Lessons in Chemistry(86)

“Wound closures?”

“Yes. I have five boys. They’re always tearing holes in themselves.”

“And when you were their age you envisioned yourself becoming—”

“A loving wife and mother.”

“No, seriously—”

“An open-heart surgeon,” the woman said before she could stop herself.

The room filled with a thick silence, the weight of her ridiculous dream hanging like too-wet laundry on a windless day. Open-heart surgery? For a moment it seemed as if the entire world was waiting for the laughter that should follow. But then from one end of the audience came a single unexpected clap—immediately followed by another—and then another—and then ten more—and then twenty more—and soon everyone in the audience was on their feet and someone called out, “Dr. Fillis, heart surgeon,” and the clapping became thunderous.

“No, no,” the woman insisted above the noise. “I was only kidding. I can’t actually do that. Anyway, it’s too late.”

“It’s never too late,” Elizabeth insisted.

“But I couldn’t. Can’t.”

“Why.”

“Because it’s hard.”

“And raising five boys isn’t?”

The woman touched her fingertips to the small beads of sweat dotting her forehead. “But where would someone like me even start?”

“The public library,” Elizabeth said. “Followed by the MCATs, school, and residency.”

The woman suddenly seemed to realize that Elizabeth took her seriously. “You really think I could do it?” she said, her voice trembling.

“What’s the molecular weight of barium chloride?”

“208.23.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“But my husband—”

“Is a lucky man. By the way, it’s Free Day, Mrs. Fillis,” Elizabeth said, “something my producer just invented. To show our support for your fearless future, you’ll be taking home my chicken pot pie. Come on up and get it.”

Amid roaring applause, Elizabeth handed the now-determined-looking Mrs. Fillis the foil-covered pie. “We’re officially out of time,” Elizabeth said. “But I hope you’ll tune in tomorrow as we explore the world of kitchen conflagrations.”

Then she looked right through the camera lens, and almost as if she divined it, directly into the astonished faces of Mrs. George Fillis’s five children sprawled in front of the TV in Kernville, their eyes open wide, their mouths agape, as if they had just seen their mother for the very first time.

“Boys, set the table,” Elizabeth commanded. “Your mother needs a moment to herself.”





Chapter 30



99 Percent

“Mad,” Elizabeth began carefully a week later, “Mrs. Mudford called me at work today. Something about an inappropriate family photo?”

Madeline took a sudden interest in a scab on her knee.

“And attached to this photo was a family tree,” Elizabeth said gently. “In which you claim to be a direct descendant of”—she paused, consulting a list—“Nefertiti, Sojourner Truth, and Amelia Earhart. Does that sound familiar?”

Madeline looked up innocently. “Not really.”

“And the tree includes an acorn labeled ‘Fairy Godmother.’?”

“Huh.”

“And at the bottom someone wrote, ‘Humans are animals.’ That was underlined three times. And then it says, ‘Inside, humans are genetically ninety-nine percent the same.’?”

Madeline looked up at the ceiling.

“Ninety-nine percent?” Elizabeth said.

“What?” Madeline said.

“That’s inaccurate.”

“But—”

“In science, accuracy matters.”

“But—”

“The fact is, it can be as high as ninety-nine point nine percent. Ninety-nine point nine.” Then she stopped and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “It’s my fault, sweetheart. With the exception of pi, we really haven’t covered decimals yet.”

“Sorry to intrude,” Harriet called as she let herself in the back door. “Phone messages. Forgot to leave them.” She plunked a list down in front of Elizabeth and turned to go.

“Harriet,” Elizabeth said, scanning the list. “Who’s this one? The reverend from First Presbyterian?”

Madeline’s hair rose on her arms.

“It sounded like one of those church drum-up-the-business calls. He asked for Mad. Probably working from a bad list. Anyway, this is the one I wanted to make sure you saw,” she said, tapping the list. “The LA Times.”

“They’ve been calling at work, too,” Elizabeth said. “They want an interview.”

“An interview!”

“You’re gonna be in the newspaper again?” Mad said, worried. Her family had been in the newspaper twice: once when her father died, and once when her father’s gravestone was blown to bits by a stray bullet. Not a great track record.

“No, Mad,” Elizabeth said. “The person who wants to interview me isn’t even a science reporter; he writes for the women’s page. He’s already told me he has no interest in talking about chemistry, just dinner. Clearly, he doesn’t understand you can’t separate the two. And I suspect he also wants to ask questions about our family, even though our family is none of his business.”