Love on the Brain(19)
“Nah, I make burner accounts. I don’t want other people knowing my private business.”
“Why?”
“I complain a lot. About you, for instance.”
I try not to smile. It’s very hard. “What did I do?”
“The vegan Lean Cuisine you always eat at your desk?”
“Yeah?”
“It smells like farts.”
That night I drag a chair out on the balcony and stare at my depressingly deserted hummingbird feeder, trying to formulate a question as vaguely as possible.
@WhatWouldMarieDo . . . if she suspected that a collaborator has a vendetta against her and is sabotaging their shared project?
When put into words it feels so stupid, I can’t even hit send. Instead, I google whether I’m within the age of onset for paranoid ideation—shit, I am—and call Reike to update her on current events.
“What do you mean, you almost died? Did you see your life replay before your eyes? Did you think of me? Of the cats you never adopted? Of the love you never allow yourself to give? Did you un-fence the Bee-fence?”
I’m not sure why I persevere with telling my sister every little humiliating thing that happens to me. My life is mortifying enough without her ruthless commentary. “I didn’t think about anything.”
“You thought of Marie Curie, didn’t you?” Reike laughs. “Weirdo. How did The Wardass manage to save you? Where did he come from?”
That’s actually a good question. I have no idea how he was able to intervene so quickly. “Right place, right time kind of thing, probably.”
“And now you owe him. Your archnemesis. This is delightful.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Beetch, I spent the day teaching the German dative for thirty euros. I deserve this.”
I sigh. My hummingbird feeder is still despondently empty, and my heart squeezes. I miss Finneas. I miss the tchotchkes I accumulated in my Bethesda apartment that made it feel like home. I miss Reike—seeing her in person, hugging her, being in the same time zone. I miss knowing where the olives are at the supermarket. I miss doing science. I miss the elation I felt during my three days of celebration when I thought BLINK would be the opportunity of a lifetime. I miss not having to google whether I’m having a psychotic episode.
“Am I crazy? Is Levi really sabotaging me?”
“You’re not crazy. If you were, I’d be, too. Genes and stuff.” Knowing Reike, I don’t find this reassuring. At all. “But as much as he dislikes you, it’s hard to believe that he’s sabotaging you. That level of hatred requires so much effort and motivation and commitment, it’s basically love. I doubt he cares that much. My guess is that he’s just being a testicle and not actively helping you. Which is why you should have a calm but firm conversation with him.”
I sigh again. “You’re probably right.”
“Probably?”
I smile. “Likely.”
“Hmm. Tell me about Astronaut Guy. Is Astronaut Guy cute?”
“He’s nice.”
“Aw. Not cute, then?”
When I go to bed, I’m convinced that Reike is right. I need to be firmer in my demands. I have a plan for next week: if there is no ETA for my equipment by Monday morning, I’m going to civilly confront Levi and tell him to cut the crap. If things get ugly, I’ll threaten him with wearing the dress again. It was clearly his kryptonite. I’d be open to doing laundry every night and subjecting him to it for the rest of my stay in Houston.
I smile at the ceiling, thinking that being revolting sometimes has its own advantages. I turn around, and when the sheets rustle, I’m almost in a good mood. Cautiously optimistic. BLINK will work out; I’ll make sure of it.
And then Monday happens.
5
AMYGDALA: ANGER
IT STARTS WITH Trevor, my NIH boss, wanting to talk “as soon as you can, Bee,” which has me groaning into my oatmeal.
Neuroscience is a relatively new field, and Trevor is a mediocre scientist who was lucky enough to be at the right place when tons of neuro positions and funding opportunities were created. Fast forward twenty years, and he has made just enough connections to avoid being fired—even though I strongly suspect that if given a human brain, he wouldn’t be able to point to the occipital lobe.
I call him while walking to work, the humid morning air instantly pasting a sticky layer on my skin. His first words are: “Bee, where are you with BLINK?”
Oh, I’m just peachy, thank you. What about you? “About to start week two.”
“But where’s the project at?” He bristles. “Are the suits ready?”
“Helmets. They’re helmets.” Seems like that would be an easy detail to remember, since we study the brain.
“Whatever,” he says impatiently. “Are they ready?”
I miss him so little. I can’t wait till BLINK makes my CV awesome and I can move to a position that doesn’t require acknowledging his existence. “They’re not. The projected timeline is three months. We haven’t even started.”
A pause. “What do you mean, you haven’t started?”
“I currently have no equipment. No EEG. No TMS. No computers, not even access to my office. Everything I asked for in my application, weeks ago, has yet to be delivered.”