Glass Shatters

by Michelle Meyers

  “I’m sorry, can I—”

  “I’m Charles, Charles Lang? I start work here today. I mean, I’m early, but I’m supposed to start in about forty-five minutes or so.”

  “Ah, Charles! Welcome, welcome,” the man says. His face spreads into a wide grin. “My name’s John Doherty. Please, come in. It’s a busy day, but please, let me show you around a bit, you know. Everyone’s out at a business meeting so introductions will have to come later but you’re bound to have other questions, I’m sure.”

  Before Charles can say another word, John is already bustling back and forth around the lab, naming who works in which office, what research tools are available, etc. Charles is thrilled to see the brand new aquariums lining the walls. He requested them on a whim. He has a feeling that he’s going to use them, that they are going to be very important, although he is not sure why or how yet.

  “So,” John finally says, “what else? What else can I tell you? What else do you want to know? Most of us work in the labs off of this central area, but because you’ll be using the aquariums, this will be your primary space.”

  “What’s Peter like?” Charles says. “How approachable is he?”

  John’s expression darkens. “To be totally honest, I would recommend against that.”

  “You would recommend against approaching him?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’d recommend.”

  “But he’s the lab’s chief consultant and researcher. Everyone says he’s brilliant. And his papers are phenomenal.”

  John looks back and forth. The lab is empty. “Look, Peter is charming, but he’s a total fake. He’s cheated his way up to the top. He ‘borrows’ other scientists’ research, if you know what I mean, and then publishes before them. I’m surprised you haven’t heard the rumors circling about him. It’s why he has such a high turnover rate.”

  John’s confession catches Charles off guard. “I had no idea. Should somebody be told about this? Somebody in a position of authority, who can take legal action—”

  “And accomplish what? Peter’s the money behind this organization. Sure, we have other investors, but Peter’s trust fund could keep Genutech going for another hundred years. Peter may have lied and manipulated to get where he is, but he’s also given me the best research position I’ve ever had. I can’t afford to lose it.”

  “So what—we just pretend that we don’t know the truth?”

  John shrugs. “That’s what I’ve been doing. It’s up to you. If you stay, though, I’d keep the details of your research to yourself. You can give Peter the very broadest of strokes, but no specifics.”

  BEFORE MY CONSCIOUS MIND HAS EVEN COME BACK INTO focus, I’m running down the hallway. I heave open the door to the stairwell and rush down the steps, the soles of my shoes barely touching the concrete. I spill into the lobby, nearly tripping over several businessmen sipping their morning coffees.

  “Katie? Katie!” I shout as I burst through the glass doors and onto the street. Of course she’s gone. A delivery truck grumbles down the road. A flock of pigeons sways back and forth on one of the overhead power lines. I wonder if Katie DeFazio is even her real name. I know that it doesn’t really matter if I ever talk to her again, that she’s probably told me everything she knows. It’s her resemblance to Julie. I close my eyes, imagine Julie bounding down the sidewalk, leaping into my arms. All I want is for Julie to come back, and at this point I would give anything to just see her one more time.

  I decide to take the stairs back up to the lab. I want to feel my calf muscles strain as I take one step and then the next. I want to feel the air expand in the soft tissue of my lungs. I want to feel something other than loss. And I want to know. I want to know everything. I’m tired of being deceived. The stairwell smells musky, like rotting fruit long dried and disintegrated. By the second floor, I’m already soaked through with sweat. I take off my coat and tuck it under my left arm. I continue jogging up the stairs. My shirtsleeve catches on one of the splintered banisters and when I pull away, it rips a hole in the fabric.

  I reach the fifth floor. As I approach the lab, I hear an argument from inside, words like swords clanging off one another. I recognize the voices as those of Peter and Steve. Peter is in the midst of a rant, his voice bulldozing through Steve’s tepid interjections. I try to decipher what they’re saying, but it proves impossible without standing right outside the door, and I’m afraid that if I were to do that, I would quickly be discovered. Which is no good given that I’m sure the argument has to do with me.

  I don’t want to see Peter. I don’t know what I would say to him. Now that Katie’s left, I feel his betrayal all through me, my body heavy as if the earth’s gravitational pull has suddenly become stronger. I keep seeing it in my head, that self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. I just don’t get it. Why would he have hired somebody to observe me? What could he want that I wouldn’t tell him myself?

  I turn the corner down the hallway toward the Human Resources office. Sunlight streams in through windows facing the street. Maybe if I can get some information about Katie, I can find her again. Maybe she does know more than she’s told me.

  I knock. This time a piece by Chopin wafts from under the door, the two melodies on the piano folding over one another.

  “Come in.” It’s the same middle-aged woman from last time with that glossy updo, typing at a computer. She looks up at me over wire-framed glasses and turns down the music. She seems a bit displeased to see me again.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes, Charles Lang. I’m looking for any information you can give me on Katherine DeFazio? Her address, her phone number …”

  The woman wheels her chair around and opens up the filing cabinet. After a moment of flipping through papers, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, we don’t have a Katherine DeFazio on file here.”

  “How about Katie DeFazio? She was a research assistant?”

  The woman shakes her head again. “No DeFazios.”

