Chapter 32
Ella
Wednesday
I stop at a restaurant on my walk between Verryn’s Research Institute and the Residential Care Facility, the Elmwood Center.
The clock is ticking, but my hungry stomach tells me I need to grab one of their “make your own pasta” dishes.
It has been a busy day: re-analyzing cognitive data, arguing over which graphs make the results “pop” the most, and double-checking cortisol numbers with the lab team.
I wait in line for my turn. I find myself thinking about how impressive it is that stress rewires the brain for survival at the cost of memory, and how safety and connection can rewire the brain too: restoring clarity, strengthening memory, even slowing cognitive decline.
It’s my turn. A customer walks away with his tray of pasta, and the woman behind the counter looks at me.
I accidentally drop my receipt on the cold tuna that people are supposed to choose as an ingredient for their pasta. The woman who is getting my three chosen ingredients does not laugh... I do, a little.
Next to her, there is a man whose lips curve upwards. He is cooking the pasta and handing it to the clients, one by one. He puts the plate on the counter and people take their meals, with no “thank you”, no “bye-bye”, just robotically, and ignoring to meet his eyes.
I stand still, observing him. Dump the sauce; get the plate; mix the penne... repeat. Serious face, traces of sadness, maybe shyness, not really anger.
When I reach him, I smile. And he, still looking down, simply asks me, with a serious face, if I want cheese on my meal. I answer emphatically, with a silly voice and a joke about cheese — not a very good one. But then, his face shifts. He’s finally smiling.
We exchange a few words, joyfully and looking into each other’s eyes.
I thank him, and he thanks me, repeatedly.
And I leave the restaurant, with my take-out box, thinking how little you could do to make others smile, with kindness.
Life is full of unknowns, so why wouldn’t you choose to know that, somehow, you brought happiness, lightness, or simply ease to the day of some other soul?
The elevator doors open, and I step into the Residential Care Facility, the Elmwood Center.
I greet the receptionists, who always smile warmly at whoever walks in.
They know the impact they have when they’re kind to patients and the families of those who live here, being the first faces everyone sees.
I walk into the researchers’ office. My own office isn’t in this building, it’s at the Research Institute, attached to the hospital, where I’m supposed to develop my studies on brain function, memory, and emotions.
That’s also where I collaborate with the hospital neurologists and psychologists working on clinical trials.
But I like coming here, to the Elmwood Center.
Philia and Cara both know this.
I started to realize that whenever one of us texts the other two suggesting we leave work together — for a drink or a girls’ date — they always assume I’m here and not at the Institute. They’re usually right.
Apart from the observation of behavioral patterns and running cognitive or memory tests that I have to do here, with the patients themselves, there are writing and desk tasks that don’t require me being at this building, and I end up doing them here anyway, at one of these shared desks in the researchers’ office, allowing me to take breaks to visit the patients’ rooms or walk around the common areas to chat with them and see how they’re doing.
I find myself volunteering to help run workshops and activities for the patients, like the weekly art therapy sessions or the gentle memory games we organize some afternoons, just because I enjoy being part of that.
Maybe it’s because this facility is the closest to home that I feel. It reminds me of the CIC.
But today, as I told my girlfriends, I’ll be here after hours because there’s actually something keeping me.
My boss, Dr. Curie, the head of Cognitive Research, sent me an email this morning.
She wants to see me at 6 p.m. She didn’t explain why; there were no hints in the email subject whatsoever.
I do have an idea of what this mysterious, omitted subject might be… but I won’t think too much about it.
“I’ll just wait for it,” I tell myself.
After abandoning my computer and a thousand papers at today’s free desk, I head to the cafeteria.
“Let’s slap a motor on this thing and sign-up next year!” Mr. Marlin jokes, referring to his wheelchair and the Formula 1 race playing on TV.
He laughs loudly and with intent.
That’s Mr. Marlin.
He’s a patient who’s been living with his condition for a while now. He came to stay at the Center a year ago, and I’ve never seen anyone as grateful for it as he is.
Mr. Marlin embodies the kind of kindness I was thinking about earlier. He is light, and a life lesson.
“I’ll be your pit stop manager, changing your wheels in record time! Oh, we are totally signing up for that next year,” says Mr. Doryan, another patient.
They’re always together and understand each other’s jokes.
Mr. Doryan is madly in love with Marina, the nurse who usually manages his medications, which reminds me of Ross and nurse Raquel, who ended up married.
I went to Evermere during exam season to celebrate their love. I absolutely couldn’t miss it.
“So…” Cara opens her arms and smiles expectantly as I walk down the stairs outside the Elmwood Center. “What did she want to talk to you about?”
Philia and Cara had sent me messages saying they would wait for me to leave, as they were impatient to hear about my meeting with our boss.
“I’m going to speak at the New York Neuroscience Conference! I’ll fly there right after Christmas!” I tell them, elated. They pull me into a tight hug, just as overjoyed for me.
“I knew it!” Philia says. She had been speculating about it for days, and I had been trying not to hope too much. “I got the feeling that the study Stress and Cognitive Decline would be chosen for the conference this year, and I told you she would tell you to go and present it!”
“Let’s go celebrate!” Cara claps her hands.
They’re my best friends. We celebrate each other’s wins like our own and bend to pick up each other’s downs, regardless of how that impacts us.
And tonight, we are celebrating this win.
Lately, I haven’t been spending much time with my family; I talk to them, but I haven’t seen them. I haven’t visited Evermere since I caught a train to go there seven months ago, right after another work conference.
I look at Philia and Cara. The sound of our boots on the cement echoes and blends with the sound of our laughter in the air. Our friendship’s dynamic reminds me of my family. They’re always there when I need them. They knock on my door when I don’t. And every little thing is a reason to celebrate.