Living Proof, стр. 9
“Here,” he said gruffly, handing over Napa Valley merlot from 2015.
“Aged twelve years!” she marveled.
“It’s a decent red, but I don’t like it. Too dry.”
“Then why’d you bring it?”
“For you. I’ll take the usual.”
Arianna smiled and led him back to the circular glass dining table. “Rough day?”
His expression hardened, but he said nothing as he sat down at the table.
“What’s wrong?”
He sighed. “Oligodendrocytes are just such a goddamn mystery.”
She swallowed, concentrating on pouring his drink from the fifth of vodka she kept for his visits. “But it only took you guys four months to figure out how to get to the neuroprogenitor stage.…”
“And that’s like turning a frog into a kid when what you really want is a prince.”
“Little by little, right?”
“There’s so much damn error in trial and error.”
“You did it with the rats, though,” she said over her shoulder as she poured her own wine.
“It’s trickier with human cells, obviously.”
“Look, Sam,” she said, facing him, “you guys have already come a long way.” She stared at him, daring him to deny it. He snatched up his drink and took a swig.
“Maybe you just need a few days’ break for perspective,” she added, as she sat down. “What do the others think?”
He exhaled an acrid breath. “You’ll hear tomorrow. They’re both just as fed up.” He squinted at her. “How do you get off being so cavalier about it, anyway?”
She squinted back, mocking him with a grin. “Hey, I’m not the one that has to figure out anything. My part isn’t nearly as hard.”
“Cheers to you,” he said, lifting his glass in her direction. Arianna shook her head good-naturedly as she chewed a mouthful of salad. Sam twirled linguini around his fork and smothered it in bloody steak juices before shoving it into his mouth. Hunger and worry usurped her need for mental stimulation, and the lull in conversation went unnoticed.
“How was work this week?” Sam asked eventually.
“Fine,” she replied. “Except for yesterday.”
“Because of that nosy bastard reporter?”
She scoffed. “That guy couldn’t touch us.”
“So you’re not going to do anything?”
“What’s to do?” she said. “We’re just getting more popular, right?”
He looked skeptical.
“Come on, Sam, we’ve got the whole thing down pat.”
“The execution of it, anyway.”
Arianna rolled her eyes.
“So what was wrong yesterday, then?” he demanded.
She looked away. “One of my patients just found out she has MS. All she wants is a baby, and now she has to decide whether she wants to skip her crucial meds for nine months or give up having a child. You can’t believe how much heartbreak people go through because of this goddamn disease.”
“I think I can,” Sam said, watching her.
“And to think that what we’re doing … It blows me away. I just wish I could have told her there’s hope.”
Sam nodded, saying nothing.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, contemplating the weight of her words. Arianna felt a familiar rush that came whenever she pictured Sam at the moment of a breakthrough, as if envisioning it would somehow coax it into happening. A thrill ran through her as she bobbed her head to the beat of the music pulsing from her kitchen’s speakers.
“Megan and I are going dancing tonight,” she volunteered.
His eyes narrowed as he chewed his pasta.
“What,” she said, “you don’t think I can dance?”
“Don’t you need a man to lead?”
“Nah. Plus, do you see any men around here?”
He made a face of mock hurt.
“Seriously, Sam. I doubt you would take me dancing if I paid you.”
“And why would I? It’s just two people trying not to step on each other’s toes.”
“You’re right, it would be more fun to stay home.”
“Just like me, right?” he said, forcefully chewing the last of his steak.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m babysitting you,” she said lightly. “It’s like a study in tantrums.”
She saw a smile on his lips, despite his mouthful of food. Their plates, she noticed, were empty. She stood up to clear them, but he reached for hers.
“Thanks for cooking,” he muttered, carrying the plates to the sink.
“Sure.” She moved beside him, putting a hand on his back as he rinsed their dishes. She could feel the blades under his skin like knife edges.
“So…,” Sam began, not looking at her. “How is everything?”
She withdrew her hand and crossed her arms. “Everything? Well, let’s see. My painting is going well.…” She saw him scowl. “Oh, you were talking about something else? Why didn’t you say so?” A note of annoyance floated on her teasing words. “I like dancing, but not around reality.”
He nodded sheepishly, still scowling. “Fine. What’s your latest health status?”
“It’s eh,” she responded matter-of-factly. “Are you trying to do a time check?”
He nodded, reddening. She turned off the faucet and looked at him. It was not a question that required contemplation; the answer was like a billboard in her mind, inescapable on the way to other thoughts.
“I would say at least a few months, but I’m not that kind of doctor. When I see my specialist soon, I’ll find out more exactly.”
“So you’re going dancing all the time,” he said softly.
She nodded. “I’m going to dance until the day they strap me to a wheelchair.”
His paper-thin lips tightened. “Damn them, whoever they are.”
“The fates, I guess.”
“I don’t believe in fate,” he retorted.
“Neither do I.” She smiled and walked him to the door. “Have a nice evening, Sam. See you tomorrow.” She paused for effect, and the solemnity of her voice did not match her smile. “At church.”
“See you at church,” he said, shaking his head. “Our irreverence never fails to amuse me.”
She chuckled. “Me either.”
“Good night,” he said. She closed the door and leaned against it.
One of Sam’s earlier sentences, spoken with quiet frustration, had tempered her spirits like a thundercloud: There’s so much damn error in trial and error. Was she naïve to think three men could solve the unbelievably complex mystery