By trade, Dad is a headhunter for one of the most prestigious labs in the country. The world. It is his job to know the research, the routines, the likes and dislikes of the top scientists in the field of genetics. It is his job to lure them away from where they are to come and work for Genentium.
By heart, Dad is looking for a miracle. It is not a coincidence that he came to work for this lab. We moved here specifically, strategically, so he would have the funding, the power, and the reputation to entice the best scientists in the world to work on the research and treatment for genetic diseases like sickle cell anemia, Parkinson’s, cancer, Huntington’s, schizophrenia. Dad never talks about cures, only speaks about the research and the scientists making discoveries every day. But I know what he wants. I know like I know without a doubt that I am his daughter. We are looking for a cure. It is a race he and I lost long ago, the moment my mother’s schizophrenia overtook her again, forcing her to step out of the house one last time. But that doesn’t stop Dad from still crawling to the finish line, hope lashed to his back. He waits for her to return, to be found. And finally, finally, their love, our family, whole again, just as they had always dreamed.
I open a drawer and pull out a spoon. Dad is unaware of my movements. He is already on the hunt.
“So who are you trying to recruit next?” I ask, and walk to the refrigerator to get some yogurt.
Dad holds up one finger and then types quickly.
I take my yogurt to the small table in the corner of the kitchen, where the latest journal of Nature sits waiting for me.
“Dr. Samuels.”
“Isn’t he a little young?” I ask, digging into my yogurt. I’ve heard Dad talking about Samuels. He’s some hotshot wunderkind scientist from San Diego’s Scripps Research Institute. Supposedly, he already has three patents to his name, and that was before he even got out of graduate school. I wonder how Dr. Mendelson would get along with him. She doesn’t like a lot of bullshit in her lab. She barely tolerates the interns, but she knows it’s good for community building and fostering young minds, or so she says at the awards ceremony and press junkets. Twenty different questions spring to mind, but now is not the right time. I’ll talk to Dad later, when his eyes aren’t glued to the screen. Besides, he won’t talk about it in the morning. Not when his mind is fresh and ready to tackle the next set of problems. It’s in the evening, when he is tired and has a beer in hand, that talking about the possibilities doesn’t sound so reckless, like playing the lottery with the last dollar in your pocket.
Dad runs his hands over his eyes as though resetting his vision.
“Are you okay, Dad?”
“Just got dizzy for a second.” Dad waves away my concern. Doctors are the worst patients. Even though he traded in his ER scrubs for a suit and tie, he’s still a stubborn doctor under all that dress-up. I remember the exact moment he stopped going into the hospital; it was a month after Mama had disappeared. He was reading an article about the discovery of the Huntington’s gene. He looked up and said to me, “I can’t find a cure, but I can find the scientists who will.”
He traded in medicine for research, practice for reading scientific journals and analyzing spreadsheets and interviews of geneticists. There was only so much a single doctor could do, but an entire orchestra of scientists working together, that was real progress. After moving here for Genentium, however, work has spiked a fever. Sometimes I barely see him, since he is either traveling or working late.
I push away my half-eaten yogurt, my appetite suddenly gone, and pick up my mug. As I sip my coffee, I stare at the bowl of fruit at the center of the table. The pears are pale with faint brown spotting. I reach out and press. The point at which ripeness crosses over into decay is unperceivable. Only the fact remains. The slight overly sweet, acrid stench. The soft yielding flesh. The discoloration. I pick up the bowl and throw the entire contents into the trash.
At the front door, I grab my backpack off the coat hook and yell back, “Bye, Dad. I’ll see you after work.”
“Bye, bugaboo.”
I know he hasn’t even looked up from the screen.
As soon as I step outside, the frost slaps my face, making me gasp for air. I’m so done with this cold I want to scream. Instead I take out my anger on the steps and stomp down. At the bottom, as I move past the shadow of the house into the sun, a patch of colors catches my eyes. The first gladiators of spring wave their blue and yellow flags against the snow. Family: Iridaceae. Genus: Crocus. Legend: the symbol of the Greek noble Crocus’s undying love for the nymph Smilax.
I sigh and walk over to them. Crouching low, I touch the fragile blossoms. Time expands and contracts, boundless, but always forward. Only the seasons remind me of what has passed and what is to come. I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since we moved here to Jericho because
