Resonance

by A. J. Scudiere

  Which, Jillian admitted, had been exactly the job description. So she wasn’t sure where Jordan got off being upset. In truth, it had been just that part of the work that had made her apply. She had spent all that time and money on medical school, only to find out that she hated the endless churn of minor complaints that flowed through a doctor’s office. This job had been her proof that she hadn’t chosen the wrong profession.

  Landerly had disappeared back into his office, and by craning her neck she could see him scrubbing through the most disorganized desk ever. But he held out two identical key chains and spoke again. “Keys to your office and your lab next door. Go check it out then get cracking, you’ve already got three cases sitting on your desk.”

  There was no other dismissal, no wish of good luck or welcome, just the turn of his shoulder and the intensity of his focus directed elsewhere. The two of them no longer existed to him.

  Turning, they silently followed Landerly’s instruction walking two doors down to the plaque that read G-1763 Lab 13, Landerly.

  “Hi.” Jordan’s voice filled the empty space around a young man with inky hair who stood at the basic black lab island dialing the micropipette to a new measure.

  “Oh, Hi. You two must be the new docs. I’m your tech.” For a brief moment he held out a gloved hand before realizing what he was doing and withdrawing the offer. “I’m Mark. I’m prepping slides for Landerly right now, but let me know what you need. My desk is in the back.” He pointed to the corner, to a table piled with skewed stacks of loose papers and file folders of various colors.

  “Nice to meet you.” Jordan pulled back out of the doorway and wound up leading her back to their office, where they spent four minutes choosing which side of the large desk they each wanted, then another hour exploring the file cabinet they shared, and finding out what the previous occupants had left for them. Which turned out to be an odd mix of pens, pencils, microtesttubes and pipette tips, and one stick of mint chewing gum.

  After a half-hour of hardly speaking she finished up organizing her drawers and labeling her hanging files, only to look up and find Jordan watching her from across the desk. “It’s two-thirty, are you hungry?”

  She nodded. But he spoke again before she could get in a word edgewise. “You find the cafeteria and I’ll treat.”

  She would have rather paid, but she held her tongue. She could do this, right? On the ‘tour’ Landerly had pointed down one corridor and mentioned food and vending machines. With a deep breath she marched off in the general direction they had started, and faked it to the best of her ability.

  Two corridors later she could smell that she had found the right one. Then, after they ordered, she completely disoriented them on the way back. After they got situated and endured a few minutes of silent chewing, Jordan leaned forward. “Since we get to stare at each other until one of us goes insane or gets promoted, why don’t we get started with the usual stupid questions?”

  She almost smiled. Almost. “The usual ones?”

  “Like ‘Where are you from?’” He leaned back and Jillian barely covered her gasp at realizing the vast majority of his lunch had already been reduced to empty wrappers. “I’m from Lake James, North Dakota. Where it’s colder than a w-. . . well just about anything, and there’s really a lot more bible thumping and militia than you might guess. College and med school at UCLA. Your turn.”

  “Emory Med, but I grew up in Chattanooga. Same town through undergrad.” She smiled from behind her limp cheeseburger. “Favorite fast food? Mine is Chick-Fil-A nuggets.”

  “What’s Chick Fillay?”

  “Ahhh, I’ll take you tomorrow.”

  Jordan shrugged. “Favorite burger is Jack in the Box Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger.”

  “Jack in the Box?” She supposed that’s what happened when you met someone from the opposite end of the country.

  “Ahhh, good, cheap food. College student fare. Too bad I can’t return the Chick Fillay favor. Jack-in-the-Box is only out west.”

  Satisfied that she had the basics, Jillian figured it was time to start earning her keep. “We should get to work on these cases.”

  “Can I just guess now? Botulism, gas leak, and Salmonella.”

  “Really?” She put her hand to her hip. “I would have had you pegged for a ‘secret government weapons being tested on our own people’ type.”

