Dragonfly Girl

by Marti Leimbach

  “Thank you,” I say genuinely. Then, because it doesn’t sound like quite enough, I add, “Will.”

  I look away from him, up at the sky where the sunset fills the horizon with orange light, the fog forming a bluish cast beneath it.

  He reaches over and opens the glove compartment. “Do you see a pen and pad in there?” he says. “I wonder if you could write down the procedures you went through, step-by-step, in recovering those rats. I couldn’t see exactly what was happening that morning, and I’m a bit fuzzy on the details.”

  “You want me to write it out for you?”

  “If you don’t mind—”

  “What, now?”

  He clears his throat. “I’d rather not look as though I’m totally clueless in front of Munn and Dmitry tonight.”

  So that’s the reason he volunteered to drive me this evening. He wants me to tell him what I’ve done. He’s correct that we’re working together and that he’s part of the little circle Munn has drawn of people who know about post-death recovery. I really ought to tell him. But as I take the pen from the glove compartment, I find myself hesitating.

  “It was mostly Dmitry who figured it out. You should ask him,” I say, putting down the pen. Dmitry and I have talked extensively about post-death recovery. I still insist it’s his baby, not mine.

  “Dmitry’s protocol as it stands doesn’t seem to work,” Will says, fishing out a page of notepaper from his coat pocket, which he then drops onto my lap. It’s Dmitry’s original instructions, the ones I’d seen on his night table and modified in order to save Cornelius. I can’t imagine why Will has them. “I tested it today and nothing happened,” he says.

  I’m holding Dmitry’s original sheet of instructions in my hand. “You tested this?” I say, appalled. “On live creatures?”

  “Just some rats.”

  “April’s rats?” I feel an ache inside. “Does she know?”

  “She was in the dining room showing off her holiday photos. She didn’t even miss them.”

  She didn’t even miss them? I don’t dare ask which rats, and it wouldn’t matter if I did. Will wouldn’t remember what color they were or what cage he’d taken them from. “Why did you do that?” I say. “I mean—”

  “I wanted to see for myself.”

  I feel a rush of anger. It’s all I can do to stay still in my seat. If he weren’t driving, I might even have hit him. “But you had seen!” I yell.

  “I repeated the experiment,” Will says. “A perfectly normal thing to do in a laboratory.”

  “But you used the wrong information!”

  “So I gather. Please stop shouting and give me the right information.” When I don’t move, he adds, “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the protocol. That would make for an awkward dinner!” He tosses out a little laugh.

  “How many rats?”

  “Oh, only three or four. I don’t know. Maybe a half dozen. Why? What’s the difference?”

  I want to call April right away, both to tell her how sorry I am and to explain that Will had acted on his own accord. But she’ll be at Mellin now, and Mellin blocks all calls outside their secure system.

  God, I hope Will didn’t leave the bodies for her to dispose of.

  We pass San Mateo in the fast lane, following signs for San Francisco. I write on the notepad furiously, filling line after line with information about what I did to save the rats. But instead of the real protocol, I just make stuff up. Three drops of India ink, half a mil of jelly beans . . .

  “You know, this ability to bring back an organism after it has been declared dead may be the most important discovery you make in your lifetime,” Will says. His voice is deep and clear, devoid of any regret. He’s already forgotten about the rats. “It can be difficult to navigate a career in which the most significant contribution you make happens in your twenties.”

  I continue the fake instructions, adding a whole set of symbols drawn from my imagination that mean nothing.

  “I’m not in my twenties,” I say, then write, Add two molecules . . .

  “It’s easy to be taken advantage of when you’re so young.”

  We pass through the city, heading north, gaining elevation as the MX5 rumbles forward. He keeps chatting. I keep writing nonsense.

  “I haven’t told you yet what a lovely dress you’re wearing,” he says.

  Equipment required: cauldron, pickle juice, ginseng, paper pulp, three hairs from your left forearm . . .

  “I know you’re only humoring Dmitry when you say it was he who developed the protocol. It was you who figured it all out, wasn’t it?”

