40. Jo
Chapter 40
Jo
T he door to the clinical research lab closes as I enter, and four sets of eyes silently dart to me. I stumble backwards, catching my body weight with the door handle as I scan the room.
“Uh, hello friends?” I stand upright once more, anxiously smoothing my blouse. I’m met with an immediate and overwhelming peppering of questions. There’s no use even trying to decipher what is happening while my four research assistants fight for my attention.
“Hold on, hold ON!” I raise my hands in the air in surrender. “Ali.” I lower my arms as the chatter subsides. “Ali, please tell me what’s up.”
Though the room was filled with noise just fifteen seconds prior, the group now goes suddenly silent.
“Ali?” The third-year medical student hesitantly stands from her stool at the lab bench.
“Dr. Britlyn didn’t show up to our neuroscience lecture this morning, and he missed his shift in the lab this afternoon.” She shrugs, wringing her hands together in front of her chest. “We thought you two might be together.”
It’s been about a week since we returned from Sacramento, and minus a few hallway run-ins, I haven’t seen much of Isaac at all.
The group nods in agreement as I set my backpack and coffee cup down on my desk in the corner of the lab. The current space we have to conduct research is exceptionally limited, but I’m grateful for the temporary space I’ve been allotted. My students are able to work together with faculty members and each other without the worry of disrupting others.
“Wait, why would you assume I was with him?” I slump down into my chair, resting my elbows on the desk in front of me. Ali takes her previous seat, and they look between each other mischievously, avoiding my question.
Jeremy, my longest-standing assistant, pipes up, twirling his pen between his fingers like a drumstick. “Well, you’re late.” He glances down at his watch. “And we’ve all come to the conclusion that you and Dr. Britlyn are gonna get married.”
The sip of coffee I just took comes dribbling out of my mouth and down my chin in an embarrassing and uncoordinated retort. Wiping my spit-up with my shirt sleeve, I shake my head. “Get the hell back to work, you menaces.” They all laugh, turning back to whatever they were working on before I arrived, and I grab my phone to shoot a quick text.
Hey, are you okay?
I take another swig of coffee, setting my phone down on the desk and watching for response bubbles. The dull roar of conversation from the adjacent workbench numbs my brain just enough to check my email box and send a few quick responses to students and colleagues.
A meeting invite from my boss.
An assignment extension request.
A research newsletter.
I scroll aimlessly, glancing down at my phone screen, wishing for a response from Isaac, but none comes.
Isaac?
After twenty-five minutes of staring at my barren phone screen, I send another simple text.
Do you need anything?
I’m sure he’s just working on a project or caught up with a colleague. Ali left to work her shift at the campus coffee shop, but the rest of the group has been working diligently on our current paper. They’re hoping for submission to an esteemed medical journal, and the hours they have put in are admirable.
“Dr. Carello, can you read through what we have written for the discussion? Ali and I struggled a little bit with the implications of our data.” Devonte, another third-year research assistant, approaches my desk and swivels his laptop in his hand to face me.
“Sure, yes, whatcha got so far?” He sets the computer down in front of me, and I pull my glasses off the top of my head to examine the work they’ve done.
“How do you think this information might change clinical practice?” I squint up at him, cocking my head to the side. One of my absolute favorite parts of being an instructor is watching the brain synapses fire in real time. Watching students learn and process and digest information. There’s nothing else quite like it.
“Well, we could discuss the need for a biopsychosocial approach during primary care visits?” he asks hesitantly. “Especially in women.” He nods, clearly happy with his answer.
“And?” I press, prompting him to continue.
“And…” He sits at the chair across from me and scratches his head. “And, emphasize the importance of stress management?”
I mirror his smile, pointing to the laptop keyboard. “Get to writing, sir!”
Devonte takes hold of his laptop, spinning to rejoin Isabel and Jeremy at the lab table. “Remember, this data is helping to break down the stigma of mental health care. If we continue with this research, we may be able to drive systemic change.” They don’t even look up to acknowledge me, but immediately start working on cleaning up the wording on their paper.
The smile slowly fades from my face when I tap my phone screen. Still nothing.
“Alright friends, I’ve gotta run some errands. I’ll see you tomorrow, and we can check in on our progress. If you have any questions tonight, shoot me an email.”
“Thanks Dr. C, you’re the best.” Jeremy chimes in, with hums of agreement from Devonte and Isabel. I pack up my belongings and swing my backpack over my right shoulder. The weight of Isaac’s mysterious absence falls heavy on my chest.He wouldn’t just not show up for work, right? I double my pace, fumbling to unlock my phone with sweaty fingers.
My gut is rarely wrong.
I dial a number I’ve had memorized for years, trudging down the hallway as it rings.
“Dr. Carello! To what do I owe the pleasure?” His raspy voice croons through the phone speaker.
“Hi Dr. Zin! I’m so sorry to bother you like this, and call out of the blue and I kinda might be panicking a little bit, but I just don’t know how I should handle this, to be honest, and did I mention I’m kinda panicking?” My heart pounds in my throat.
“Jo, slow down. Please. I’m old, remember?”
I stop abruptly in the hallway, leaning my shoulder up against the wall. “Okay, yes. I’m sorry.” Forcing myself to breathe at a more appropriate pace, I continue. “Have you talked to Isaac today?”
“Ah, Dr. Britlyn, I should’ve known that’s why you called. But the answer is no. Students reported him missing from class and the lab today.” He clears his throat. “I’ve tried reaching him via telephone, but he hasn’t responded all day.”
