I look over at him and take a long sip of my coffee, waiting to warm up before removing my jacket.
Fitz’s eyes grow wide. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t go! Harper, she can force you to go to a school counselor. This is serious!” he growls. “Dammit, you promised me.”
“She called and canceled on
me,
actually. She rescheduled it for tomorrow,” I explain after pausing long enough to gain a dramatic edge that I soften with a small smile. Fitz’s chin drops and his eyes narrow, looking more annoyed than relieved, which only serves to make my smile grow.
“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he mumbles.
“Aren’t you glad that I’m
your
pain in the ass?”
Fitz’s annoyance cracks and he shakes his head with a laugh. “So much,” he replies sarcastically. “Get all your snow gear off, California. Time to get to work. I’ve got a new hypothesis for us to start working on.”
I met Fitz last month after completing my orientation, which consisted of being passed around from different lab rooms and scientists that mostly regarded me with disdain and annoyance, only ever referring to me as “hey you.” I was assisting Dr. Schooner at the time. I wasn’t allowed to perform a lab by myself due to my lack of degree. However, I was able to help set up, clean, read the equipment’s results, take notes, and log outcomes in detailed journal entries for the doctors.
The day I met Fitz, I was cleaning up a lab I’d begun with Dr. Schooner. She was only thirty or so, but she had insisted that I call her Dr. Schooner.
We’d begun dissecting a new heart that day, something I was still trying to adjust to. Even though I was only ever observing, the first cut was always the most difficult for me. It felt like we were cutting at love, at opportunity, at life.
It had brought me back to a question Adam, my Philosophy teacher and my older sister Jenny’s boyfriend, had posed after I handed in my final back in June.
“Are they really gone if you’re able to keep the memory of them alive?”
“Of course they’re gone. Memories means past tense,” I replied angrily and grabbed my things from my desk.
“So what’s a greater tragedy? Someone dying and therefore not able to create more memories, or someone alive that refuses to live?”
“I’m still living, Adam! I’m breathing, and talking, and moving!” I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
“You’re thinking with your scientific brain again, not your philosophical one.”
“It’s all one brain!”
“Don’t let loss make you lose yourself.” I glared at him and then stormed out of the room.
Adam’s look of defeat was haunting me as I continued staring at the heart, trying to hide images of my father as I forced myself to gather the tools used to reveal the internal surfaces and structures of the heart.
“Harper, this is Dr. Maxwell Fitzgerald.”
The scalpel I was holding clanged against the floor and my neck snapped up to see Ben standing beside a short, thin guy with light brown skin and spiky black hair. I’d seen him before in passing but had never bothered to learn his name. I glanced back at Ben, certain I must have imagined his words, as he apologized for startling me. The name still hung on my thoughts, distracting me as I looked down to see smears of blood staring up at me from the white tiles.
“Max. Just Max is good,” he said, keeping his eyes on everything but me.
“Max, this is Harper Bosse,” Ben said again when neither of us spoke. “Max here is currently studying aortic aneurisms, and I know that’s where you want to apply your focus, so I thought this partnership would behoove you both. I let Dr. Schooner know that she’ll be starting again back over in lab six tomorrow. If you can please make sure to deposit whatever she needs over there, you guys can remain in this lab.” It was the smallest of the few dozen, so I’m sure Dr. Schooner was thrilled to be out of here and away from me.
Max’s eyes roved across the small room, looking bored and disappointed to be paired with me. I didn’t blame him. I’d have been disappointed too.
Ben quickly gave a timid smile and then left.
I bent down to retrieve my scalpel, keeping my sole focus on the floor as I turned and headed to the sink used for sanitation.
His name’s Max? Is this a joke? Maybe I heard him wrong?
I glanced in his direction again as I went to gather the other supplies that needed to be cleaned.
“Your name’s Max?”
He looked up from where he was circling around a vacant work station, carefully inspecting the blank space.
“And you’re Harper,” he answered in a bored tone.
