Trent laughed. “That’s great. Sam is witty as hell.”
Arianna grinned. “Just like my dad was.”
Trent found her hand. The next words escaped him naturally, though he had shied away from discussing her father at all.
“He would have been so proud of you.”
Arianna’s smile faded as she stared reticently at the sidewalk. Trent inferred that there were no words available to express the complexity of her emotions: her enduring grief over her father’s death; her love of his memory; and her gratitude toward Trent for understanding both.
Her fingers, thin and bony, tightened around his, rendering the tacit message.
Trent knew then what else she wanted to say:
No words were necessary.
FOURTEEN
“You’re sure you don’t want to leave now, Sam?” Patrick asked, standing at the door of the lab. His briefcase hung over his shoulder, stuffed with his folded white coat. “It’s New Year’s Day! You could go home for a change … take a walk.…”
Sam looked up from his microscope, focusing his strained eyes on Patrick. Contempt blistered his throat. He glared, pulling his face mask down around his neck. “A walk?”
Patrick shrugged. “There’s more to the world than this basement. Like the sun and fresh air.” He smiled. “Ring a bell?”
“No.”
Patrick’s smile faltered. “All right. Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Sam grunted and turned back to the microscope. The door closed softly and he heard one, two, three bolts lock. Then silence, except for the buzzing of the overhead lights. Or perhaps it was a ringing in his ear, the kind he noticed only in total silence. He glanced at the rat cages; even those little beasts were still.
He shifted his weight on the stool and heard a crack in his back—loud, like a pop. It felt good. Maybe he should stretch. His eyes were blurring, and the cells on the slide were becoming difficult to distinguish. He knew he needed to focus on an object far away for a minute to buy another few hours of visual clarity. So he stood up and rubbed his numb rear, leaning backwards against his hands, staring at the rat cages in the corner. They weren’t that far away, but in one room, nothing was. He glanced next to the cages at the five metal folding chairs stacked against the wall.
Only a few hours ago, Arianna had been sitting on one of them.
Hers was the first chair, the one touching the wall. After the group’s regular Sunday afternoon meeting, Sam had folded up the chairs, inadvertently noting hers. Only five members remained—himself; Patrick; the two doctors at the clinic, Gavin Ericson and his wife, Emily; and Arianna. But Sam was aware only of her. Even sitting, her movements had seemed stiff as she crossed and recrossed her legs.
He thought of the way she had glanced at him during the meeting—with the hurt and confusion of an abandoned child. He looked away and barely spoke for the rest of the meeting. But how could she expect him to just nod and smile, after she had brought that man here? That dolt who had the gall to kiss her in front of him? Of course, during the meeting, Arianna was so quick to point out that he had caused them no harm, that he meant no harm, excuse after excuse. And the infuriating part was that Patrick, Gavin, and Emily had nodded. Almost a week had passed, and they were in no greater danger that they could detect. Despite the premature loss of Ian, it seemed her carelessness was forgiven.
Sam bristled when she spoke of him. Each time, her face glowed. It was not the fluorescent lights. She acquired the semblance of health when his name rolled off her tongue, restoring that joyous dimple in her chin, as if it boosted her to say that single syllable: Trent.
But when she looked at Sam, sorrow. How could it have come to this? And how could he ever explain to her? The truth pained him like a physical ailment when he slept in his cot here at nights, his curved back sinking low to the ground in the darkness. Only then, without the mental distraction of his research, would his mind allow their glorious old times to replay. It was okay, he told himself, to bask in those not-so-distant memories, even if it hardened a flimsy hope; it was okay as long as it fueled him to continue his work. She would not care what fantasy he lived in, as long as he delivered results; that was all he meant to her now. So it did no harm to recall those times when he was the centerpiece of her world. Whatever suffering both of them might still endure, he had lived those times, and because of them—or perhaps in spite of them—he would continue to live.
He returned his tired eyes to the microscope. The slides still looked blurry. Frustration welled within him. He did not have time for petty optic nonsense. With Ian gone for good and Patrick for the day, the lab felt full of pressure, as if it were miles below sea level instead of only ten feet underground. Every combination of growth factors he had tried so far had produced a
