by Ani Keating
“I wish I was American,” he says.
“Why? So you could give up your own life and marry me just to keep me here? No way, Javier. Falling in love with an American girl is your only chance.”
He shrugs. “Better our family together than a love life.”
We stand like this until the door to the studio bursts open. Feign storms in, glaring at us like a bull in front of a red flag.
“What the fuck are you two doing? Look, I don’t give a shit if you fuck each other’s brains out on your own time, but I pay you to work.”
Javier’s fingers tighten on my arms. I know that in his mind he is breaking Feign’s already crooked nose and probably mutilating some other vital part of his anatomy. But their relationship is part poison, part sustenance. Feign needs Javier’s genius and Javier needs Feign’s fraud. We pull apart, and Javier shuffles back to the easel.
Feign leers at me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “You know the rules, Isa. Don’t linger in the reception lobby again! You’re lucky I don’t force you to use the back door like him.” He sneers at Javier and charges out of the studio, slamming the door behind him.
“Fucking cocksucker,” Javier mumbles.
I go behind the floor screen and take off my clothes. My sheet is draped over the screen. I secure it tightly around me, clipping the clothespins in the right folds until the only part of my body exposed is the curve of my waist and my hipbone. I come out, looking only at my bare feet. I can’t look at Javier when we do this, and he knows it. I take my place under the ray of light and close my eyes as Javier’s gaze focuses on my skin.
Then, slowly, the rhythm of his brush strokes permeates the air—the only sound in the room. My thoughts drift past this horrid day, past the worse, empty future ahead until the cold Mr. Hale appears unbidden behind my eyelids. A shiver runs through me—something like fear, compulsion and surrender all at once. This will be his painting. I busy myself with imagining where he will hang it. Perhaps, without either of us knowing, his eyes will rest on me for a very long time. With Javier’s brushstrokes, it’s almost believable.
Chapter Four
Sister
Three hours later, I stand in my lavender kitchen, making dinner. Lancashire hotpot—Reagan’s favorite. She has an evening seminar that should end about now. She has texted me twice to ask how things went but I didn’t want to text her back. What could I possibly say in a text? I stuff the marinated lamb in the braiser and start chopping vegetables. I keep my eyes only on my working hands, unable to look at any other surface that makes this lilac-and-cream apartment my home. Tears threaten again, and I let them fall. What’s the point of stopping them now?
Reagan bursts through the door twenty minutes later. I hear it slam.
“Isa?” She whips around the corner, her vivid red curls flying everywhere. The moment she sees me, her green eyes widen and her lips start to tremble.
“Oh, sweetie, no. No! No! I can’t believe this. They denied it? How? Your GPA, your supplement, you don’t have so much as a parking ticket!” Reagan can’t rush through her words fast enough, as if I am the one who made the decision.
“I know, Reg. But please, let’s talk about something else. None of it matters,” I mumble.
“That’s because they’re all bloody wankers!” she screams, and I can’t help but laugh. She loves all things British and has never ceased to be disappointed with my King’s English as she calls it. I tried to explain that I was raised by Oxford professors who believed slang is to English like sulfur is to natural gas: harmless in small doses but still smelly. But that has never stopped her from hoping that one day, I’ll start speaking like Bridget Jones. What I have never told her is that my very dialect reminds me of my parents and from the minute I boarded that plane to Portland, I have tried to Americanize my speech as much as possible.
Still, to make her smile, I do my best Bridget impersonation. “You’re right. Pervy tossers, they all are!” My voice lacks conviction.
Reagan looks at me with a mixture of worry and pity. I avoid her teary green eyes.
“We’ll find a way.” She stomps her Hunter boot on the floor. “There’s gotta be a way. I’m calling my dad, he’ll figure it out. My family loves you.”
Lucky Reagan, to have a father who can always make things right. Unfortunately, even the kind Mr. Starr cannot battle the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. But I allow her to indulge her fantasy. No reason for both of us to be miserable. She is on her cell phone now, talking at top speed. I try to tune out as much of it as I can. I know my options like I know the periodic table. But try as I might, some words still slip through my shield.