  . . . three microns of beetle dung, a milligram of wasp venom . . .

  “This being able to read papers very quickly and synthesize the information. It’s a useful gift you have, isn’t it?”

  I roll my eyes. “I can read, yes. Shall I write that down, too?”

  He ignores the sarcasm. “Not even Dmitry can deal with such large data sets in his head. It’s most extraordinary.”

  I write down, Find Dmitry and ask him how he understands this stuff because you certainly never will. . . .

  “And he’s neglectful in some ways,” Will says. “Sloppy. Or do you think he cultivates that look and the whole sleep-at-the-lab thing to lend him more intrigue?”

  I look at Will with his beautifully cut jacket, his silk tie, his recently styled hair. A handsome man, his profile is classic, his skin tanned. By contrast, Dmitry’s clothes never fit well. His jeans are too long, his shirts too boxy. He’s short and has enormous shoulders that seem too wide for his body. Plus he needs to shave twice a day if he doesn’t want a blue cast of stubble over his face. But I like him, everything about him, how his hair stands away from his head at the sides, how his shirts always come untucked. I can’t allow Will to insult him.

  “I think Dmitry is a genius,” I say.

  “Oh yes,” Will sneers. “We’re all geniuses, aren’t we?”

  How is it that he makes anything I say sound absurd and juvenile?

  “Geniuses bring into focus what the rest of us fail to see,” I tell him. “And that’s Dmitry through and through.”

  Will shrugs. “Even so, it wouldn’t kill him to iron a shirt.”

  I swear the man is like Teflon. I hand him the page of “instructions” for post-death recovery and watch him fold it into the pocket of his jacket without reading it.

  At last we reach the restaurant’s pebble driveway. A valet steps forward and opens the door for me. I climb out of the car, which isn’t easy in a long dress. Then I look up at the building, set high up on the cliffs. It is more beautiful even than the pictures on the website. I feel the chill from the sea air, smell the salt in the wind. Will motions for me to lead the way.

  “You’re awfully tall, aren’t you?” he says. In my heels, I am as tall as he is.

  “Not really,” I say, because I can’t stand to agree with him.

  We pass through the giant doors of the restaurant and into its bright interior. As Rik promised, it’s spectacular, with walls of glass overlooking the water and an enormous aquarium worthy of a public space of its own. I can smell grilled salmon, lemon, warm butter. Huge pots of fresh herbs sprout from corners: mint, parsley, rosemary.

  We are shown to a table in the corner by one of the glass walls. I see Dmitry first, then Rik catches sight of us and gestures to Munn. All three rise as we reach the table. Munn says, “Kira,” as though my name itself is good news. Dmitry tells me I look like a princess, which embarrasses me so much I begin to stammer, barely able to say hello properly to Rik, who beams a smile at me.

  They’ve saved me the seat with the best view. I’m between Rik and Will, looking out over the water. Low tide. I can see Seal Rocks and the colors of sunset as daylight dwindles. Munn tells us about a friend who got it in her head to swim out to the small islands but stopped when she saw shark fins.

  “She liked swimming in the sea. That was nothing to her; she’d swum
the English Channel. But sharks are sharks,” he says.

  A bucket of champagne arrives. I can’t drink it—they’ve forgotten I’m under twenty-one—and I cringe as they realize this. Rik says it doesn’t matter. He’s not twenty-one either, of course. In fact, I’m not sure that Dmitry is, but that doesn’t stop him from drinking.

  “I’m Russian,” he says, by way of explanation.

  Meanwhile, Rik disappears for a moment and then reappears with a small bottle of ginger ale and pours it for me like a good waiter. I hold up the flute and toast along with the others. “To more discovery,” Munn says as we raise our glasses.

  “Why were you late?” Dmitry asks me gently. Then to Will, “I was worried.”

  “She wasn’t late,” Will says.

  “She was. I was waiting!”

  “Holding your breath, Dmitry?”

  “Will,” I say, shooting him a look. He shrugs.

  His next remark is about the view and how, whatever else, you can’t fault the physical beauty of America.