“Do you mind if I call you Fitzgerald?” The question left my lips in a rush before I even had time to lower my voice to make it sound less pleading. As I moved back to the sink, I glanced over at him again. His shoulders were hunched as he hovered over the desk, but his face was tilted up, looking at me carefully in a way that was uncomfortably familiar. He finally shrugged, then his eyes fell back to the table, and I quickly scrambled to finish getting things washed and noted.
Dr. Schooner had requested for me to sit in and complete the dissection that we had begun a few days prior, and Fitzgerald had agreed, stating he needed to get organized. I was back in the lab with him, recording my notes from the day, because I hadn’t bothered moving my things for the short period. I was feeling annoyed and befuddled over how a forty-six year old librarian suffered a major heart attack and died in her sleep. Alone.
Being that I spent the majority of my time since coming out East alone, that small notation highlighted itself, causing my eyes to continue to scan back over it.
The woman hadn’t smoked, wasn’t a drinker, and worked in a profession we calculated as low stress. I thumbed through her file again, hoping something would expose itself.
“What are you missing?”
I jumped and glanced over at Fitzgerald, whom I began to mentally only ever refer to as Fitz. We’d worked together with radio silence between us during the time I completed my notes, and he worked on his own processes and getting his work station set up to his liking.
“I just don’t understand what happened to her,” I said on a sigh. “I mean, do I just chock it up to genetics, or is there something else? Something I’m not seeing?”
“Go ask, then,” Fitz responded, turning his attention back to his desk.
Eventually he must have felt my stare because he turned and looked back at me, his dark brown eyes wide. I’m pretty sure he was sizing me up, or maybe he was challenging me.
“If you want to be a scientist, you need to ask questions. The more answers you’re able to collect, the better your chances will be of finding the correct one.”
“You think I should just call her family?”
His chin tilted as he surveyed me and his look turned into a taunt. “Unless you have a direct number for God…”
I wanted to roll my eyes, or glare at him, but he didn’t give me the opportunity. Instead, he returned his full attention to his lab and placed a set of earbuds in. An indignant huff blew through my nose, and I stood up to head to the commons to get some caffeine and a break.
When I returned, Fitz was gone. I felt relieved to be back in my space alone, even if it was only for a short while. I peered over the file again, glancing at the contact information. My fingers began dialing the number provided before I finished thinking about what I was about to do.
A woman answered on the third ring with a tone that said she was expecting a telemarketer.
“Hi, my name’s Harper Bosse. I’m an assistant at Mather’s Science and Technology and I was hoping to speak to the … the … someone that knew … Elaine Boggman.” My words were jumbled as my eyes frantically searched over the information for the point of contact’s name, only to come up with a W, making myself cringe at the fact I hadn’t thought to prepare that far in advance.
“This is Wendy,” she replied. “I’m her … was … her daughter.”
My eyes welled with tears and my skin prickled with goose bumps. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Wendy.” My words came out barely above a whisper as I attempted not to choke on them. I stared into the brightness of the bulb shinning from my desk lamp, not allowing my eyes to blink or pool with any more tears.
“Wendy, I wanted to ask you a few questions about your mom if that’s alright.” I paused, feeling my pulse racing in my fingertips that were tightly gripping a pen. “I understand if it’s too difficult.” The lump in my throat expanded with each word.
Certain things used to trigger a breakdown: the smell of whiskey, the scent of Max’s cologne, seeing a father and daughter together, pancakes, and many other everyday things used to make me dash to the nearest restroom where I’d hide until the sobbing subsided. Eventually, the sobbing became stray tears and now, most days, I can cross my arms tight across my chest, count down from five, and be okay … most days.
A month ago, I even began exposing myself to some of the memories after I woke up in a panic and couldn’t remember the sound of Max’s voice. I went to the liquor store and bought a bottle of whiskey. The memories infiltrated my brain with just the scent and continued with each drink, filling me with tears of relief.
“How can I help?” Wendy’s voice sounded slightly timid.
“I … I’m studying heart disease and your mother looked like she was in good health. I was just calling to see if there was something that might be missing from her medical records.”