  “Nah, I’m a realist.” He picked up the folder and started through it, while she made a thinking noise. He laughed. “Do you realize that you even ‘hmmm’ with a southern accent?”

  She nodded. “Can’t be helped.”

  Jordan was pissed. The cases in their box this morning had turned out to be botulism, botulism and botulism. One, he was mad that his guess was wrong. Two, he had skipped the invite to UCLA’s PhD program to come here and do research as a physician, even though he would only occasionally be putting the vast majority of his med school skills to work. He had thought that this would be more exciting than telling mothers that their kiddies had ear infections or strep throat. Three, they hadn’t even had to leave their desks to figure the damn thing out. Four, Miss Jillian had turned out to be anal retentive. Although ‘turned out’ was being generous. She had looked the part from moment one.

  Aaaaaaaack. Where was the next AIDS when your life needed a spark? Miss Jillian was sitting across from him diligently making notes in the two files that she held while he scanned the new one that had turned up in their inbox this morning. Jillian gave him a dirty look that he wasn’t helping her write reports, and it occurred to him that Landerly had done this on purpose. Jordan was to be the forward thinker, the one who would make those reasoning leaps, and Jillian was the workhorse.

  Her nose wrinkled and she brushed her hair back again. Not that it accomplished anything other than her getting to move her arm. The hank of hair fell right back over her shoulder. The phone buzzed, startling him about three feet into the air, and he was already trying to cover that fact before he was even back down. “Landerly wants us.”

  Jillian stared a brief moment through not entirely open eyes. “That was so not smooth.” But she followed him next door and graciously didn’t mention it again.

  Landerly stood as they entered the office, his attention a physical sensation as it turned from the phone to the two of them. “This is why I created you guys.”

  “Like God?” Jillian’s voice was dry and Jordan wasn’t sure if she was kidding or what. But Landerly was, and he laughed a good guffaw and responded with “Maybe a demigod,” before continuing.

  So Jillian was already his favorite. How could two people on this earth have that same sense of humor?

  The older man held up a file before speaking. “I’ve got a little girl in Deltona, Florida with a spider bite reaction that the local docs say doesn’t look like your basic anaphylactic shock. They think the spider has some new venom or maybe is a vector carrying something else. She’s all yours.” He handed the file to Jillian just as Jordan decided that there wasn’t anything he could do about it. And maybe he hadn’t been hired to be the brilliant theorist. Which of course meant he would have to get his butt in gear and do some work.

  “Anne in reception will have your schedule. You need to leave this evening to see the reaction and do anything before it gets worse.” And like turning off the light, his focus was off them and they were expected to find their own way out.

  By now Jordan knew his way around and he certainly knew Anne. She was the adorable blonde in reception, and he had made those thoughts clear to her this morning. Anne handed each of them an itinerary, but it was Jordan her eyes remained on. Not that he was going to dip his pen in the company ink, but there was a certain warmth in knowing the ink was receptive to being dipped. Jillian was walking away before he realized it and he smiled good-bye to Anne before turning to follow his cubby-mate down the hall.

  At their desk, Jillian turned and stared at him, leaving him ready for some scathing remark about his behavior, but instead, with no
preamble, she asked about Landerly. “Do you think he’s just too old to go off gallivanting around the country? Why do you think he set up his team of two here? Why us?”

  Jordan had no good answers and he told her so. But he did offer to make up for getting lost on the way to lunch yesterday and asked where he could find this Chick Fillay. “We have time to do fast food, right?”

  “And the fast part is the part you seem to be having trouble with.” She didn’t look up and he couldn’t decipher the dryness in her tone. He had heard it several times now and he truly wasn’t sure what to make of it. That scared the crap out of him. And given that they were on their way out the door for a company road trip, and since she was a co-worker, he figured he’d better find his footing right away.

  “Are you mad at me because I got us lost yesterday? Or for something else?” Her face was unreadable. Well, he thought it was. She just looked a little confused and maybe perturbed.