  “You’ve not seen Idaho,” says Rik. “I drove across it once. One straight line, like a zipper that separates potato fields.”

  “I’ve never been to the Rockies,” says Dmitry. To me he says, “I miss snow. We should go to Idaho for a vacation.”

  Munn clears his throat. “There are cities in which underground laboratories span whole city blocks,” he tells us.

  “Disneyland for scientists,” Dmitry says. To me he says, “We really should go.”

  Munn explains more about these laboratories, unknown to most of the residents who live above them. Meanwhile, I try to figure out the menu. What’s a crostata? Is cappelletti another word for pasta?

  I’m not the only one. Dmitry reads the menu with his brow furrowed as though it’s a difficult mathematical equation. He rarely leaves the laboratory, which means he doesn’t really go to restaurants.

  Meanwhile, Will glances at the menu as though it’s a stage prop and not anything he actually has to read, then puts it aside.

  “I find the notion of all these secret laboratories fascinating,” he says quietly to Munn, as though it is only he and Munn at the table.

  When it comes to ordering, I stumble through my choices. By contrast, without referring to the menu at all, Will says casually, “I’ll have the lobster salad and then the lamb.”

  Munn orders raw oysters for the table and they arrive in a wreath of shells and lemon, looking dangerous and alluring. I have no idea how to eat one. Rik shows me how to loosen the oyster in its shell.

  “Don’t use too much garnish. The garnish will kill it,” says Munn.

  “You mean they’re still alive?” I say.

  Will laughs. “We don’t ask that question.”

  “He meant kill the flavor,” Rik explains.

  “But it is alive?”

  “Oysters have no brain, just two masses of ganglia around their body,” says Dmitry. “Does that help?”

  Rik holds up a glistening oyster. “Try it just for the experience. I’ll have one at the same time.”

  He makes it sound so inviting.

  “I think you have to watch out for that guy,” Dmitry says, pointing his fork at Rik.

  I bring the oyster to my lips as Rik does the same with his own. “Are you ready?” he says.

  “I think so.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  “Why does she have to close her eyes?” Will scoffs, as though everyone is making too big a show of a simple appetizer. But he can’t ruin it. We’re having too much fun. I’m in the most glamorous restaurant in the world, and Rik has prepared me the perfect oyster.

  “Ready?” he says quietly.

  I close my eyes and slurp the oyster off its shell. It tastes like the sea, like salt and lemon, like fresh air and wet sand. When I open my eyes again Rik is looking at me, his face full of anticipation.

  “That was good,” I say.

  Another bottle arrives. I cover my glass with my hand.

  In the end, I have a few sips anyway. Munn tells of his meetings in Washington. The conversation flows, everyone sharing ideas, coming up with protocols. I listen as though to a symphony. I don’t hate Will quite as much, or maybe I’m just too busy admiring Munn. Even with his white hair he’s youthful, forward-thinking, progressive, and as smart as a whip. I can’t believe I’m in his company.

  “You know, I didn’t believe you at first,” he says to me now. “I thought, what is this girl telling me, that she’s brought a rat back to life? Is she experiencing some kind of psychotic break? Do I call a doctor?”

  Dmitry lifts his glass to me. “I have the best research partner.”

  “She is clever,” says Will. “More importantly, she can’t drink, so she’s very convenient as a designated driver.” He raises his wineglass. To me he says, “I’m thinking of letting you drive my car later.”

  “I always get a driver,” says Dmitry, nodding toward one end of the room. “Being an enemy of Russia has its rewards.”

  I look over in the direction Dmitry indicated and see a man quietly seated at the bar, watching. Dmitry’s security guard.

  Munn explains that not only will we receive funding for our work on post-death recovery, but a sizable grant for more work on renal disease and regenerative medicine. “I stressed that post-death recovery puts into jeopardy hundreds of thousands of people on the transplant lists here and abroad. Somehow I talked them into giving us enough money to work on the two projects in tandem. Naturally, they wanted to hand the neuro work over to a larger organization, but for now, we’ll be spearheading the research at Mellin.”

  “Marvelous,” says Will. “Do we need another toast?”