“Yes, unbelievable I know… No, she doesn’t have anyone like that… I don’t know… Yeah, look around, Dad… Just a second, I’ll ask.”
She calls over her shoulder at me. “Isa, do you think you can sell the formula for your supplement for one million?”
Oh yeah, I know this rule too. If I have one million to spare and invest in the American economy, they’ll let me stay. I snort. A way for the rich to buy anything they want.
“No, Reagan, I can’t.” I try to keep dejection from my voice. She is only trying to help and can’t take no for an answer.
Truth be told, I looked into it. If I had another six months to finish the last stage of testing, maybe I could sell it. Fast-digesting proteins with continuous energy release are a good idea, especially for humanitarian aid or the military. But no one will touch it before the testing is finished. Not to mention that this supplement was my father’s dream, and selling it will feel like burying him again, this time alive.
Reagan hangs up, the look of obstinacy still on her face. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out.”
I simply nod. “Thanks, Reg. And thank your dad too. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.”
She darts across our small kitchen and gives me a hug that squeezes the last air from my lungs. I will miss her like Portland misses sunshine. She is right there with Javier in my small family. The sister I never had. I feel a lump in my throat and retreat quickly before I fall to pieces again.
* * * * *
After dinner, I huddle in bed in my flannel pajamas. My parents’ photo is on the nightstand. Peter and Clare. It took one year to be able to say their names out loud. If you name something, does it exist? I turn off the light and start reciting the periodic table. Hydrogen, 1.008… Abruptly—with one of his precise moves—Mr. Hale appears in the darkness. I devour his sculpted lips, dark hair, broad shoulders. I pretend he knows the girl in the painting exists. I pretend he can write laws that don’t make it illegal for her to be me. And I pretend that he can stop time. The last image I see is his sapphire eyes. Then the night changes to a shade of turquoise and I am lost.
Chapter Five
Tick Tock
“What did you say?” Professor Denton is staring at me as though I grew horns overnight.
“Yes, they denied the application. There’s really nothing I can do.” My throat constricts. “I’m so sorry, Professor. You’ll have to find a replacement for the summer, but I can help train them as much as you need me to,” I mumble, as if that’s the real problem.
He looks at me pensively. He has a kind face and a salt-and-pepper beard, with light blue eyes that peer at me through his wire-rim glasses. After what feels like an eternity, he simply shakes his head.
“My country just made a big mistake,” he says, defeated, and takes a deep breath. “Well, you have another month. Let’s see if we can find someone to work with you in England on this last stage.”
Gratitude for my favorite professor floods me. He is not pushing the there’s-got-to-be-a-way agenda. He is thinking practically, as he would with a science experiment. But I cannot think about England right now, especially not something so finite and official as working there.
Still, I
smile at Denton. “Thank you, Professor. They’ll have big shoes to fill.” I stand to leave because I know he has papers to grade, but he purses his lips as he does when he is solving a stubborn combinatorial algorithm.
“What about selling it, Isa? I know what it means to you, I really do, but there’s no reason not to benefit from all your blood and tears.” He waves at the wall-to-wall whiteboards covered with my color-coded scribbles.
I nod. “Actually, I’ve thought about it. It can help with my visa but the companies I contacted said they’d be interested in the final product, not the research.”
Denton’s lips purse more tightly than a beaker stopper. “Well, let me dig around. Maybe we can find a smarter buyer.” His voice is almost a dignified pleading.
“It couldn’t hurt.” I shrug, even though I know the trouble is not finding a buyer. It’s finding someone who will buy it for exactly one million. Not a dollar less will satisfy the CIS.
I thank him again and pick up my rucksack to leave. But he reaches over and rests his hand on my shoulder. “For the next month, let’s go with Isa and Arthur if that’s okay. You’ve grown more over the years than any student I have taught. I’d be proud to call you a colleague, as you should have been, if you were allowed to stay.” His voice takes on a casual but melancholy edge.
