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“It’s just…well, it does feel a little personal. I thought we had something. I thought we had a connection.”
It hits me then.
Whatever action I take next to win Emily back, I have to strike hard. I have to make it personal. I’ve done everything I can think of to make my wife want me back. Everything except beat her at her own game.
Her voice plays in my mind all afternoon. Prove me wrong. I have no idea what the prostitute meant when she said that. I might have asked, if I’d had any idea at the time I’d actually care. Now, it’s all I can think about.
Maybe it is like my father says—you appreciate something more when you have to pay for it. Or maybe the fact that she has to kill what she eats, so to speak, makes her better at it than the rest of the women I’ve had. At least since my wife. I don’t know. But I do know a good thing when I see it. And God, did she ever remind me of Emily.
&nb
sp; The latter part of my workday turns out to be the first productive stretch I’ve had—the first time I can think straight, really think—and it’s nice because my mind has several issues to work out at once.
The detective left a voicemail. The cameras in the parking garage were useless. He wanted to know if I received any threats prior to the attack and if I’ve given any thought to who might have done this. When I call him back, I tell him I haven’t. But the truth is, I have a few ideas. Marcia Louis, if I had to make an educated guess. She’d do anything in her power to slow the competition. I’ve seen it firsthand, and I’ve heard she’s trying to close a deal on a similar drug. I heard she has a buyer for something she’s been working on under the table. Same as me.
I don’t want to point any fingers; it’s equally as likely to have been my wife’s new boyfriend. Like Marcia, he’s afraid of the competition too. He should be.
In the lab, things don’t go as planned. Something is off with the rats. Or something is off with the formula. I open the lid and lift a female from the cage, dangling her in front of my face by her tail so I can chart her number. Number 322. Placing her in the Skinner box, I observe her behavior.
She isn’t interested in mating with any of the males who occupy the Skinner box. She’s only interested in tapping the lever, and when I move it from one location to the other, she runs in circles just to do so again. Like Emily with Instalook, she fights off any male who attempts to engage. She does not seek out food or water, despite being deprived—just the lever. No rat in the wild would indulge in such useless behavior: Rats want to mate; they want to survive, not run in circles forever. Mindless chasing makes an animal less likely to meet its real needs because it short-circuits intelligent behavior.
Not even as a first-year student, when that sort of thing was fashionable, did I name my rats. I’ve always found it best not to get attached to something you’re just going to kill in the end, but this one I think I’ll name Emily.
When the timer expires, I lift her from the box and toss her in the trashcan. It’s against protocol—there are strict rules about how test animals can be disposed of, but it’s okay, she’ll die long before she manages to crawl out. Not that she could crawl out. That’s my point. Though it’s cute how hard she tries. As I watch her squirm and fight and try, try, try to climb— it’s impressive how long this goes on— I’m reminded how much I love my job. I’ll take a day in the lab over a day in the office any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Rats don’t speak. They live. Or they die. And that tells you everything you need to know.
Chapter Seventeen
Vanessa
Sean seems pleasant this morning, and Matthew’s up early. He’s called out from the kitchen twice telling me to stay in bed, informing me that he and Daddy have a surprise for me. He doesn’t yet understand the notion that a surprise isn’t something you’re supposed to be warned about beforehand. But I suppose that lesson will come in time.
I should be grateful. They let me sleep in. I guess everything just sort of caught up with me.
“You made eggs,” I say to Matthew, when he and Sean deliver me breakfast in bed. I shovel a forkful into my mouth. “You know eggs are my favorite.” I hate eggs. Sean knows I hate eggs. The bacon almost makes up for it. I’m not usually allowed such indulgence. When I lift the glass of orange juice, which is also on my list of forbidden things, two capsules roll down the length of the tray.
I lift one of them and hold it at eye level. “They’re different,” I say, glancing up at my husband.
“The church has decided to move onto something new.”
“Why? The last ones worked just fine…you said so yourself.”
“These will work better. Adam assured me.”
I pinch the capsule, watching it flex. “What is it?”
“You know the church wouldn’t offer us anything that wasn’t to our benefit,” he replies hastily, gesturing at my appearance. Matthew curls up next to me. “Your trip clearly agreed with you,” Sean adds, leaning over to pat Matthew’s head. “Isn’t Mommy pretty?”
My son scoots in closer. I set the pills on the nightstand. Matthew’s wiggly, and I’m afraid he’s going to spill the precious orange juice so I gulp it down as fast as I can.
“And doesn’t it make us sad when she leaves?”
“I cried, Mommy…when you were gone.”
My stomach flip-flops. “You cried?”
“Nanny Gina said I’m not a big boy if I cry…”
As I start to speak, Sean motions toward the capsules. “Hopefully,” he says, “Mommy won’t have to go on any more trips.”
