It’s nice to imagine a future woman who finds, say, a lump in her breast, being able to go into her doctor and treat it with a simple course of pills or injections. Even still, if that day comes, people will say we were just in it for the money.
Simon rated only a mention or two as Sheila’s relationship with him heated up. But he got more attention as things started to go wrong.
Simon is slipping away. I ‘forget” to return his calls. It’s just because I don’t know what to say to him. He thinks I’m sloughing him off. We plan a weekend outing, and I realize I have to be in the lab. My work day goes later and later, and he comes to meet me at night in the lab, only to find us whooping it up, doing a dance around the ELISA plate so it will give us the results we want. A couple of wine bottles waiting to be opened if the assay is a success. Simon must think we’re in some goofy cult. How can I explain to him that he just happened to arrive after hours of mind-numbingly repetitious work and we are punchy from the tedium, the fluorescent lights, Doug’s constant pressure? I don’t want to make excuses, excuses are boring, and I’m sick of all mine. No one outside the lab would understand. So I just smile and hope he’ll join in.
Simon can be so passionate, trying so hard to spark my own. He sees I’m holding back. It’s not because of you, I say in various ways. He only tries harder. Men do love a challenge. But that’s not the game I’m playing. There’s no game at all, just my mind folded in on itself.
I’ve noticed his eyes wandering over in Fay’s direction. She’s certainly been trying to catch them. I can see how Fay would be more appealing. She has those playful black eyes, that beautiful glossy hair, that figure. She’s fun and lively and a guy would be crazy not to find her sexy. Next to her I feel dry and mousy. Simon thinks “curing cancer” is noble and so on, but he can’t follow the labyrinth involved in actually doing it. His eyes glaze over when I try to explain. I don’t blame him. But it’s my life, it’s what makes my neurons snap crackle and pop.
Maybe I should just come out with my secret. Open the door for him to walk away. But what if he doesn’t? I could see my condition making him feel sorry for me. We’ll fall a little farther into each other’s lives. Then when it starts to get serious it will slowly dawn on him what he’s really getting into, and he’ll begin to back out. Even if he didn’t, I’m not sure I can bring a child into the world, knowing what I know. And I’m sure he’s got kids on his agenda.
Maybe, for me, my work will be my child. My legacy, my regeneration—whatever it is that makes people crave offspring—will be my research, however small the contribution. Better that than to have my life run by genes nagging REPRODUCE ME, REPRODUCE ME.
They say childbirth is the essence of being human. Yes and no. It’s the essence of bacteria, yeast, fungi, and every
other form of life. But unless you want to say we’re no different than snails, the essence of being human must lie elsewhere. Like in choosing our own destiny.
The phone rang. We were on Jenny’s bed, pillows behind our heads. Jenny was watching a movie. When she hesitated, I gestured for her to hand the phone across to me.
It was Marion. She said a few polite words, but didn’t waste time getting to the point. Wes had told her about the diary, and she wanted to see it. I asked her why.
“Let’s just say that Sheila got herself in some hot water. I assume you’re a friend—were a friend—and you care about her reputation. First of all, don’t mention this diary to anyone else in the company—”
“Neil Dugan already knows about it.”
This brought a moment of silence. “That’s not good. He’s the last person who should see it. Please make sure he doesn’t.”
“He won’t get it from me. We don’t have the diary anymore, anyway. Sheila’s parents do.”
“Can you
Simon rated only a mention or two as Sheila’s relationship with him heated up. But he got more attention as things started to go wrong.
Simon is slipping away. I ‘forget” to return his calls. It’s just because I don’t know what to say to him. He thinks I’m sloughing him off. We plan a weekend outing, and I realize I have to be in the lab. My work day goes later and later, and he comes to meet me at night in the lab, only to find us whooping it up, doing a dance around the ELISA plate so it will give us the results we want. A couple of wine bottles waiting to be opened if the assay is a success. Simon must think we’re in some goofy cult. How can I explain to him that he just happened to arrive after hours of mind-numbingly repetitious work and we are punchy from the tedium, the fluorescent lights, Doug’s constant pressure? I don’t want to make excuses, excuses are boring, and I’m sick of all mine. No one outside the lab would understand. So I just smile and hope he’ll join in.
Simon can be so passionate, trying so hard to spark my own. He sees I’m holding back. It’s not because of you, I say in various ways. He only tries harder. Men do love a challenge. But that’s not the game I’m playing. There’s no game at all, just my mind folded in on itself.
I’ve noticed his eyes wandering over in Fay’s direction. She’s certainly been trying to catch them. I can see how Fay would be more appealing. She has those playful black eyes, that beautiful glossy hair, that figure. She’s fun and lively and a guy would be crazy not to find her sexy. Next to her I feel dry and mousy. Simon thinks “curing cancer” is noble and so on, but he can’t follow the labyrinth involved in actually doing it. His eyes glaze over when I try to explain. I don’t blame him. But it’s my life, it’s what makes my neurons snap crackle and pop.
Maybe I should just come out with my secret. Open the door for him to walk away. But what if he doesn’t? I could see my condition making him feel sorry for me. We’ll fall a little farther into each other’s lives. Then when it starts to get serious it will slowly dawn on him what he’s really getting into, and he’ll begin to back out. Even if he didn’t, I’m not sure I can bring a child into the world, knowing what I know. And I’m sure he’s got kids on his agenda.
Maybe, for me, my work will be my child. My legacy, my regeneration—whatever it is that makes people crave offspring—will be my research, however small the contribution. Better that than to have my life run by genes nagging REPRODUCE ME, REPRODUCE ME.
They say childbirth is the essence of being human. Yes and no. It’s the essence of bacteria, yeast, fungi, and every
other form of life. But unless you want to say we’re no different than snails, the essence of being human must lie elsewhere. Like in choosing our own destiny.
The phone rang. We were on Jenny’s bed, pillows behind our heads. Jenny was watching a movie. When she hesitated, I gestured for her to hand the phone across to me.
It was Marion. She said a few polite words, but didn’t waste time getting to the point. Wes had told her about the diary, and she wanted to see it. I asked her why.
“Let’s just say that Sheila got herself in some hot water. I assume you’re a friend—were a friend—and you care about her reputation. First of all, don’t mention this diary to anyone else in the company—”
“Neil Dugan already knows about it.”
This brought a moment of silence. “That’s not good. He’s the last person who should see it. Please make sure he doesn’t.”
“He won’t get it from me. We don’t have the diary anymore, anyway. Sheila’s parents do.”
“Can you
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