  “No, I’m not angry.” After tilting her head to the side for a moment, she nodded. “You’re worried that I’m one of those ‘my feelings are hurt’ girls. Well, I’m not.”

  “Then why no fast food?” She was still looking at him and Jordan figured that was the best way to read the book, when it was open. But Miss Jillian seemed to be written in a foreign language, one he only understood random phrases of.

  Her words were slow and methodical. “Because I want to have time to pack. And because you got lost the last time the directions were ‘three miles then turn right.’ I just don’t have time.” Before she even finished the sentence, her purse was over her shoulder and she was heading out the door, “See you at the airport.”

  He was still looking confused when he heard her footsteps change directions and saw her head reappear in the open doorway. “Should I pick you up?”

  Again she read his expression before he got his words together. “We’ll both get there, and only one parking charge.”

  “I can drive.”

  She nodded. “So can I. And I know my way around. If you want to contribute you can pay the parking fees.”

  “They’re reimbursed.” So that wasn’t much of a contribution at all.

  “I know. I just hate expense reports.” She disappeared beyond the opening and this time didn’t come back even as he muttered to himself.

  “And here I thought you loved paperwork.”

  In a few minutes he had cleared his thoughts and headed home. It took him a while to locate things from the boxes. Jordan had lived here all of one-half a day longer than he had been working at the CDCP, and it showed. He found his only two suits - one still in the dry-cleaning bag. Scrounged up socks, without holes. Underwear, also without holes. Then went in search of his hanging bag. This, of course, was pristine. It had been used once, for his interview here.

  He pushed that thought aside and turned back to his packing. There was no way of knowing how long they would be there. He had to plan for the possibility of a full week, so he stuffed all the spare pockets and pouches with extra clothes and, in a glimpse of reason, all seven of the ties he owned. After staring at the bag and waiting for it to tell him what else to pack, he finally realized that it would say no such thing, and so he threw in a few pairs of khakis for good measure.

  The last step was to change himself. Jeans, tee, a sweatshirt, and an old pair of sneakers seemed the best bet for flying. They’d go see the little girl after they got settled in a bit, right? He decided to believe what he wanted and pulled the sweatshirt over his head, just as his stomach grumbled and the doorbell made the horrid high-pitched noise that the manager had called a chime.

  “Coming!” Jordan crossed the short distance from the very back to the very front of the apartment and pulled the door open. “Hi.”

  “Hey!” Jillian walked through the open doorway and past his open mouth. “I think you actually have a bigger place than me. You ready?”

  “Yes.” Getting his bags took less than half a minute; his thoughts would take a little longer to gather. What was up with Jillian? She looked all of nineteen in her jeans and small white t-shirt, what with her dark hair pulled back in that ponytail. If she was in the airplane seat next to him, people would think he was a dirty older man.

  But none of it even registered in her expression as he grabbed his luggage and trailed her down the stairs and out to the eerily quiet street. She simply popped the trunk of her little white car open and let him throw his bag on top of the two she had stacked back there.

  “What is this?”

  “Rav-Four.” She slid in behind the wheel, no longer Miss Jillian of the CDCP, but a complete stranger. “It has its quirks, but it’s reliable and, one day, when I get a dog, she’ll go in the back.”

  She laughed most of the way to airport, navigating into long-term parking with ease. Her matching carryon was slung over her shoulder and she wheeled her hanger bag behind her, never fussing at the long wait at security. And when the plane took off from the runway at Atlanta International she was already asleep in the seat beside him.

  Becky sat knee deep in shallow, muddy stream water, her long bangs falling into her eyes. Melanie wasn’t listening to her, Brandon had wandered off somewhere, and her mother was going to be mad. She was wet, a little on the cold side, and she was the only one who hadn’t caught anything yet. She raised a hand to push her hair out of her face, not remembering until she felt the cold that her hand had just been in stream water that was not clear. Oh well, the muck would help plaster her hair out of her eyes.