  “Um, well how about John Doherty?”

  The woman frowns and thumbs through the files. “Hmm, it seems that the only John Doherty who worked here was terminated in the fall of 2007.”

  “Terminated?”

  “Fired.”

  “There’s no other—”

  “That’s all I have,” the woman says somewhat sternly.

  I put a hand down on the desk. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to bother you, but—”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Charles. Charles Lang.”

  The woman reaches into a cabinet and heaves out a large cardboard box. “I was just cleaning out the office and found this. Lucky you came in today, otherwise I probably would have dumped it in the garbage. Do you want it?”

  I take the box and brush off the dust. Underneath is a piece of masking tape labeled “Charles L.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  The woman turns back to her computer screen, dismissing me. I step into the hallway and open the box. Inside there’s a mug, several books, a small DNA model made of rubber and plastic. They must have cleaned out my room after I left. I continue digging, deep into the crevices at the bottom of the box. Underneath I discover two tiny plastic bags. One is labeled “DNA Sample: Julie,” the other “DNA Sample: Jess.”

  May 19, 2010

  Age Thirty-Two

  Charles feels his coat pocket again and again, checking that the small plastic bags haven’t fallen out. The crinkle is reassuring yet devastating somehow. The stars waver in the night sky, as if they’re not sure whether they want to be one thing or another. The beige building looks average, unexceptional under the streetlights. The windows are dark. The shades are drawn. Charles’s breath catches in his throat as he recalls the last time he was at the lab, the destruction, the humiliation. It’s been four months since he’s worked at Genutech and nine months since they disappeared. Nine impossible months. Nine months of comatose days and sleepless nights, brief moments of lucid
ity followed by horrific nightmares. Nine months of nothingness. It feels strange to him to be wearing clothes, shoes, a scarf, a coat, disguised as a normal person again. It feels strange to breathe in air that’s outside, that doesn’t have the stale, recycled quality of being indoors.

  Before attempting to enter the building, Charles takes the bags out of his pocket one more time. This obsessive checking has become one of many nervous tics. He holds the bags in gloved hands. It’s not cold enough for gloves outside, but Charles is paranoid that the oil from his palms will somehow seep through the bags and spoil the samples. The samples are valuable, more valuable than he would have imagined.

  Charles was foolish. He washed their dirty clothes. He wiped down the countertops. He tried to remove the remnants of their humanness from the house, only to realize later that these remnants were the very thing that could lead to having Julie and Jess back. He knows that these samples of DNA may already be damaged, that there are risks involved in attempting to replicate these cells. That the results may be undesirable, to put it lightly. But he also knows that he has to try. Any chance is worth the potential repercussions. In Julie’s bag, he has the scrapings from a travel razor used long ago. In Jess’s bag, a single fingernail clipping from the bottom of her garbage bin.

  Charles holds his security badge up to the front door. He has a feeling that it still works, that they wouldn’t have thought to limit his entry to the entire building. For a moment, as he raises his hand to swipe the card, he pictures red lights flashing, alarms going off, alerting everybody to his presence. Instead, the tiny light blinks green, and he pulls open the glass door with no issue whatsoever. He knows better than to imagine he can get into the lab. He knows Peter and he knows that he doesn’t trust anybody, especially people who have previously destroyed tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment. But there may be another option.

  Before Peter founded Genutech, there was a larger pharmaceutical company that had labs on the fourth and fifth floors of the building. When that company outgrew the space, they leased the labs on the fifth floor to Peter. Genutech was very small at the time, however, and Peter didn’t want to commit to leasing the fourth floor as well. He knew, though, that the lab equipment and the extra space might eventually come in handy. So he worked out a deal with the pharmaceutical company. For a relatively reasonable monthly fee, the pharmaceutical company would keep some of the lab equipment on the fourth floor in place and retrofit the rest of the rooms as offices. The pharmaceutical company could then rent those offices and avoid the issue of having to move or sell the extra lab equipment. Conversely, Peter had the security of knowing that he had a quick, easy option for expansion should Genutech become a larger company. That was the plan, at least.

  After several years, however, the lab equipment on the fourth floor became outdated enough that Peter refused to continue paying the monthly fee. The equipment wasn’t broken or inoperable, but Peter always insisted upon having the most cutting-edge technology. The pharmaceutical company had enough money at this point that they decided to abandon the situation altogether. Nobody else wanted to deal with the extensive remodeling that would have had to take place if the equipment were removed, so in several of the back offices, the equipment simply stayed. Thus, Charles’s plan—even if he can’t get into the labs on the fifth floor, there’s a good chance that some of the equipment on the fourth floor will be accessible. It may not be the best equipment, but certainly an improvement over nothing.

  Charles takes the elevator up to the fourth floor. He reaches into one of his other coat pockets and pulls out a headlamp. He straps it on, flips the switch. A thin stream of light speckles off the wall. Better than the overhead lights. The last thing Charles needs is for somebody to get suspicious because they see the lights on in the middle of the night. Charles is methodical, starting at the very back of the hallway and turning the knobs to each of the offices. The first several offices are locked, not surprisingly, but finally one of the knobs at the end of the hallway turns with a long, satisfying click. Charles creeps into the office to discover that it’s empty. Most likely nobody is leasing it right now. There’s a small door in the back wall, only about five and a half feet tall. Charles climbs through the door. It’s more than he could have hoped for.

