The Place Between Breaths

by An Na

  She studies the ground for a second and then nods before walking back to the car.

  Dave stops in front of me. He shuffles his feet for a second and hoists his backpack higher up on his shoulder. Without his posse of friends, he looks, and acts, naked.

  He casts his eyes over my shoulder to the car. I step forward to block his view.

  “Hey, Dave, can we talk?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Do you really know what you are doing?”

  “You know, Grace, I might be messed up about a lot of stuff, but I wasn’t raised to just cut and leave. My faith means a lot to me. I want to do the right thing.”

  “What way were you raised?” I snap back.

  “Cut me some slack, Grace. You’re always so angry. Can’t people make a mistake and then try and make up for it?”

  “So it was all just one big mistake!”

  “That’s not what I meant! This baby—”

  “Stop calling it a baby. It’s a group of cells. A zygote.”

  “That is your scientific bullshit.”

  “There is a reason your GOD gave scientists the brains to create birth control and abortion. The reason why women have the right to choose. Thank God he’s merciful.”

  “I don’t know why I’m even trying to talk to you.” He shoves his hands into his pocket and turns to leave, but then changes his mind. “I actually prayed on this, Grace. I’m not a bad guy. I mean, look at all those people who can’t have babies. What’s wrong with adoption?”

  I gape at him. “Seriously? All because of your precious religious beliefs you want the woman to carry and birth your child while you party and vomit and fuck your way through college?”

  Dave lowers his voice. “That’s not what I’m saying. Stop twisting my words. I made a stupid mistake. I have to deal with it too, you know.”

  “Wow, you really are dealing with everything.”

  “I’m not ready to be a father, Grace. I’m not ready to do that for anyone.”

  Lies. All his lies. And Hannah crying and waiting for him to be her fairy tale. I push his chest hard with both hands. “Asshole!”

  He grabs my wrist and yanks me away from him.

  I reach up and grab him by the hair. Bite his shoulder.

  “Get off me!” He pushes me away.

  I run at him again, grabbing one sleeve of his jacket and tearing at it. I refuse to let go even as he tries to twist away. My breath heaves and my heart races as a distant clanking noise of the train rattles me. No, I can’t let him see me this way. The train is coming. I lunge and hit as hard as I can.

  “STOP!” He throws me to the ground.

  The back of my head slams against the pavement. Silence screams.

  Autumn

  In dead silence, Mama dashed across the room and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her down and under the kitchen table. Together they kneeled, hunched over, tented by the tablecloth from the outside world. Mama stared at the floor.

  She wanted Mama to stop acting so strange, like a sleepwalker in the sun. She reached out slowly, her fingertips brushing skin. Mama startled at her touch.

  “Mama, why are you so quiet?” she asked softly.

  Mama glanced at her.

  “I hear it,” Mama said in a whisper.

  Under the table, with the drape of the tablecloth partly obscuring their view, it felt as though they could be camping. Or pretending that they were in a fort together. Protected from all intruders. She leaned into Mama.

  “Let’s pretend they can’t find us under here, Mama. Like Frog and Toad,” she said.

  Mama nodded. “We are safe under here, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Remember our spell?”

  Mama smiled. Sometimes they did that when she had been younger and afraid of the dreams. The dreams that wound their way into her nights and she awoke crying. The three of them sat on her bed and said spells to ward off the bad dreams.

  “Mist and light. Darkness bright. Shield us from the evil fright.”

  Mama repeated the words, “Mist and light. Darkness bright. Shield us from the evil fright.”

  Mama’s hands were clenched, her face sweaty and tight with fear. Over and over they repeated their spell. But still Mama would not stop her trembling. Mama began to mutter other words. “Father, Father. God, hear me. This will not end here. Please, Father. Please, I cannot. I beg you. Father. God. Father. Lord. I beg you. Please do not ask this of me.” Mama knitted her hands together so hard the skin of her fingers turned red and white.

