’s going to attempt to duplicate Alvin’s results over the next few weeks, albeit on a smaller scale.”

I wrinkle my nose
.

“No
, thank you.”

“I thought
you might say that,” says Walter. “Of course you’re welcome to return to the ID lab, but if that’s your choice, I’ll need some time to place you. While I’m working on it, you could take a short vacation.”

For a moment I’m speechless
. This is the first time I’ve heard Walter utter the word “vacation.” I had no idea it was part of his lexicon.

“
Uh, Walter,” I ask awkwardly, “did you just tell me to take a vacation?”

“That’s right.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

Walter shakes his head and smiles
.

“No, Emma
. You’ve done nothing wrong. But I’m sure that whatever happened in Brazil was a big deal. Perhaps you could use a little time to recuperate…and get back to normal life?”

“Normal life
?”

I try not to laugh
. Since when has my life been normal? I’m not even sure what the word means. But hey, vacation is vacation.

“Umm, okay then,” I reply
. “But I’ll be returning soon?”

“Most definitely
. I’ll e-mail some instructions at the end of the week. In the meantime, Emma, I want you to go home, rest, and take good care of yourself for a few days. Alright?”

“
Okay,” I shrug.

“And Emma, if you think of anything else you’d like to discuss, just let me know
,” says Walter, smiling sadly.

“I will.”

Walking home
, I consider my luck at finding Walter in this corner of the universe. The man is an absolute gem. Who else in the world has my best interests at heart? Not my so-called boyfriend. Not even my own family. Which reminds me…since returning to New York, I’ve been meaning to call my parents. Though I’m terrified to try patching things up with my mother, there’s no time like the present to pursue hopeless aspirations, right?

Back in my apartment, I pick up
the phone and start dialing the dreaded digits: 2-0-3...then I pause, remembering our last phone conversation.

“Helen told me you’re plannin
g a big party for Dad’s fiftieth birthday,” I said.

“That’s right,” my mom replied
. “We hired a band to play at the house.”

“Really
? Which one?”

“Eight to the Bar.”

“Ooh. I just heard them play in the city. They’re a great new swing band.”

“I know
. A friend recommended them.”

“What about
the dancing? Won’t it be hard for people to dance in the yard?” I asked.

“We’re not going to make them dance on the grass
, Emma. A rental company is setting up a temporary dance floor for the evening.”

“That sounds great.”

“It should be a nice party,” said my mom.

“Are you going to invite a lot of people?”

“Probably.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?” she said.

“Since it’s a special occasion for Dad, do you think I could come?”

“Emma, we’ve been down this road so many times.”

“But, Mom, it’s been….”

“I know exactly how long it’s been, and I still haven’t changed my mind. I’m just not comfortable having you at the house.”

As I recall this conversation, my hands start
shaking so violently that I barely manage to punch in the next three numbers, 2-7-2. Suddenly changing my mind, I slam down the receiver. Since our phone calls always end badly, I can’t bring myself to finish dialing. At least not yet. Before attempting the impossible, I need to come up with a plan that has a greater than zero percent chance of success—which could take some time, though hopefully not an eternity.