Wild Life
Auteur
Opal Wei
Lezers
16,0K
Hoofdstukken
22
CHAPTER 1
She was a doll. An adorable, frowning, thunder-browed doll in a spotless white shirt. With round, pink cheeks. The color likely came from anger, but the wrath wasn’t directed at Davy so he chose to admire and enjoy rather than be terrified.
Although dolls could be really scary when bent on vengeance.
But the object of her ire seemed to exist safely in the device—a microscope?—she was peering into. And after some colorful but not particularly creative cursing, she glanced up and saw him.
“May I help you?”
When people asked if they could help you in that tone of voice, they weren’t really looking to come to your aid. Then again, he was intruding.
He smiled apologetically. “I’m a little lost. I’m looking for Dr. Hisanaga.”
Davy had never been in university buildings, and he hadn’t darkened the halls of any place of learning in a long time, and despite the fact he presented a genial face to the world, he felt a trace of anxiety.
This smelled and looked like a hospital.
He’d been in hospitals.
The woman got up with a sigh and came out into the hall, shutting the door. She crossed her arms.
He tried to look like he enjoyed wandering through the underground caverns of a building at Musqueam University, looking for people named Dr. Hisanaga. As it was, the good professor had only grudgingly extended him an appointment. Which he was now late for.
No use in worrying about that now.
“I don’t know a Dr. Hisanaga.”
“Well, I don’t either, yet. Is there, like, a directory or a kiosk somewhere?”
“Do I look like an information desk?”
He took in her snapping dark eyes and the soft body under the crisp shirt. She was fluffy and angry, like a delicious cake that would give him violent heartburn. He still wanted a bite.
“You’re much prettier,” he said truthfully.
He turned on his best smile.
“Why do cis men think I’m the happy helper booth around here? Tell me this? I mean, I’m working. I’ve got a microscope. I’ve got this whole—” she waved her arms at the empty hall “—I’ve got this whole setup. And these men, these men are forever wandering in asking me for things.”
“I apologize.”
“You do?”
“I really do.”
A pause.
Davy ventured, “It’s just—”
“I knew it. You’re going to apologize. You’re going to make puppy eyes at me. And then you’re going to ask me for something. What? What do you want? A moment of my time? A tour? Fix the printer? Can I borrow one of your mugs, Zoey? I don’t have any clean ones.”
She marched off and half terrified, half intrigued, he followed her.
“Directions. Just directions. My phone isn’t charged.”
“Can’t you ask someone else?”
“No one else seems to be here.”
The woman got to what appeared to be a kitchen or lounge of some sort and barged inside. “What do you mean no one else is here?”
She spun slowly as if noticing for the first time they were the only people around.
Davy started into the doorway and then backed out of it. Better to stay clear in case of doll attack—she did seem a little bit more like the haunted, violent type despite the round, rosy cheeks.
“What time is it?”
She pulled out her phone. “Shit, shit, shit. I am so late.”
In an unexpected move, she ran to the sink and began scrubbing out mugs.
“I’m sorry,” Davy said again, because it was an appropriate thing to say in Canada for all occasions.
“It’s not your fault,” she muttered.
“At least let me help you do something.”
He was already late. And although he hated disappointing people, he got the distinct feeling Dr. Hisanaga would rather he flaked out.
Besides, he had no idea what this woman was going to ask him next. It was invigorating.
“Can you—can you wash these for me?”
He could do that. She dashed out, then back in again.
“My name’s Davy,” he said. “Davy Hsieh.”
He might as well give her his name since he was helping her and all. She sat down with a laptop and began typing madly into the computer. Papers she’d dumped on a table beside her fluttered to the ground, but when he stepped forward to pick them up, she held up one imperious hand while turning to riffle through her bag with another and coming up with—lip balm?
All right, then.
He began drying. “You have a lot of mugs.”
“I have a lot of people borrowing them.”
More furious typing.
“Why do you keep them if people borrow them, and you have to wash them, and it makes you angry?”
