Chapter 12
JANE
PLAYLIST: BLOODSTREAM – STATELESS
Iopen my laptop on Monday morning, only to find an Email from the DCSA in my inbox. I open it, and the moment I do, my mouth drops open. The clearance for Amelie Degard.
So fast.
Mine took weeks to pass, and hers just went through in a weekend?
I already prepared for it being blocked, because something about her is different, secretive. And any trained agent would notice the very same.
But it went through.
“Huh,” I say, because it means that we can finally begin. It also means I can let go of my doubt. If she passed the DCSA tests, I have nothing to fear.
I email her to let her know the clearance went through and that we’re starting on Wednesday after lecture, in case she has already worked through the assignment.
I get an email back within five minutes.
Wednesday, 4 pm, your lab, confirmed. Assignment is done since Saturday—will report in person. ;)
Wednesday comes, and I wait for her in front of the corridor leading to the lab, because she can’t enter it without a key card.
“Hi,” she says, elated. I glance at my watch, it’s a minute to 4 pm. Punctuality is most important to me, and I am glad she came on time.
“Hi,” I say quickly back. I hate small talk, so I dive straight into the interesting topic. “Your key card,” I say, handing her the issued card as we walk to the lab. “You have read the etiquette of lab protection.”
“I did, and remembered it. I also read everything else you gave me,” she says as we enter the lab. She puts her backpack on a chair, takes her laptop out, and opens it. She types in a very long password, which signals to me she is responsible with her data—good.
“Here,” she says and turns the laptop for me to see. “I made a spreadsheet—“
My eyes light up. I love spreadsheets.
“It is an overview of everything you gave me.
I reviewed the available studies on the matter, classified them by reliability, and calculated the ranking.
I also made notes because I think some of the assumptions could be flagged and challenged, especially the one about the neurotransmitter stimulation.
There is actually strong proof that might not be the case—“
My mouth tugs into a grin. The spreadsheet is everything. I knew the way she thinks was special, but seeing her in action, I am certain this was the right decision. She will be the one who takes my research to the next level.
“Are you still listening?” she suddenly asks me, and I find myself staring at her with my lips slightly parted.
“I—yes,” I say, caught completely off guard. “I am just amazed by your efficiency.”
“Well, you tasked me with it, didn’t you?”
“You exceeded every expectation,” I say.
She smiles proudly, her eyes shimmering and her nose rising. Her lips smirk thinly.
“You like being praised, don’t you?” I ask.
“Uh-huh,” she says, a tad too high, and I have to snigger, because I see so much of myself in her. I am the very same.
I show her the rest of the lab and introduce her to the program itself.
She is very critical and asks very advanced questions that challenge the foundation of the entire research. I enjoy it immensely because she challenges her own biases and blind spots.
My phone vibrates in my pocket for the third time in an hour, and I am very annoyed because, when I look at it, it is my mother.
“Excuse me,” I tell her and answer the call. “What is it, mother? I am working.”
“Finally, Jane,” says my mother, ignoring the information about my work. “Friday is you fathers jubilee, you must attend. I completely forgot to tell you.”
My head twitches.
Appointments outside my routine, especially social events, are the most hated of the lot.
“I have appointments on my own on Friday,” I say. “I can’t.”
“Jane,” says my mother sternly. “It is your fathers 40 years jubilee, you will attend. I have been lenient with you not being married or finding a man and taking the easy route, but you will attend this event.”
“Mother!” I say, and then completely forget, that Amelie is in the lab with me.
“Lenient with me not marrying a man? Are you out of your mind? I am not interested in men. I have built a career here; I lead a government research project and am a professor. Do not dare tell me I have taken the easy route!”
“Well, you have, haven’t you? Neuroscience is nothing like neurosurgery.”
I boil inside, close to imploding, and because I do, I don’t get a word out. My hands clench into fists.
Suddenly, Amelie appears in front of me and takes the phone from my head.
“Excuse me, Miss, this is Jane’s assistant,” she says in a much higher and softer voice than usual. I stare at her, still processing my anger.
“We have a situation here at the lab that needs her immediate attention. Would you like me to deliver a message to her?”