  Although the lab equipment is in need of a good cleaning, the room is fully retrofitted with several computers, advanced microscopes, a variety of slide sizes, a wall with various chemical samples, etc. He takes the plastic bags out of his pocket. If Charles can’t find his wife and daughter, then perhaps he can recreate them. With the discoveries he has made and with the knowledge he now possesses— there’s a possibility that he can create versions of Julie and Jess so real, so impeccable in body and mind that nobody would ever be able to tell the difference.

  “Hello? Charles, is that you?” says a voice from behind. Charles freezes. His knees feel like they may give out. Slowly he circles around to face Peter. Peter flips on the overhead lights. Both Charles and Peter turn away from the brightness. Peter has large dark circles under his eyes.

  “I, I …”

  “It’s okay, Charles,” Peter says.

  “I didn’t think anybody would be here.” Charles clutches the plastic bags.

  “Well, it just so happens that this room is right underneath my office. You can hear everything. The floors are very permeable.” Peter pauses, then sighs. “I’ve been sleeping here the past several nights. On the couch. I had an argument with my wife. It seems that my scientific expertise contributes nothing to my success in interpersonal relationships.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charles stutters. He’s finding that he’s having difficulty with words.

  “No matter,” Peter says. “Look, you’re a good scientist, Charles. A great one. And I don’t want to be the one to stand in your way. If you want to come back to the lab, if you think you can—”

  “No, I don’t think that would be such a good idea.” The thought of going back to the lab sends a shiver down Charles’s spine. He can’t be around people anymore. Not after what happened.

  “Well, you’re welcome to use the equipment in here whenever you’d like. And if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know and I’ll have it brought to this room.”

  “Thanks. That’s very generous of you.”

  “I’m going to try to get some sleep now. If you need me, you can dial up my office. There’s a phone in the corner over there. Just make sure to turn off the lights when you’re done.”

  MY BODY DOESN’T FEEL LIKE MY OWN. I FEEL LONG LEGS moving down the hallway. A lead fist reaching up to the door. A brain expanding, swelling. I feel all of these things and yet I don’t. I feel as if I’m watching somebody else as I bang against the frosted glass. When Peter opens the door, no words are exchanged. He lets me into the room in silence. Several drops of blood drip down onto the carpet.

  “Charles, your nose is bleeding.”

  I reach up and feel the warm wetness against my fingers. Peter hands me a paper towel. I allow his arm to hover and then wilt in midair. He shrugs, crumples up the towel into his palm, then sits down at his desk.

  “You should settle down, Charles,” Peter finally says.

  “Tell me the truth and I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Look, you don’t need to cause a scene. I’m on your side. There’s no reason to be angry.”

  “You had somebody spying on me! What am I to you, some sort of case study?” I slam my hand against one of the counters. A glass beaker rattles and rolls off, cracking on the floor.

  “Please, be gentle with the equipment.” Peter is grinning, an almost imperceptible grin buried beneath fake concern. The next part feels as if it’s happening in slow motion. I step down on the beaker, smashing it in half, taking the largest shard in my hand. Orange sunlight filters in through the window, viscous and bright, the sunshine sticking to my arms and legs. The glass sparkles in the sunlight like slivers of ice. A loose sheet of printer paper fl
utters against the air conditioning vent. My feet are moving in long, open steps, like an astronaut treading over the moon’s terrain. Peter scrambles back against the wall. I don’t feel anything. Nothing at all.

  “Charles, you don’t understand. Let me explain,” Peter says.

  “How do I know you won’t just lie to me?” I pin Peter against the wall with my left hand. “How do I know you didn’t have something to do with Julie and Jess?”

  “Charles,” Peter gurgles. “I would never do something like that.”

  “Then why were you observing me? Why did you tell me Katie was a therapist? Why are there cameras in my lab and house?”

  “Because you’re a scientific miracle,” he says. “Because you’re alive.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Peter squirms. “Please, if you could just let go of me.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I repeat, louder this time.

  Peter’s gaze is deep and penetrating. “It means you were an experiment. It means you’re not real.” I tighten my grip. He spits in my face. The slow motion sets in again as I raise my right hand. Only this time, just as I’m about to plunge the shard of glass into Peter’s shoulder, something cold and heavy hits me in the back of the head. The world goes blank.

  September 5, 2011

  Age Thirty-Three

  The air is still as a stone. There’s no traffic passing outside. Everybody has gone home. Charles checks that the legs on the tripod are secure, then adjusts the lens of the video camera. He’s rented stage lights for the occasion, small ones that are still very hot. The bulbs sizzle in their chambers. Charles can feel the sizzling on his skin. The collar of his shirt constricts around his neck, a snake squeezing the life out of its prey. He turns away from the lights and takes a deep breath, another, another, calming himself down. Charles is both more nervous and more excited than he has ever been before. He’s about to make history, while at the same time transforming his own life so thoroughly that it can never be the same again.