“I just—people keep giving them to me. Once people think, Oh, here’s the person with the mugs, then people assume things about you. They start giving you ones with dogs or kittens on them for your birthday, or themed ones for the holidays. Or ones that say, Don’t Peer Review Me Until I’ve Had My Caffeine. Or they just pop in and say, I saw this and thought of you, and then you’re supposed to thank them. For a mug. And before you know it, you agree to babysit their experiment for the weekend. Because they were so nice to me for giving me a gift, and since I’m here—yeah, since I’m here and I’m washing mugs for the rest of my natural life.”
Davy did not think this was the time to point out that he was cleaning them.
She banged the laptop shut for emphasis.
He sprayed a gentle shower of water over the hated collection.
She said, “Now you’re going to ask why I keep them if I dislike them so much. It isn’t easy, you know. I can get rid of some at a time, but God forbid I get rid of the one my supervisor gives me. Like, he can’t remember if he reordered supplies or that it’s his daughter’s birthday but can remember he gave me a plastic Scooby Doo travel mug from a year ago. And then there’s the ones I do get rid of.”
“Okay.”
“Like, I took some to the thrift store, but I used to be able to put stuff on the curb in Toronto and someone would take it for sure. A kitchen chair, books, lamps. Even broken things. But in Vancouver—”
“I don’t live here most of the time, but I can imagine.”
He dried the mugs one by one and, not knowing what else to do, stacked them in a place that looked sort of out of the way.
“I think people just leave them in my space in the lounge at this point hoping they’ll be taken care of. Leave your orphan mugs to Zoey Fong.”
“I’m guessing you’re Zoey Fong.”
“I don’t have time to make conversation. I need to meet my boss before he leaves.”
“Can’t you talk to him Monday?”
He opened a cupboard and found a shelf labeled with her name. No one else seemed to have one. Worse, it was already half full. He started putting the ones he’d cleaned away.
“He’s going away for a conference. He told everyone he wouldn’t be answering emails.”
“So that’s a no. Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to assume you should help me.”
“What about your appointment? With Dr.—”
“Hisanaga. Oh, she’s been sort of avoiding me. She thinks I’m a weird amateur playing at philanthropy.”
To be honest, he sort of was.
“I’m trying to start an animal sanctuary thing,” he added, trying to clear things up.
It didn’t.
She was shooing him out now, despite the fact that papers had drifted down from the table again. But she caught them, stuffed them into her bag, and started shutting off the lights. “Hold this,” she said, handing him a white envelope.
She added, “That’s a big project. Did you describe it that way, as an animal sanctuary thing?”
The words were sharp, but she glanced up at him from under a lock of dark hair. Her eyes were brown, like a rich velvet. For a moment he lost his train of thought.
He cleared his throat. “Well, no. I sent her a detailed letter.”
In it, he’d outlined the steps he’d already taken, saying he’d set aside some land and money and described the cat he was already sheltering. He supposed that to a scientist he sounded pretty naive. But he figured once he got to talk to Dr. Hisanaga in person she’d see he was in earnest. He would exude seriousness from his pores. People didn’t think he was particularly deep, especially his family. He’d disappointed all of them—father, mother, sisters, grandmother, and George—for so long. The failure to finish school, the abortive music career, the anxiety, the rehab. But he’d gotten his life in order in the last ten years. This animal sanctuary was his idea from start to finish. He’d put careful planning into it, and it would be a lasting contribution to society and the environment. Too bad they couldn’t see past his youthful mistakes to understand he’d see this through.
Davy glanced at his phone. To his secret relief he was already too late to meet Dr. Hisanaga. He’d email her again and drop the fact that he was ready to give up a large chunk of land and money. Maybe he wouldn’t have to work on a pitch much as long as he had cash. Or would he?
He looked to Zoey Fong for an answer, but she’d pushed him out the door and unzipped her backpack. Zoey strode to her lab door and took out an enormous key ring jangling with keys, frowned at it, then produced another ring, just as big and full. Apparently that wasn’t the one, either.
Davy was impressed. The bag wasn’t small. Was it all keys? If so, it probably weighed Zoey—Ms. Fong—down hugely. She groped around in the backpack once more and pulled out a tiny key ring, and then promptly dropped all the other keys to the floor with a clatter.
More cursing.
Davy bent and picked them up and handed the keys back while Zoey locked her door.
“Well, good luck finding your boss.”
