‘So have a real talk with him.’
I wandered out into the hall, made a right, and entered my father’s bedroom. There was a bleached mark in the wood floor at the foot of the bed, the leather box’s old spot. There were no curtains to frame the big square windows, and the Lower Manhattan skyline spread out before us, missing a couple of its most essential buildings. Tiny lights strung on the tops of the South Street Seaport clipper ships twinkled and danced. Headlights drifted up the FDR.
‘What are you doing?’ Philip asked, scaring me. He’d changed into his pale blue hospital scrub pajama bottoms. He’d had them since his mom had cancer, when he was a teenager.
I didn’t turn. ‘Why did you tell them about that research job?’
I could tell Philip was smiling. ‘I think it’s a great job for you.’
He had brought a printout to me a few weeks ago. The Developmental and Molecular Pathways division is looking for talented, self-motivated scientists interested in using drosophila as a genetic model system for the elucidation of disease-associated pathways and identification of target genes and compounds. As I studied it, he stood back, arms crossed over his chest, an exuberant smile on his face.
‘I didn’t want my father to know about that job,’ I answered now. ‘I didn’t want anyone to know.’
‘Why? I know someone. You would at least get an interview.’
I glared at him. I’d known about RNA interference, which was what the job was mostly about, for a while. It was a process where a group of very tiny molecules stopped pieces of RNA from doing damaging things, like letting virulent viruses take over a cell and attack the body. The action the molecule performed was called ‘silencing’-I always imagined that they were clapping a hand over the RNA strand’s mouth, telling it to shut up and stop making trouble. The protein that cleaved the RNA strand in two was called a ‘dicer’, which made me think of the complicated gadgets we sold at Chow’s. Perhaps, one day, an RNA interference dicer would be packaged and on the shelves next to the Cuisenarts. I’d be the only one with the knowledge to sell it.
In private, uncensored moments at work, I considered the research job. I could see the clean, raw lights of the lab, the cool, quiet flutterings of the people working, the drosophila in their little vials, their bodies so tiny they made no audible sound when they tapped against the glass. But then a customer would come, or one of the oven mitts would fall to the floor, and I’d think about the other applicants’ résumés in the Human Resources administrator’s inbox. Their illustrious education, their previous work and research experience, the fellowships they’d taken.
Philip looked small and shadowed in the empty room. ‘Just stay out of it,’ I said. ‘I don’t need help.’
His face fell. As he walked out of the room, his pant legs dragged on the floor. Outside, a siren howled. The wind pressed up against the windows. Someone’s high heels clacked against the sidewalk below. I wondered what Rosemary and my father or Angie and Steven were doing right now. They were probably lying in their hotel beds, being nice to one another. I heard Philip sigh as he sank into bed. Something broke inside of me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, entering my bedroom.
‘It’s all right,’ he mumbled, his face to the wall.
I sank down in the wicker chair. Philip and I slept side by side each night in the little downtown apartment in Annapolis, clinging to each other, safe under our down quilt that we had bought at a nearby mall. But then Philip woke up in the morning and left for long, empty hours. I’d begun to talk to the plants around the house, just to hear my voice. I made small talk with the regular barista at Starbucks. At work, I chatted with customers unnecessarily.
Once, Philip had been later than usual, and I’d been looking out our apartment’s window, reflecting on how the neighborhood, which was close to the Naval Academy, looked at night, quiet and calm, the streetlights making soft circles on the sidewalk. Philip had appeared right then, bounding up the concrete steps and waving at me through the window. When he came inside, he said, ‘You looked like a little puppy, waiting for his owner to come home. It was so sweet.’ I knew he’d meant it affectionately, but I’d curled up inside. It cut too close to the bone. I needed him too much.