I cannot find the words to thank him. They are lodged somewhere else, along with my tears.
* * * * *
For the next two days, I bury myself in textbooks with a mania that is alarming even by my standards. I take my genomics and neuroethology finals, turn in my report for biochem and even start writing Reagan’s paper on clinical psychology. By the end of each day, I’ve worn myself out so much that I don’t need the periodic table to fall asleep. Javier has stopped by my apartment every night. I worry about him driving around so much in his beat-up Honda Civic. If he gets pulled over and the coppers see he does not have a valid driver’s license, he’ll get deported. After I beg him, he promises to take the bus or bike over here.
We told his parents, Maria and Antonio, but we can’t explain it to his four younger sisters. Still, to prepare them, we said that I may visit England for a while. When they started crying, we dropped it.
Thankfully, Reagan has stopped Googling immigration reform, although I’m sure she is pestering her father on a daily basis. I will have to thank him properly before I leave. Not just him, but all of them, for giving me a home here.
Without conscious thought—like reflex or instinct—my brain summons Mr. Hale again. His eyes trace my throat, my jawline, my lips until my very skin is tinted turquoise from their light. Instantly, I feel warm. I don’t know why my mind invokes him with every ticking hour. Perhaps because his home is the only home where I will remain in this land. Or maybe because he chose to keep me on the same day that his government kicked me out. Whatever it is, he keeps my lungs going.
Chapter Six
When It Rains, It Hales
Thursday morning, I wake up to the deafening crack of Oregon’s thunder. One more final and it’s over. I cannot think about that. I bolt out of bed, throw on the first jeans and sweatshirt that my hands touch, leave Reagan’s finished paper by her rucksack and storm out into the torrential rain to the bus stop that takes me to school. As I duck under its Perspex roof, my ancient flip phone rings from the depths of my rain jacket. I dig into my pocket for the artifact and answer it.
“Hello?”
“Isa, this is Prof—I mean, Arthur. I reached out to my contacts at Oxford to see if any of them can take you on for the last stage of testing. That way, the university would fund the research.” He always gets straight to the point.
“That’s very thoughtful, Arthur. Thank you very much,” I shout over the rain’s din and grip the rail of the bus stop at the mention of Oxford.
“Don’t thank me yet. Let’s see if something comes out of it. And remember, Fleming from Edinburgh is speaking at Powell’s next week. He may be another option.”
I swallow hard. I could never forget that Fleming is coming to Portland. He is the chemist that inspired the first article I wrote with my dad. “Yes, it’s on my calendar.”
“Good, good. In the meantime, one of the school’s donors is coming this Friday to see the department’s progress. I know this is not a great time for you but your thesis experiment has been our gem this year. Would you mind giving a presentation on your supplement?”
“Friday? As in tomorrow?” I yelp.
“Last minute, I know. I meant to tell you on Tuesday but forgot. Can you do it?” Denton’s words gush faster than the rain’s pellets. Whoever the sponsor is, he or she must be integral to the success of the department, and Denton is the chair. No matter how much I dread public speaking, I have to support him.
“Of course I’ll do it. If you don’t mind the good reputation of the department resting on my public speaking skills.” I force a laugh.
“Nonsense. This is your baby and you know it better than anyone. I’ll email you the details in about sixty seconds.”
A roll of thunder rumbles in the skies and I use my scientific thinking to convince myself that it is not an omen.
“Will you have time to put together the presentation this afternoon and we can practice?” Denton continues.
My heart picks up some rhythm from my nerves. Something it has not done since…well, since Mr. Hale’s apparitions. “Sure. Right after my stereochem final. How many people are going to be there?”
“Two. I’ll get the small lecture hall—conference room B—so it’s close to the lab. Good?”
“Yes, that’s great. What does the company do?”
“Venture capitalism. I’ll give you some background today so you can spend what time you have on the presentation.”