  For a moment she gathered her breath, then she yelled, “Brandon! Mom’s gonna be angry if you don’t stay with me. Get back here!” But Becky didn’t wait for him to show up. He would, and so she turned back to searching the running water for the small frogs she wanted. One jumped in front of her container and with a quick movement she completely missed it.

  With a deep sigh she lifted her head up, and let out another long yell. “Brandon!”

  “I’m right here, Becky.” He shook his head as he looked down on her, holding the bottom of his shirt in front of him making a scoop in which he piled all the containers he had filled with one frog each. Just like she had asked.

  And to think biology had seemed like such a great field to go into. She had her doctorate, and yet her little brother and sister put her to shame at ‘obtaining specimens’. The only consolation she had was that Brandon and Melanie had also seriously shown up every other biologist and assistant she had brought out for the job.

  “Becky, look.”

  “Yeah, you did great.”

  “No,” He scooted closer. She knew that he would have grabbed her arm. He had tried, but his lightning reflexes had him straightening the tumbling containers before they got too far. “Pick up that top one, he’s the biggest.”

  With a smile of pride on her face, she held the clear Tupper up over her head and let the light shine through on a good size rana. One of the larger ones caught here, but certainly not the largest. “He is pretty big. You holding out for more money?”

  “Becky! I thought you were smart. Look at him! He’s got four legs, you retard!”

  Melanie also looked up at the underside of the container, although what she could see from about three feet away was anyone’s guess. “Frogs all have four legs, retard.”

  Becky shifted to give both of them dirty looks about the name calling, but left it at that, knowing full well she couldn’t win.

  Brandon rolled his eyes with all the meaning a ten year old could muster. “Four back legs.”

  “Huh?” Becky held the Tupper aloft again, this time higher to catch rays from a break in the tree cover. Frowning, she looked him over, and she didn’t see it until he jumped: four hind legs, two per side, coming out of the hip flexor joint. Holy crap! She shook the plastic container a bit. Yup, all functional. “Okay, I’ll give you two bucks for him.”

  Brandon still clutched the edge of his shirt holding the ten containers stacked precariously in there, but his expression said that
he wasn’t moved by the two dollar offer. “They’re all that way.”

  “What?” She reached down and pulled another container from his clutch. Holding it high she gave it a slight wiggle and watched the small frog try to rebalance itself. Four hind legs. All functional.

  She quickly set it down and grabbed for two more. Both had a second pair of jumper legs. In under a minute her breathing had sped up and she had ascertained that Brandon was correct.

  But that would be wrong. Very wrong. With her brows pulled together, she went over to check the row of tuppers that the kids had caught here. It had been hard to see those spare legs at first. Maybe they just hadn’t noticed. But her little sister was a sharp one, and she’d already checked the locals out. “They’re all normal.”

  “So, Brandon, there were . . .” she counted, “eight six-legged frogs where you were? And you caught them all?” He was a good catcher. Once he spotted it the frog didn’t stand a chance.

  “No, they were all like that. At least I think they all were. Almost. There are more. I just ran out of lexans.”

  “Where!?”

  Brandon took off with Becky right behind him, Melanie would catch up, she knew. The trail was well-worn and well-known from her own childhood days, and they bounded down it, anticipating every fallen tree and protruding rock. She just kept running after Brandon, never having heard of anyone finding a full clutch of six-legged frogs before. A tree branch, that Brandon had held out for himself, came slapping back at her, but even without her conscious thought, her hand was there to catch it.

  Six legs occurred in nature, and didn’t kill the frog most of the time. Usually they were slow and so predators got them. But it was a growth mutation, not a genetic one. It also usually resulted in just one spare leg, a five-legged frog. These all had six. So how would you get a whole clutch of them? Unless something was wrong with the site . . .

  There was a nuclear reactor program a little west of here: Oak Ridge, where they had built the A-bomb. There were always stories of Melton Lake Dam being shut down for mercury levels being too high. But this?