  More champagne, then the waiter comes along with dessert menus and everyone talks about how they can’t possibly eat another bite.

  “But you’ll have something, won’t you, Kira?” says Munn.

  The dinner menu may have confused me, but the dessert menu does not. “I’m having the chocolate cake. Obviously,” I say.

  “Excellent,” says Munn. The waiter disappears with our order.

  “Rik, trade seats with me. I’m sitting next to Kira so I can sneak forkfuls,” says Dmitry.

  “I doubt there’s any shortage of cake,” says Will. “Get your own.”

  “I’m on a diet,” says Dmitry. “I am only allowed to steal cake.”

  Munn says, “Rik, would you ask the waiter to bring an extra chocolate cake to the table?” He looks at Will, then at Dmitry, and adds, “For whoever might want it.”

  I think Munn is only joking, but Rik excuses himself and gets up from the table, then walks toward the back of the restaurant.

  “I’m taking his seat,” says Dmitry, coming around to my side of the table.

  “Of course you are,” says Will, rolling his eyes.

  “Well, I’m going to the ladies’ room,” I say. “If the waiter comes, can someone order me a coffee, too?”

  I step across the restaurant floor, again stunned by the beauty of the wide restaurant. Through the windows and the skylights in the ceiling I see the sky is now dark, pinpricked with stars. I move past the pots of herbs with their delicious scent and down a hall to the ladies’ room. Leaning against the heavy door, I enter a space full of soft music and fragrances of sweet orange and lavender.

  In the mirror I see that my hair is still surviving. It flows in a soft veil of spirals without frizz. My skin is clear, unmarked by the dark circles that are so often present. It feels as though somehow I’ve grown into the dress and the lovely, heartbreaking gift of Lauren’s watch. And I feel like a true part of Mellin now, no longer the awkward intern who Will resented in his space. For the first time I belong somewhere. I’m not an object of ridicule at school. Or a gift wrapper who can’t even tape down the ends of the paper correctly. I’m a valued researcher, and I owe it all to Dmitry. He believed in me from the start. Scared me a little, too. Threats have been spurring on science for as long as there has been war, he’
d said that first night.

  Well, he is right. When Munn says he’s been to Washington for meetings, he means to the Department of Defense. Work on post-death recovery will be classified. If I’d wanted to be taken seriously as a scientist, I’ve certainly been granted my wish.

  On my way back to the table I feel someone touch my arm. I turn and it’s Rik, his tie looser than it had started out tonight, his shirt less crisp.

  “Are you stalking the ladies’ room?” I tease. He’s standing only inches from me, looking right into my eyes.

  “I was hoping I’d find you,” he says.

  “Has Will done something awful to Dmitry?”

  “No,” he laughs. “Believe me, Will can’t do anything to upset Dmitry. Dmitry may seem comic, but he’s tough as nails. Nothing bothers him.”

  “Like you,” I say.

  “Me?”

  “You always look so in control.”

  My remark surprises him. “I’m not so sure,” he says. Then, “I know we’re here for a work-related event, but my whole life is work, and . . . well, I’ve enjoyed this.”

  Suddenly, I can barely look at him. “Me too,” I say.

  He looks from my face down the length of me and I feel my cheeks flush.

  “I remember the first time I saw you in that dress,” he says. “We danced on the ship.”

  It’s almost too much to be reminded. I nod.

  “Things are changing so fast,” he says, and I sense a hint of longing in his voice. “You’re a star. You don’t know it yet, but you’ll see. Forget high school and whatever happened there. You’re on to great things.”

  I look at him. I realize that he isn’t just saying I’m nice or helpful. He means I am going somewhere. I think of what my mother said about the Great Downhill. The Great Downhill isn’t going to happen to me.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I tell him. “I don’t feel like a star.”

  He shakes his head slowly, as though he cannot understand why this should be the case.

  “Do you like the restaurant? Maybe you’d let me take you again on your birthday,” he says. He sounds most unlike the Rik I am used to, who is always confident, organized, unflappable. He almost sounds shy. “You can try another oyster,” he adds.