I did meet a guy, who recognized me from campus.Philia and Cara would love for me to come back with a story to tell.This guy was from my university, but we were from different colleges.We started chatting in the queue at the waffle stand, and he was kind enough to introduce me to his group and include me for the rest of the evening, astonished that I was there alone.The seven of them were from our university too, and they’d all gotten tickets at the last minute because the father of one of the girls was working on the festival, organizing and setting up the stages.They were great company for part of the event.The rest, I still enjoyed being alone.
The moment this guy touched my shoulder, I had a fraction of a second when I thought it could be Miles recognizing me.Because he would still recognize me.Right?
Bill was a nice guy, and I liked his group of friends, but I wasn’t there for that.Neither to meet boys nor to find Miles.
I convinced myself of the latter.Not so easily.
Seven Years Later
Chapter32
Ella
September 10th, 2008
Wednesday
I stop at a restaurant on my walk between Verryn’s Research Institute and the Residential Care Facility, the Elmwood Center.The clock is ticking, but my hungry stomach tells me I need to grab one of their “make your own pasta” dishes.It has been a busy day: re-analyzing cognitive data, arguing over which graphs make the results “pop” the most, and double-checking cortisol numbers with the lab team.
I wait in line for my turn.I find myself thinking about how impressive it is thatstressrewires the brain for survival at the cost of memory, and how safety and connection can rewire the brain too: restoring clarity, strengthening memory, even slowing cognitive decline.
It’s my turn.A customer walks away with his tray of pasta, and the woman behind the counter looks at me.
I accidentally drop my receipt on the cold tuna that people are supposed to choose as an ingredient for their pasta.The woman who is getting my three chosen ingredients does not laugh...I do, a little.
Next to her, there is a man whose lips curve upwards.He is cooking the pasta and handing it to the clients, one by one.He puts the plate on the counter and people take their meals, with no “thank you”, no “bye-bye”, just robotically, and ignoring to meet his eyes.
I stand still, observing him.Dump the sauce; get the plate; mix the penne...repeat.Serious face, traces of sadness, maybe shyness, not really anger.
When I reach him, I smile.And he, still looking down, simply asks me, with a serious face, if I want cheese on my meal.I answer emphatically, with a silly voice and a joke about cheese — not a very good one.But then, his face shifts.He’s finally smiling.
We exchange a few words, joyfully and looking into each other’s eyes.
I thank him, and he thanks me, repeatedly.
And I leave the restaurant, with my take-out box, thinking how little you could do to make others smile, with kindness.
Life is full of unknowns, so why wouldn’t you choose to know that, somehow, you brought happiness, lightness, or simply ease to the day of some other soul?
The elevator doors open, and I step into the Residential Care Facility, the Elmwood Center.I greet the receptionists, who always smile warmly at whoever walks in.They know the impact they have when they’re kind to patients and the families of those who live here, being the first faces everyone sees.
I walk into the researchers’ office.My own office isn’t in this building, it’s at the Research Institute, attached to the hospital, where I’m supposed to develop my studies on brain function, memory, and emotions.That’s also where I collaborate with the hospital neurologists and psychologists working on clinical trials.But I like coming here, to the Elmwood Center.
Philia and Cara both know this.
I started to realize that whenever one of us texts the other two suggesting we leave work together — for a drink or a girls’ date — they always assume I’m here and not at the Institute.They’re usually right.
Apart from the observation of behavioral patterns and running cognitive or memory tests that I have to do here, with the patients themselves, there are writing and desk tasks that don’t require me being at this building, and I end up doing them here anyway, at one of these shared desks in the researchers’ office, allowing me to take breaks to visit the patients’ rooms or walk around the common areas to chat with them and see how they’re doing.I find myself volunteering to help run workshops and activities for the patients, like the weekly art therapy sessions or the gentle memory games we organize some afternoons, just because I enjoy being part of that.
Maybe it’s because this facility is the closest to home that I feel.It reminds me of the CIC.
But today, as I told my girlfriends, I’ll be here after hours because there’s actually something keeping me.My boss, Dr.Curie, the head of Cognitive Research, sent me an email this morning.She wants to see me at 6 p.m.She didn’t explain why; there were no hints in the email subject whatsoever.I do have an idea of what this mysterious, omitted subject might be… but I won’t think too much about it.
“I’ll just wait for it,” I tell myself.
After abandoning my computer and a thousand papers at today’s free desk, I head to the cafeteria.
“Let’s slap a motor on this thing and sign-up next year!”Mr.Marlin jokes, referring to his wheelchair and the Formula 1 race playing on TV.