“Thanks,” she yelled over her shoulder, speeding down the hall.
He stood watching the tidy movement of her limbs in jeans and a white shirt. Her hair swirled as she flew around the corner.
She was kind of exhilarating.
But it wasn’t until a couple of minutes later that Davy noticed he was still hanging on to the envelope that Ms. Zoey Fong had given him to hold.
Should he run after her? But he wasn’t sure if she’d gone up or down the stairs. And she’d been moving so fast he felt almost dizzy. Should he slip it back under the door? He looked at the envelope and then the solid length of steel door dubiously. Not a crack. You had to admire the craftsmanship.
Well, too late to chase her, and he didn’t really think he should just leave it propped up in the hallway. He’d try to find out her email from the university website and let her know he had it. Maybe they could meet, drink some coffee. Have a conversation.
The idea of the pair of them making conversation like normal people almost made him laugh out loud in this abandoned university hall.
He tucked the envelope in his jacket pocket. Whatever was in it, he hoped it wasn’t important.
Zoey Fong breathed a sigh of relief as she exited the Agate Building and walked into the cool Vancouver air. It hadn’t been the best day, but she’d managed to grab her supervisor before he hauled off for parts unknown and phone connections unreliable.
It was her own fault. She’d lost track of time and Dr. Smerek was in a different building. She could’ve just locked up and stepped out, but she had to finish her report, and couldn’t leave anything important because her lab mate Alec had a talent—a highly annoying and extremely well-honed talent—of coming in when she wasn’t there. And if things weren’t in place, he’d leave his little notes everywhere.
If you need help cleaning up your mugs all you have to do is ask. :-)
Or
I can show you a trick to shutting that cabinet.
Or
Must be going well because I couldn’t find the cassettes because they weren’t in their “usual” spot. ;-)
He unfailingly used her Post-its, too! Even after she’d deliberately given him his own packet. She’d even picked a color that she didn’t use—green—so that his notes would be distinctive. And she’d pointed this out to him so he’d feel special.
Well, Alec didn’t need Post-its to feel special, and he never used them. He’d taken the gift—her rather pointed present, she’d thought—as a token of the respect he expected.
The jerk.
At least he wouldn’t have an excuse to leave her a note about the mugs today. Thanks to that guy—what was his name? Blandly handsome, seemingly agreeable, flashing her a smile when he needed something, as if the smile made up for all his demands. He hadn’t fled the first time she snapped at him. He even seemed to care, his unlined forehead wrinkling in confusion as she talked at him, unlike the million other expensively but casually dressed West Coast dudes like him, with their tousled hair and their grins, and their lean surf and ski bodies. They abounded on this campus, and only paid attention to her when they were trying to pick her up.
Well, the Handsome sure hadn’t tried to pick her up. Maybe that was the difference.
He was probably intent on bothering that Dr. Hisanaga.
She frowned. In fact, Handsome... Davy—was that it? A ridiculously boyish name—had helped her clean the mug flock, her mug gaggle—what was a good collective noun?—her bane of mugs. So at least he wasn’t a completely useless handsome. Then again, he’d only washed some dishes. That shouldn’t earn her undying gratitude, or even some sort of mild, hardly there attraction from her.
The bar was low.
She biked home in the light spring rain, willing the liquid to wash away her tension. When she got back to the garden-floor apartment that she rented in Kitsilano, near the beach she never got to walk on, she found her roommate at the open door flapping a dishcloth while the smoke detector screamed. Zoey grabbed the towel on her way in and fastened it around her ears—not that it helped—and stood on a kitchen stool to take out the batteries.
Her roommate, Li-leng, was even shorter than she.
“If our ears go out in the next five years, it’s because of this oversensitive detector,” Li-leng said.
Zoey’s roommate pushed at the sash of the kitchen window to open it wider but it was open as far as it would go. She fanned the air glumly.
“So, did you get to talk to Smerek? What did he say about your research so far?”
“He was in a rush. He was mentally pretty checked out of it.”
But he was not so distracted that he hadn’t sighed about what a disappointment her experiments had been—what a disappointment she’d proved—thus far. The MD/PhD program was for top-level people, he kept reminding her as if she wasn’t told that every single day by every single top-level person in the program.