“Friday, 3 pm, Rainbow Room, formal evening wear,” says my mother, so loudly I can hear her through the phone, her voice showing her displeasure.
Amelie hangs up, puts the phone aside, and gets back to her stuff.
“I think you are the most amazing person for managing to get all that you have done as young as you are. I bet your mother is just envious because you have outperformed her own achievements,” she says casually while getting her laptop, and then switches to the professional topic as if nothing had ever happened.
“What do you think of the spreadsheet? Would you like me to add anything?”
It takes me a moment longer than her. I gaze at her because what she said about my mother has never occurred to me before. I always felt like I hadn’t been enough.
She asks me a question about gene mapping, and the moment we start talking about the research, I am back to myself.
It is already 10 pm when I look at the clock on the wall above the lab door.
How is it 10 already? I have no idea where the time went.
“Alright, let’s call this a day,” I say, pointing at the clock.
“Oh,” she says, almost sad.
“Prepare the sheet as we talked about, we’ll continue on Monday.”
“Monday?” she asks.
“Yes, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are my lab days. As you unfortunately had to overhear, I am not available on Friday.”
“Your mother seems to be a bummer,” she says.
“You can’t imagine,” I say quickly, attempting to navigate the topic elsewhere.
“She’s Esther McKenzie, the neurosurgeon, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth.
“You do know what they say, yes?”
“Who says what?”
“The prevalence of narcissism is the highest in surgery professions,” she says. “I’d say you did a good choice not choosing that.”
“You heard that?” I ask because it’s the only thing my brain focuses on.
“Couldn’t not hear it,” she says, “Your mother has quite the presence in her voice.”
I scoff. Nice way to express it.
“See you tomorrow in lecture,” she says, and leaves.
Somehow, she has this ease. Nothing is a problem around her. I am not a problem.
Friday comes, and I am already dreading the afternoon and evening.
I don’t simply dislike social gatherings; I absolutely despise them.
So when my cab pulls up at the Rockefeller Center, and I get out in my simple black evening dress with slim straps and a scarf over my shoulders, I would have preferred to get back into the cab and give my mother a wild excuse of why I couldn’t attend. But I’d never lie.
The Rainbow Room sign flashes in red, on the black canopy above the entrance to the Comcast Building,
I sigh heavily as I push through the golden door to get inside.
I walk to the elevator bank and get to the mezzanine level, where I intend to switch to the private elevator for the Rainbow Room. My mother loves that room, and it’s not the first event we've celebrated there.
Just as the elevator is about to close, a hand slides between the doors and opens them. I am annoyed because I enjoy elevators without anyone else in them.
That hand looks familiar to me. My eyes follow the arm. I almost don’t recognize her, and my mouth drops open when I do.
“Hi,” she says as if all of this were plannend.
I am so far out of my predictable zone that words don’t form.
“I thought,” she says casually, “Your mother could use a little change of behavior on your end, so she finally sees what a wonderful daughter she has.”
She’s not even looking at me, but standing with her back to me, in a stunningly glittering black sequin high-neck maxi dress with cap sleeves.
“I—what—who—“ I stutter, because my brain doesn’t work, and my T. rex arms shoot up, whether I want them to or not. I am just glad she doesn’t see them.
But then, she turns around.
I am so flabbergasted by her sheer beauty.
Her hair falls in elegant waves to the side.
Not a hair out of place.
Her eyes are dark, with intense black eyeliner, long lashes, and glittering cheeks.
And the dress—the dress.
It’s shimmering as an ocean dipped in moonlight, showing off her trained figure in a way that she could be on her way to the New York Fashion Week right now.
We arrive at the mezzanine level.
I get one glimpse of a security guard in a suit guarding the private elevator, and finally find my senses again.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I hiss at her.
“I thought you could need someone in your corner with a mother like that.”
“You are my student!” I nearly shout, before I remember that no one can know, and whisper angrily.
“Not tonight,” she says and pulls me out of the elevator.
“You are out of your fucking mind,” I say.
“Maybe,” she says with a chuckle and walks to the security guard.
“Jane McKenzie and her girlfriend,” she says in a French accent English.
I am speechless.
My brain isn’t working.
“I have no girlfriend on the list,” says the man.