  She did not know what to do when Mama went inward like this. She remembered her father holding his hand over her mother’s lips once when Mama would not, could not stop screaming. He had shoved the pills that she refused to take into her mouth. Made her swallow them.

  “Mama, you need your pills,” she whispered. “I’ll go get them.” She began to edge out from under the table. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.”

  “NO!” Mama shrieked, and grabbed her arm. “No, you cannot leave. You’ll die if you leave.”

  Mama locked eyes with her, and she spoke so low it sounded more like a snarl than words. “The train is coming for us. Listen.”

  She strained to listen for the train. All she could hear was the sunlight dappling the floors.

  Spring

  I squint against the glaring sun before slowly propping myself up.

  Dave stands off to the side, his eyes tight with confusion and fear. He holds his backpack close to his chest as though shielding himself. “You really are crazy,” he shouts. “What is wrong with you? You need help.” He turns around and heads quickly back to the school buildings.

  A white plume streaks through the blue sky as a jet races up toward the heavens. A moment later a deep rumble thrums and beats down on me. Hannah crouches beside me, her hair falling into her face. I sit up. Gingerly, my fingertips trace the swelling bump on the back of my head.

  “Grace, are you okay?” Hannah whispers.

  “I’m sorry, Hannah,” I say. “He said the worst shit—I couldn’t control myself. . . .”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said something about faith and adoption or some kind of bullshit.”

  Hannah’s lips press together, her face draining of color. “Adoption.”

  I let out a deep breath. “Hannah, you can do anything. This is your body. This is your decision.”

  She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and looks away from me toward the woods. She stands up and I follow after.

  “I have to get away from here.” Her hands wander over her belly.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” I ask. “I don’t want you to be alone like this.”

  “Thanks, Grace.” Hannah smiles at me and I know all has been forgiven. “I just need to be alone right now.”

  I watch Hannah cut into the woods and then disappear from view. I head toward the only place that I know makes sense, even if it feels like jail most of the time.

  • • •

  Driving to work in the afternoon, the comforting thought of performing mindless duties, which will keep my mind off the fight with Dave and the look on Hannah’s face before she turned away, unknots the tension in my shoulders. I ache for the numbers that will soothe me.

  At Genentium, when the glass doors close with a quiet shush behind me, I stand for a second in my place and savor the peace. I know who I am here. Walking through security, taking the elevators down to level B4, even gazing at the numbers illuminated on the elevator panel bring me comfort.

  I check the bulletin board as soon as I walk into the lab to see what duties I have been assigned. Next to my name, instead of instructions, I find a sheet folded in half with my name on the front. A thumbtack lances it closed. I take it down and open it up to find a time and name scribbled inside. Why does Dr. Mendelson want to see me? I check the clock. Fifteen minutes until the meeting. This I do not know how to process.

  I run to the nearest bathroom an
d lock myself in a stall. Shit, what does Dr. Mendelson want with me? Pacing in a tight circle, I tell myself to get it together. Don’t go crazy now, Grace. I check my watch. Shit. I race out of the stall and run over to the sink to check my appearance in the mirror. For the first time in what feels like forever, the reflection of my face emerges crystal clear—my strange bloated features and dark circles under my eyes. Turning from side to side, I see a large matted section of oily hair and I slowly work it with my fingers, combing through the knot as best as I can. When was the last time I brushed it? A memory of Mama, her disheveled clothes and greasy hair, flits through my mind. I think about all the cans of soup filling the recycling bin. The few pizza boxes and odd to-go containers mixed in. The nasty food has been taking a toll. I run some water over my hands and pat down my hair as best I can. I tuck in a stray strand behind my ears.

  At the door to Dr. Mendelson’s office, which is closed and, unlike all the other doors in the lab, made of solid wood instead of opaque glass per her instructions, I knock twice.

  Her muffled voice calls out, “Come in.”