“She was in excellent shape, but the last few years were really hard on her. You see, my dad passed away about five years ago, and my mom … she couldn’t get over it.” Before I could stop the tears, they slid down my cheeks in thick streams, tickling my chin. “At first she wouldn’t get out of bed or get dressed. I think she felt guilty if she let herself be happy, so she worked to keep busy and shut herself away from the world. I think she died of a broken heart.”
I knew that she was wrong. Although there is a condition called broken heart syndrome, it’s very rare one dies from it. However, the lump in my throat had become a boulder, and the room was so blurry it took me several seconds to manage a reply.
“Thank you, Wendy,” I choked out, pinching the skin on my forearm, desperate to feel something else. “I really appreciate your time, and I’m so sorry for your loss.” I hung up before she could reply and slid into to a heap beside my desk as the sobs took over.
I’m not sure if Fitz had walked in at the beginning, middle, or very end of my phone call; I’d never noticed him, but I felt his hands on my shoulders that racked up and down.
When I was finally able to breathe without crying, I gathered my files and locked them in my drawer, grabbed my purse, and left.
I spent the rest of that week dutifully avoiding my lab and Fitz. The following week I was scheduled to officially begin working with him. Fitz entered, looking surprised to find me ready and waiting. He set down his things while staring at his desk and then looked back up at me.
“So what’s your deal? You don’t talk to people. You don’t seem to have any friends that I can tell. You don’t date anyone … are you Mormon?”
I furrowed my eyebrows and shook my head.
“Are you a lesbian?”
Was that what people thought?
I laughed. “No, I’m not a lesbian.”
“Then what’s your deal?”
“I don’t have a deal. I’m here going to school and needed a job. I wanted to work in a lab that wasn’t owned by a drug manufacturing company, so I came here.”
“Bullshit. There are labs like this closer to California than Delaware. What are you running from?”
That was my first taste of Fitz’s brutal honesty and lack of tact, and it was a bitter taste, delivered with an even more bitter aftertaste.
I didn’t know at the time how he knew I was from California, or what else he thought he knew about me, but I wasn’t in a sharing mood so I gave him a curt answer. “Nothing. I am running from nothing. My dad knew Ben, I asked for a favor, and Ben accepted me.”
“
You
asked for a favor? Wouldn’t your dad be the one that asked for a favor?”
Shit.
I took a deep breath and channeled the frustration I was feeling to distract me from the sadness that ensued at mentioning my father. “Because I’m perfectly capable,” I said, glaring at Fitz.
“How did he die?”
That was the bitter aftertaste.
There was nothing I wanted to do more than object to his question and tell him how absurd and rude he was for making such a bold assumption.
“Your voice changed when you made that call. Your dad … he died, didn’t he?”
“An aortic aneurism.” I stated the words factually, fighting off the emotions brewing in my chest. I moved my focus away from his so he couldn’t see how uncomfortable the conversation made me.
“When did it happen?”
“May. May 5.”
Fitz nodded. “Was his name Max?”
I cringed and shook my head. “No, my dad’s name is … was…” I swallowed and took a deep breath “…his name was David.” Fitz nodded again and then excused himself. I’m sure I had made things incredibly awkward, however, I hadn’t really had the time to think about it because I was focusing on trying to relax and stop the impending tears that I could feel burning the corners of my eyes.
Fitz returned shortly with two coffees and placed one in front of me. “My dad died when I was thirteen. It never gets easier, but you start remembering the good more than the loss and that helps a lot.”
The following day Fitz insisted that I go to lunch with him. I didn’t realize how many people I had been avoiding as I followed him out to the parking lot.
“You’re like a celebrity,” I joked, sliding into the passenger seat of his car.
“I am after that feat. There’s kind of been a stir about you since you started, and here you are, getting into
my
car.”
“A stir?” I repeated, my voice swimming with sarcasm.
“You’ve kind of made a habit of avoiding everyone. People are intrigued by the hot blonde that only ever speaks to Gus.”
I turned in my seat to look at him, and he laughed at the obvious confusion across my face. “Just because you don’t pay attention to anyone, doesn’t mean people aren’t paying attention to you.” His words reminded me so much of my mom’s that my chest throbbed slightly before he turned on the radio and reversed with a sharp jerk, distracting me from my own misery.