I thank him even after he hangs up. Any other week, I would be a puddle on the floor from nerves. Now I’m grateful for them. I was dreading the time I would have after my last final. Bloody hell, things must be bad if public speaking feels like a gift from the gods.
* * * * *
After my last exam, I plod to Denton’s office in my squishy canvas sneakers that are still soaked from the trek to the bus stop.
Denton is waiting for me. “Hey, kid. How did the finals wrap up?”
I shrug. “I wish they hadn’t.”
He gives me a sympathetic look but does not linger. “Okay, let’s talk about tomorrow. Here’s what I know: Hale Holdings was founded by Aiden Hale…” Denton’s professorial voice is muted by a sudden pounding of blood in my ears. Hale? As in my Mr. Hale? My Mr. Hale? Bloody hell, I’ve lost it.
“Isa?”
“Yes, sorry. Still here.”
“Good. Now, HH is a venture capital firm. Hale started it out as a small fund and now it owns equity in over one hundred companies around the world. He runs them single-handedly, which is unique even among venture capitalists. Most are notorious control freaks. How the man does it, I have no clue.” Denton laughs. His eyes twinkle as they do when he witnesses a scientific wonder.
“Anyway, HH has the smallest carbon footprint in the U.S. for companies its size, and its philanthropy is astounding. From funding stem-cell research to supporting low-income schools. But its pet cause is the rehabilitation of U.S. veterans.”
Denton goes on like this for a while. I absorb everything I can. “Do you know who they’re sending?”
“No, but I’m sure it will be someone who knows enough to ask pointed questions. Let’s get the PowerPoint slides going.”
My nerves start creaking again. To distract myself, I wonder whether my Mr. Hale is the son or grandson of whomever founded HH. Or maybe he is not at all related and does not even spell Hale the same way. I shake my head at myself.
By eleven, my slides are all finished and we have run through them five times. I feel confident about my material. I’m just worried about phrasing it r
ight and unexpected questions. Denton drops me off at home in his environmentally friendly Prius and reminds me sternly to get some sleep.
I nod back as enthusiastically as I can. No need to tell him I have no hope of following his instruction.
Chapter Seven
Mr. Hale
When my alarm goes off at 5:00 a.m., I am still awake. Mr. Hale has kept me company all night—lulling me into a trance between dreams and reality. Reluctantly, I force him out of my mind to rehearse my slides. But the mental distance fills me with a sense of loss, so I escape to the restroom to shower and get ready. Last night, Reagan insisted I wear one of her suits, but as I slip it on this morning, it feels strange. Suits are not for scientists. I decide on a pencil skirt with my mum’s white blouse instead. Maybe it’s not quite as professional but at least I’ll feel like me.
When I’m ready, I steal a quick glance at myself in the mirror. Even four years after my parents’ accident, I rarely look at my reflection. The girl looking back at me with wide eyes is paler than usual against her waist-length black hair. I don’t linger on her purple eyes. They’ll always remind me of Clare.
I whirl away from the mirror and tiptoe to the door so I don’t wake Reagan. In the misty morning, the bluebirds are already chirping. I drive the MINI to school with the windows down, timing the periodic table to their twitter.
Denton is waiting for me in conference room B even though we still have two hours before the presentation.
“Good morning, kid. I knew you’d show up at the crack of dawn.”
“Yes, I couldn’t sleep.”
“What’s there to worry about? You’ve got great results and an ingenious idea. And a British accent. They’ll eat out of your hand.”
I nod and start reviewing my slides one more time while Denton connects the laptop to the projector and sets out three packets on the first row of desks. Right before the HH representatives are supposed to show up, I pull out a paperclip from my purse. This is a trick I use when I have to speak in public so that I won’t fidget or twitch my fingers. Unfortunately, reciting the periodic table while talking is impossible and, therefore, useless. I grab the clip between my thumb and my index finger, rubbing and pinching it gently. On the twelfth pinch, the door opens.