  I turn the knob and walk into her office.

  “Hello, Grace,” Dr. Mendelson says without looking away from her computer screen. “Have a seat.”

  I carefully sit down at one of the two leather chairs arranged in front of her desk. Dr. Mendelson quickly types and then her fingers pause. She glances over at me before her fingers resume working until she finally pushes the keyboard away.

  “Thanks for coming to see me at such short notice. I hope I haven’t pulled you away from anything too critical.”

  I stare at her face, wondering if she is joking or being serious. Would sterilizing beakers be considered critical work? I think I know the answer to this one. I shake my head no.

  She abruptly stands and comes over to the other leather chair, sitting down beside me before I even have a chance to shift my body around from facing her desk.

  “Grace, I want to apologize for not checking in on you more since your father’s passing.” She angles closer and I begin to worry that she might reach for my hand.

  I cross my arms and hide my hands. “I’ve been doing fine.”

  “As you know, the pacing has ramped up since we were approved for the clinical trials this summer.”

  I nod.

  She pauses for a moment and kneads the back of her neck with one hand. “And I suppose I believed somehow that to really honor your father was to do the work that he wanted most. We have been searching for this universal marker for a very long time.”

  I nod again.

  She reaches out for my hand and when she can’t find it, she reaches over and pats my knee. “But that doesn’t take the place of really making sure to check in on you. I know your father had some very personal reasons for wanting this research to move forward.”

  She is talking to me, but all I can think about is the feel of her hand on my knee.

  “Grace?”

  I look up. “Yes?”

  “I was just asking if you have heard anything about your application to Yale.”

  Her words blaze through the fog in my head and the image of the e-mail that I flagged but never bothered to read comes to mind. I never told her I applied early to only one school. I stopped caring or remembering at some point. I shake my head no.

  She pats my knee again. “Well, I’m sure they’ll be contacting you shortly. A girl with your potential. They would be fools not to accept you.”

  I force myself to say the right things instead of letting my mind go down the rabbit hole of emotion. “Thank you for taking the time to write that recommendation. I know how busy you are.”

  “Grace, it was the very least I could have done.”

  From the corner of my eyes, I see a slight bulging of the floor. I lower my hands to my thighs and pinch the flesh as hard as I can. Keep it together. Small black spiders edge into my vision.

  “. . . I want to be frank with you about your progress here at the lab . . .”

  I feel them crawling over my ankles and knees. I stand up.

  “Grace, are you okay?”

  I look around the room. The spiders are gone.

  “Grace.”

  I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  I turn around. “Dr. Mendelson—sorry, I just got dizzy for a second.” I sit back down in my chair.

  “I’m worried about you, Grace. You seem anxious lately. Are you faring all right in that big house on your own?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I have midterms, so I’ve been hitting those books,” I say, hoping to sound like a normal high schooler.

  Dr. Mendelson stands up and walks quickly behind her desk, but she doesn’t sit. She shifts her weight back and forth from the balls to the heels of her feet as she studies me, her eyes a CAT scan moving up and down.

  I wait quietly until she finally stops rocking.

  “You are not alone, Grace. I know it can feel that way when you are under all the stress of grief, but we are here for you just like the way your father championed for so many of us at Genentium.”

  I press my lips together as a spike of anger slides between my ribs. I am not in mourning. Dr. Mendelson sees my expression and clears her throat.

  “I called you in here to talk about your January report about chromosome twenty-two, Grace. Did that come directly from you and not something you heard from another scientist, perhaps? Did you ever inadvertently take some paperwork home or show it to anyone else? Dr. Diaz, your supervising scientist, told me that you had asked her to look further at the data.”

  I run both my hands over my face. My mind slowly computes her questions. Is she wondering if I somehow pilfered data from another scientist? What is she asking me?

  “Grace . . .”

  I lean forward. “I would never take data out of this lab, Doctor. Nor did I work with any other scientist in this lab on work that was specifically assigned to me. I know the rules. I submitted the report based on my own findings.”

