Chapter 2
Venus
“Who’s Henry?” Dr. Miner holds up my worn, overfull field journal, which contains illustrations and notes from the last several months.
I’ve documented my experiences in nature since my father gave me a black-and-white composition notebook in kindergarten, the cover of which bore the words “FIELD JOURNAL” in bold letters.
“Keep records of what you see and discover,” he said.
So, I have.
Perched sea birds, cresting whales, and fields of sea kelp adorn the most recent pages, as we are on a ship—The Poseidon, to be exact, a NOAA research vessel currently six nautical miles off the coast of San Pedro Bay, California, where we will soon dock at the Port of Los Angeles.
“That’s private,” I say, reaching for the journal. She pulls away, flipping it open.
“These illustrations are quite detailed.” Her eyes soften but only a little.
I detect amusement, edged with critical annoyance, her common expression when talking to me.
“If not somewhat rustic. Have you ever considered publication? There’s a market for material like this, particularly in education or coffee table books. ”
I gape at the suggestion. My journals are scientific, not decorative.
“You’d have to stop addressing your field notes to Henry, of course,” she adds dryly.
My shoulders slump as if weighted. I haven’t always addressed them to Henry.
Only since I’ve been without him. Has it been ten years?
My therapist, Dr. Broderick, claims that my journals provide an imaginary connection, a poor substitute for the life I could’ve had if I’d made a different choice.
She calls it my surrogate boyfriend. I disagree. Sometimes, a journal is just a journal.
I address them to Henry simply because I miss him.
I straighten in the seat across from her desk. “That seems counterintuitive to my mission as an environmental scientist. It’s a waste of trees, energy, resources, space—”
“The world needs books, Venus.” Her brown eyes roll behind her reading glasses. “And there’s more to life than field work and research.”
My eyes narrow. Her remark seems paradoxical, considering that I’ve spent the last decade by her side conducting her fieldwork and research.
“Who’s Henry?” she asks again. “I vaguely remember your father mentioning—”
“No one. He’s… no one.”
Her small office feels stuffy and uncomfortably confined, especially with this interrogation.
It’s highly unusual for Dr. Miner to examine my private property or make personal comments.
Our ten-year relationship has been mutually beneficial and blissfully impersonal.
At my request, my father entrusted me to her care at eighteen.
She has mentored me through my higher education and provided the hands-on experience for my profession.
But I wouldn’t call us friends.
Dr. Miner is an esteemed and ambitious scientist. I’ve learned a great deal from her, but the best lesson she’s modeled for me is how to be alone. She is comfortably numb, and I’ve tried to be more like her every single day.
Even so, it feels jarring that she doesn’t know about Henry, as if I’ve left a blank space on the vital paperwork needed for this arrangement.
I know about her people. I glance at the photos lining the shelf behind her—a prepubescent male with braces holding a violin, a teenager in a cheerleading uniform, and a middle-aged man wearing a blue suit and a half-hearted smile, like he’s at a funeral.
Dr. Miner’s son, Allan, daughter, Sophie, and husband Brian—names I know because she mentions them.
Significant others should be mentioned in long-standing relationships, even one as impersonal as ours.
She should know about Henry—my most significant other, if the impact he had, still has, on my life, and the frequency of thought I give him are considerations in such a title.
Anyone who knows me beyond a passing acquaintance should, even if our relationship no longer exists beyond a journal he’ll never see.
“Thank you for the safe return of my property,” I say, holding out my hand. She passes it to me.
“That’s not the only reason I called this meeting.”
“Then, why have you summoned me?”
“Venus, you will not continue on this project after we arrive at port,” she says in a long exhale.
“Explanation, please?”
“Your lab work and research notes are thorough and insightful. And your idea to combine okra polymers with sundew polymers for a stickier resin was truly inspired. That one adjustment has advanced our research into the safe extraction of microplastics by months, at least.”
“Thank you,” I say weakly. “Then, why—”
“It’s your behavior.” She interlocks her fingers on the desk. “You’re difficult with the other team members...”
An internal cringe envelopes me, hearing that word. Difficult—of course, it’s that word.
“… You disregard the buddy system on dives…”
Only to explore where others refuse to go.
“And there’s Julio and Quinn.” She huffs.
“I was abundantly clear with each of them before intercourse that there’d be no attachments or relationships—sex only. They agreed to my terms.”
“You were seeing them at the same time. They felt threatened by each other.”
I shake my head vehemently. “No, not at the same time—weeks apart. Regardless, I’m not responsible for their actions.”
“You inspired a fellow researcher and the ship’s navigator to have a bar fight—you’re to blame on some level, even if they misunderstood your intentions or wanted more from you unfairly… But that’s not the main issue. It’s your other behaviors that concern me.”
She doesn’t need to elaborate, but she does, like my infractions require an audible acknowledgement.
My occasional vodka nights, when drinking too much renders me useless the next day.
My spontaneous ocean dives, which raise, frankly, irrational fears in the ship’s crew.
My refusal to stay below deck during storms. When I feel trapped or caught up in emotions, my impulses overrule my reason, driving me to these necessary escapes—it doesn’t feel like a choice.
It’s a necessity, freeing me, if only temporarily.
Like what’s building right now. I don’t want to be here, closed in. Dismissed. Unwanted. With Henry’s name still lingering in the air. My body clenches, and my fingers curl tightly around the wooden armrest.
Henry once compared my emotional surges to summer storms. They build slowly, without much notice, but happen all at once, fiercely and unpredictably.
It’s a heaviness around me, in me, as if I take on the dropping barometric pressure before a storm and can’t find relief until it’s released.
Henry understood, didn’t judge, and would hold me tightly until those feelings left me—a vise that only he could unwind.