“He essentially blew off your meeting. Again.”
Zoey tried to look unbothered. “It’s not a big deal. I just need a little more guidance about what he wants.”
She’d never needed her hand held before. So independent, her teachers always said. Little Zoey cutting out snowflakes with the sharp scissors, winning science fairs, getting into top-level programs with top-level people.
Li-leng glared at her perfectly roasted chicken. She was probably imagining it was Smerek. Or maybe her own supervisor. She shoved another pan in the oven and shut it defiantly.
Zoey took the tea towel off her head—not that it had helped—and got out some plates. “I’ll try him again in a few weeks. When he’s not preparing for a conference.”
He was always traveling, though.
Li-leng started cutting up the chicken. They’d met in the dorms in first year and had been roommates ever since. She was technically in graduate school, too, although she’d seemed to put her dissertation on fan culture on hold to wait tables, procrastibake, and educate herself on theories of hair care.
Zoey shrugged. They sat down side by side at the small breakfast bar.
“You don’t have to stay in school, you know. You have skills.”
“Setting off smoke detectors.”
“Disarming them.”
“Collecting and herding mugs.”
“Going thirty days without shampoo.”
“Hey, my hair has never looked better.”
“Thanks, but I like washing my hair. I like showering. It’s relaxing.”
“You need hobbies, Zoey. Knitting, karaoke, kite flying, taiko drumming. All you do is work, or stuff around work.”
It was an old argument. “I did promise myself I wouldn’t toil away all weekend. I didn’t go back to Toronto for the holidays, and I’ve been in the lab every weekend for the last four months. I’m going to take naps. I’m going to clean my room. I’m going to go stand in line at that restaurant Phnom Penh so I can eat an entire plate of Cambodian chicken wings by myself. I’m going to read a...a fiction book.”
“They’re called novels.”
“Right. Whatever. You know, one of those books that people who know how to relax read. I’m going to—”
“Zoey.”
“Yeah?”
“School sounds like a drag.”
Zoey tried to deny it. She liked being a grad student. Didn’t she? So why couldn’t she offer a retort to her roommate.
“You don’t have to do this program, you know. I mean, you’re clearly miserable. You’d do just fine being a goddamn doctor.”
Zoey swallowed. “I’d still have to do my clerkship and residency. And I can’t give up The Plan.”
“Right. To become a medical researcher. Find a cure for bone cancer.”
“At least put us on the right path.”
“But is it the right path for you? Because it’s not going so well.”
“Plans are always a bit difficult when you’re in the middle of them.”
“But they’re supposed to have rewards eventually. You’re close to burning out.”
“I feel very rewarded.”
Although she had to admit, she was maybe a little exhausted from trying to please Smerek and never succeeding. Luckily—or unluckily—there was no time for Zoey’s roommate to call her on the lie. Li-leng had started sniffing the air. “Oh no, the clafoutis!”
She hopped toward the oven.
“The what?”
“There were all these cherries on sale!”
Smoke wasn’t quite pouring out but there was a definite smell of burning. Luckily the window was still wide open, and the detector batteries were sitting on the kitchen counter—although maybe if either of them had remembered to put them back in they’d have had a little warning. As it was, Li-leng, forgetting an oven mitt in her hurry, tried to take the dessert out of the oven and promptly dropped a pan and two ramekins full of berry and cake at her feet.
In Zoey’s expert opinion as a med student, Li-leng had to go to the ER. They spent the rest of the night at the hospital taking in some of that good ole Canadian health care. Luckily Li-leng only sustained minor burns to one hand, and after a long evening in the waiting room at Vancouver General, Zoey was able to bring Li-leng back home in a cab, cherry-batter-splattered and bandaged. Zoey sent her roommate off to bed, she scraped up the dessert from the floor and put away the leftovers, went upstairs to shower dessert and dinner and hospital-people smell off of her, and dropped into bed.
Not the beginning to the weekend that she’d been hoping for, she thought as she was falling asleep, but at least her roommate would be all right.
It wasn’t until the middle of the night that Zoey sat up bolt upright in bed and remembered.
The slide with the bone sample. What had she done with it?
He’d taken it and forgotten to give it back to her.
The Handsome had taken the slide.