  “Then Grace, tell me why you asked Dr. Diaz to take a closer look at chromosome twenty-two and in particular the absences.”

  I pause before I try to explain, glancing quickly at the floor, which remains flat and shiny as polished wood. I look up and find Dr. Mendelson waiting for my answer.

  My knowledge of genetics and science is absolutely zero compared to Dr. Mendelson or Dr. Diaz, but I do know numbers. Have always known numbers.

  “When I was inputting the data . . . I started to see . . . the results didn’t make sense. I began to rearrange the figures in my head and—” I pause. There is no way that I can explain how I see numbers floating in space, arranging themselves in the air. Twisting and turning like leaves in the wind until they string together like Christmas tree lights, twinkling and shining so bright that the darkness of the hole, the omission, is too dark to ignore. This is not something anyone would believe, so I keep it simple. “I saw an omission. It didn’t make sense.”

  Dr. Mendelson nods, encouraging me to continue.

  “I thought I had inputted some data incorrectly, and as I was trying to go back and fix the errors, I noticed a few other errors. But then when I was double-checking the inputs, I saw that they weren’t errors, but rather omissions. The program wasn’t picking up on it because it was looking for repeats on the chromosomes, so I asked Dr. Diaz to double-check my theory.”

  It all sounds so implausible even to my ears. How could an intern see something that a sophisticated program or even the leading scientists couldn’t see?

  “Grace.” Dr. Mendelson sits down next to me. “I would like to move you over to my team.”

  I sit back in shock.

  Dr. Mendelson leans forward. “I take it from your expression that you weren’t quite expecting that.”

  I shake my head. “But I haven’t even graduated from high school,” I stammer.

  “Yes, I am aware of that,” she says. “I like to believe in omens. And Grace, you are going to bring some good luck to my
lab.”

  “But you’re a scientist. How can you believe in luck and omens?”

  A slight rise in the corner of Dr. Mendelson’s lip is about as close to an expression of happiness as I have ever seen. “Oh Grace, have you not seen how much of our work is nothing but religion? Our place of worship is here. Our scriptures and prophets are the texts and scientists who have come before us. We are just as adamant and at times fanatical as any zealot.”

  “No,” I protest. “Science is proven. We have results that we check over and over again. We see the way people can change when we develop drugs to help combat the illness. Fevers go down after taking aspirin. These are facts.”

  “And what of the Tibetan monks raising their core temperatures while meditating? Is this also not a fact? Have miracles not been proven? Science is but the path we have chosen to understand what we do not know.”

  I look away. And what about what we do know? What we can’t fix? What has always been, for generations over lifetimes? Where do the threads of this life end and where do they begin? Or is it just an endless tangle? A DNA strand?

  “Grace, what is faith but the belief in your chosen religion? What is faith but blind hope? Do you have faith in science? History? How many times has it all been proven wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. And for the first time, I wonder if my father’s relentless need to find answers, a cure, treatments to bring her back has been his form of religion. I just never believed the way he did.

  “Neither do I. I don’t have the answers. Which is why I also believe you will be a valuable asset to my team.”

  Once she stands up, I do the same. She places an arm around my shoulder and leads me to the door. “Your father would be very proud of you, Grace.”

  I walk out of Dr. Mendelson’s office and into the long, empty hallway. With each footfall, the echo of my presence seems to radiate all around me. The sound floats around me like phantoms. When I look back, the hallway lengthens and stretches as though I have walked a thousand miles along a corridor that leads nowhere. My mind throbs, unbalancing me. No, no, not here, I beg. I walk forward and focus on the doors of the labs. Count them in my head as I pass . . . five, six, seven. A faint high-pitched whistle skitters into my ears. The growing crescendo of metal grinding against metal makes me stop and reach for the wall with both hands to steady myself. My eyes close against everything I do not want to see.