I haven’t felt similar comfort since the last time he held me, in the greenhouse.
I can’t find that release in my cubbyhole of a room. Or in this office. Or on this ship.
Not in the arms of strangers, either.
I hug my journal tightly to my chest, desperate to clutch something, to hold on. To feel the pressure.
But again, I think of Henry.
“If you’re not in the lab or your notebook or exploring a forest somewhere, you seem lost,” she says.
I like getting lost. On busy city streets. In wild countrysides. In untamed meadows, rugged moors, and dense woods. I like venturing off the trail.
Getting lost has not only earned me my beautiful freedom but also my most outstanding scientific credit to date.
I discovered a new species of plant—a flowering fern that I named Henricus filicis, Henry fern, because its long, spry leaves reminded me of his long legs and spindly arms, and its brown flower blossomed from the ends like Henry’s always-unruly hair.
Besides, I owe him a fern, at least.
The irony is that had I been looking for it, I never would’ve found it. I happened upon the discovery in my off-hours—a cosmic joke considering that I’ve committed myself to doing scientific grunt work that should lead to incredible discoveries, but rarely does.
My fingernails cut into my palms as I practice the breathing technique Dr. Broderick taught me. “What about the Nat Geo project?”
She’s pushed our team for years, hoping for that assignment, and I’ve worked diligently to help her get it, counting on the unspoken promise that she’d take me with her.
“Venus, our partnership is ending,” she says, her voice stern and slow, “but I’ve arranged a temporary position for you.”
“What temporary position?”
“Teaching summer school, a special topics course on…” She shuffles the papers on her desk. “The Rare Plants of North Carolina, at UNCW—”
“That’s my father’s school, my father’s class. Is he unwell?” I sit up, nearly falling off the chair.
“He’s fine. He’s taking a much-deserved sabbatical, albeit on very short notice. You’d know this if you kept in touch regularly. When he informed me of his intention, I reached out to them and recommended you.”
“I should’ve been consulted. I’m not a teacher, and I hate classrooms.”
“You have a doctorate—you’re qualified. Besides, he’ll provide all relevant materials. What could be easier than subbing for him on a topic in which you are just as knowledgeable? It’s only for the summer, Venus.”
“Let’s pretend it’s always summer for us.” Henry’s voice wafts into my memory, but it’s faded, like I can’t quite remember how he sounds.
“I don’t want to do this.” I fidget with my bracelets and rings as my anxiety builds. “There must be something else. Anything else.”
“You have no permanent residence or current offers. You have nowhere else to go. It’ll be good for you to be on solid ground for a while, see your family,” she points out. “Don’t you miss them?”
“Do you miss your family?”
Her scowl tells me that I’ve overstepped. “Venus, I talk to my family. You’ve all but abandoned yours.”
The word stings. My brain misfires as I attempt to launch a counterargument and overloads with things I miss—Ivy’s often-annoying cheerfulness, my father’s slow hmmm whenever he considers something, the earthy warmth of the greenhouse, and the memories it holds.
I recall our quiet evenings—Dad in his favorite leather chair, Ivy and I on the couch, usually under a shared blanket, all of us reading while classic rock played on the record player.
Dad would put the kettle on, and the air would fill with fragrances from his homegrown teas.
I once loved those lazy evenings, those times when I didn’t feel trapped.
Or perhaps I’m idealizing those memories in their long absence. The immense pressure to escape began in that house. That’s where I discovered how little I belonged and what a burden I could be. I haven’t been home since the Christmas before last. The longer I’m away, the harder it is to go back.
“Missing them is irrelevant,” I say, pushing those feelings aside.
“I shouldn’t be fired because of a few minor instances.
My impulsivity problem is under control and managed with professional care.
” I’m flooded with memories of school and the numerous times I made the same argument, only to fail to persuade my teachers or the administration.
“Idiosyncrasies are one thing. Swan-diving off the ship is a risk to you and anyone who might jump in to save you—”
“I didn’t need saving. I just needed… to reset. The boat was anchored.”
“You’re a liability, Venus. A distraction. And this isn’t a debate.”
My father’s voice whispers through my internal monologue. “Best accept what you cannot change, Venus,” and still I wonder how that can be true.
“Go home, Venus,” Dr. Miner says sternly, forcing my attention back on her. “Take some time. Do a good job with your father’s class, and I’ll provide a positive reference for your next project.”
A reference from Dr. Miner would secure me any research position I want. Without it, I’d lose my credibility, given that I’ve spent a decade under her tutelage.
“Does my father know?” I ask, my voice as weak as my limited options.
Her wry smile spreads. “It was his idea.”
Outside on the starboard deck, I adjust my head scarf to keep my long blonde hair out of my eyes.
I say blonde, but on closer inspection, my hair is at least a dozen different shades of gold, pale yellow, and light brown.
I read a book once that likened one’s natural hair to the uniqueness of a fingerprint.
DNA, fingerprints, hair color, difficulties. How can we be so unique and so utterly inconsequential?
Inconsequential… that’s what I am to Henry now. I imagine he doesn’t think of me at all anymore.
But that’s what I wanted.
The wild, full-bodied thunk when my body pierces the water’s surface disrupts my thought cycle.
I push deeper into the darkness, the pressure surrounding me like a cold blanket until it relaxes my thoughts and calms the unwanted energy surging inside of me.
My boots are heavy with water, dragging me lower, but I kick up strongly—I’m an expert swimmer.
I made sure, after. The muffled sounds of yelling swirl over my head—the captain won’t be happy.
But what does it matter? In a few days, we’ll be at port, and they’ll be rid of me, as they want.
As they all want.