“It was a last-minute decision; I couldn’t tell if I’d make it out of surgery on time.”
Lying. She is lying to his face without blinking.
“Doctor’s curse, isn’t it?” asks the man and lets us into the elevator.
“It is indeed,” she says and holds out a hand for me to take. A hand, I do not take.
She leans against the elevator door and grins as she sees my face.
“Relax,” she says. “No one will recognize me, just let me do the talking.”
“Why are you here?” I ask her, completely taken aback.
The grin dies on her face.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe to prove a point.”
“To prove what point?”
She ignores my question.
“One night. We fool them all, and you will have your peace.”
“Why do you care about my peace?” I ask, anger in my voice. “You shouldn’t care, you shouldn’t—“ But whatever should, dies in the opening elevator door, offering the view into the Rainbow Room with its breathtaking view over Manhattan.
“But I do care,” she whispers in my ear as she takes my arm. I want to remove my arm from her grip, but my mother walks towards us.
This will be the most stupid thing I have ever allowed to happen.
“Jane,” says my mother as she walks towards us. Her look lands on Amelie, and I see her displeasure immediately. “You brought someone,” she says with slightly pursed lips. And before I can so much as breathe in to say something, Amelie lets go of my arm and turns towards my mother.
“Louise Albére, neurochirurgienne à l’H?pital Pitié-Salpêtrière à Paris,” she says in perfect French and holds out her hand. “It is a pleasure finally meeting you, Mrs. McKenzie. I have heard only the best.”
My mother is as confused as I have ever seen her, shaking her head. Her eyes switch between her and me before hardening slightly. I am already preparing myself for impact.
“You have a girlfriend now,” she says.
“Pssst,” says Amelie, “It’s the first time she ever allowed me to officially appear. We'd better nurture the seed with care.”
My mother’s critical eyes take in Amelie’s appearance.
“You said you are a neurosurgeon in Paris?” my mother asks.
“Qui,” Amelie says. “Yes.”
“You must know Muhammad Omar,” my mother says.
“Sadly, not. He left a month before I transferred. But I heard he is very content in Zurich.”
My mother's face suddenly relaxes, and I cannot believe what is happening before my eyes.
“He is indeed. Have you read about his recent work on the multi-modal treatment of glioblastomas?”
“I did indeed,” says Amelie. “The combination of tumor-treating fields with checkpoint inhibitors is a fascinating approach. I am very excited about where it leads, particularly the hypothesis that TTFields may enhance immunogenic cell death. What are your thoughts on the approach? I have heard so much about your achievements, especially the meningioma you removed from the cavernous sinus.”
My mother’s face lights up with delight as she puts a hand on Amelie’s arm and guides us to a group of people, one of whom is my father. I let go of her arm and just stand there and watch her.
My mind starts working again as I process what just happened. A strange sensation spreads through my stomach.
The mere guts of her impersonating a neurosurgeon in a room full of surgeons is beyond me. She knows things she shouldn’t know. She is lying to all of them. Without even caring. Without an inch of regret. It brings her joy.
She is laughing and blending in with my parents’ colleagues, who all seem to enjoy her immensely.
And I cannot help but wonder if she did the same thing to me. Blend in. Perform. Lie.
Sickness grows in my stomach.
What if she deceived you? What if she is a spy to get to your work? But she was cleared by the government. But it was so fast. What if—what if—
Panic surges through me.
My heart beats fast.
I am not getting enough air.
Everything is so overwhelming.
And just when I am about to collapse in me, there is a touch on my arm.
Her hand.
“I was just telling them about the wonderful classified research you can’t tell anyone about, not even me. They are dying to hear about what we talked about last night.”
“You have to tell them about the neurotransmitter behavior based on environmental influence,” says Amelie in her French accent.
“It is most interesting, especially the GABAergic and the—what is it in English—modulation du système glutamatergique—“ She searches for the word for a moment.
“Ah, qui, glutamatergic system modulation, yes? after surgical intervention.”
All eyes are on me, while my gaze is unfocused. She is so good at pretending to be someone she is not that I am re-assessing everything I know about her.
I can’t tell exactly what it is, but she is hiding something. Something that connects everything.
The way she talks.
The money.
The clearance.