“Okay, okay. Uhm. Well, I’m going to try and figure this out. Thank you, Dr. Zin.” I cautiously begin my trek to my car. Dr. Zin is our boss, and should most definitely have known if Isaac was going to be out of work.
“Oh, Jo?” He catches my attention once more just before I hang up. “You may try the campus directory. I’ve heard that’s a good source of information.”
The silence in the hallway ping pongs around my brain. Dr. Zin is right; I should check the directory. I push up off the wall and head towards the door on the first floor of the Science and Research building. Attempting to scroll the directory for any of Isaac’s contact information, I reach the landing of the building and push out into the air. Though it’s only 4 p.m., the sun has already disappeared from the sky. A splatter of rain hits my glasses, and I push them up atop my head once more.
Why can I never remember where I park?
The toe of my shoe catches a crack in the concrete and I careen forward, sending my phone flying into the grassy patch adjacent to the sidewalk. “Shit!”
“Please don’t be fucking broken.” I whisper to myself. By the time I reach it, a familiar tone begins to echo through the quad. I lean down, steadying my bag with my hand, to pick up the phone and examine the damage. Isaac’s name lights up the screen.
No.
No? I begin typing a reply, but then think better of it. If he’s going to blow me off with a message like that, I’m not even going to bother. What an actual jerk. No? No explanation. No thanks for checking in. Nothing?
I stuff my phone into the side pocket of my backpack and continue towards my car, but the unsettled feeling in my stomach continues to gnaw at me until I reach for my door handle.
No, he doesn’t need anything? Or no, he isn’t okay?
I settle into the driver’s seat and throw my belongings over the console. I grab my phone once more, and Isaac’s directory listing fills the screen.
6578 Mountain Creek Drive, Apartment #5.
Leave it to Illinois to name streets after one of the only geographical landscapes we lack.
Plugging the information into my GPS, I pull the gear shift to drive and say a silent prayer that I don’t regret this decision.
The drive goes quickly, and I realize that I’m only a few blocks from my own apartment. The complex’s parking lot is mostly empty, so I back into a spot not marked with an apartment number. Isaac’s red pickup truck is parked in the no-parking zone. Putting his truck at risk of being towed? Something’s definitely wrong.
I’m not quite sure why my heart is physically beating out of my chest as I climb the stairs next to the sign denoting apartments four and five. My nerves dissipate slightly when I notice the AC/DC doormat. In true Isaac fashion, I’m greeted by the phrase “ for those about to knock. ”
This is definitely his apartment.
I knock hesitantly, listening for any movement inside. His truck is here. This is most certainly his apartment. He must be in there.
I knock again, more forcefully, and when I’m met with continued silence, I reach for the door handle and twist. To my surprise, it opens easily.
I really should consider greasing my door at home.
“Isaac?” I glance around, taking in the sight of the living space. Empty Chinese takeout containers litter the coffee table, and the five o'clock news plays muted on the television screen. “Isaac, are you here?”
I take a few steps into the apartment and push the door shut, setting my phone and keys down on a side table.The sound of running water emanates from somewhere deeper in the apartment.
Great, he’s just in the shower and I’ve barged into his home. Even though my brain says to stop, my legs keep going, venturing down the hall towards the sound of the running water.
“Isaac?”
“Jo?” His voice is faint, and my heart stops just momentarily. The bathroom door sits ajar, enough for me to take in the scene in front of me. Nothing could prepare me for the sight of Isaac, fully clothed, sitting on the shower floor with his arms wrapped tightly around his bent knees.
“Isaac!” I hurry towards him, pushing open the shower door and reaching to turn off the water. “Isaac, oh my God, this water is ice-cold!” I crank the knob to the left, and the water slows to a halt.In all our years, I’ve never seen him look quite so shattered. It breaks my heart into a million tiny shards that I may never be able to collect. This is not just sadness.
This is destruction.
He looks up at me, water droplets clinging to his hair and eyelashes. “Jo.” His voice is barely a whisper, and my heart shatters all over again.
I kneel down in front of him and push a few strands of hair out of his face. “Talk to me. What happened?” I can’t quite tell if he’s crying, or if residual water droplets have made their way down his cheeks.
He drops his head down, resting his forehead against his knees. The cold tile bites into my kneecaps, but I crawl closer to him, pressing again. “Talk to me.”
Without a word, he releases his legs and pulls me into his lap, stifling me with his strong arms. I instinctively wrap myself around him in a tight hug. A second of hesitation passes before he rests his forehead on my chest. Part of me wants to revel in the closeness—to be selfish—but I can’t. I won’t do that.
“Sam is gone.”His voice reverberates through my chest, but my brain doesn’t believe it.
“What?!” I yell,yanking myself away from him and searching his eyes for the truth. The shade of green tells me he’s been crying all day.
He swallows hard, staring unblinking. It’s like he’s looking right through me. “The cancer came back. It spread.” Another tear slides down his cheek, and I reach to wipe it away with my thumb.
“But, he was in remission?” I feel the tears building behind my own eyes. “He was doing better!” Angry, wounded tears begin to fall, and Isaac pulls me close to him once again, my head against his chest this time.
“Shh, you’ll give yourself a migraine.” He sniffles. “Sam was in remission two years ago. It’s been two years.” In the worst moment of his life, he’s thinking about me and my stupid migraines. The mounting pressure in my skull reaches a peak, and it’s no use in trying to stop the tears that force their way out of my eyes and down my cheeks in a steady stream of utter despair.
I can’t control it. The sobs wrack my body, and I succumb to them.
So we cry.
And cry.
And cry.