Page 2 of Love in the Lab
My normal routine is to get to the lab at ten on Saturday and Sunday mornings and work until I’m done. I’m here during the week, too, but so is everyone else, and I have a hard time concentrating. A whole day passes, and I have no idea how I actually spent those hours. The lab’s deserted on the weekends, so I use the time to get caught up. Well, usually deserted, until recently when Jonathan started showing up in the evenings.
He and I actually worked together for several years on a different research team at NOSU, one focusing on coastal erosion, before I heard about the team Dr. Phyllis Gantt was putting together to study harmful algal blooms in the Gulf. It’s my dream project. The mixture of chemistry, biology, and the ocean blends all my favorite research topics.
Working with Dr. Gantt is a huge honor; she’s one of the world’s leading experts on algal blooms, and has the journalcitations to prove it. She’s the principal investigator, or PI, of the project, which means she oversees the entire research process. She hired me to her lab in January, and then Jonathan moved over a couple of months later, much to my chagrin. I didn’t even know he was interested in algal blooms. I can’t seem to shake the guy.
“Dr. Delaney?” he prompts now, and I remember he asked me something. “How long have you been here?”
“Oh, um, I don’t know.”None of your business.
He grins like we’re in on a secret together. “All day then, huh? Were you about to eat?”
You know what? No. I’m at a pretty good stopping point for the night. There’s no need to stay and force small talk with my archnemesis.
“Actually, I’m on my way out,” I answer archly.
His eyebrows rise slightly, but he maintains a smile. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’m sure you will,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
“Have a good night, Dr. Stanch.”
“You too.”
I wake up groggy the next morning, too early. I had trouble falling asleep and even once I finally did, I didn’t sleep well. My cat, Beaker, decided it was a great night to run around the apartment yowling.
I shower and get dressed in my usual yoga pants and T-shirt combo. As long as my clothes are comfortable and have lots of pockets, they work for me. I probably use something like 0.5 percent of my brain power on clothing. I don’t even mean 0.5percent of my total potential brain power. I mean 0.5 percent of my day-to-day brain function.
It’s like in cartoons how the characters will open their closets, and the joke is that it’s just a row of all the same shirts and pants they always wear. Honestly, that sounds like a dream. When I find a piece of clothing that fits me comfortably, I buy five more, in various colors if they have them.
I head to the kitchen for breakfast. My apartment is a studio, cozy and small. Other than the front door, the only other door in the place is for the bathroom.
On my way to the kitchen, I notice the pile of photographs and empty picture frames on the coffee table in the living room, which I left there last Friday after my Target run. My apartment walls are too bare. I didn’t think about the walls at all for the three years I’d been living here. Then I noticed them a couple of weeks ago, and now it’s all I can think about. My plan is to choose a few photos of my family to hang up.
I check my watch. I have a few extra minutes this morning. I sit on the couch, avoiding Beaker, who has finally decided to sleep now that I have to be awake, and sort through the photos, trying to narrow them down to the four I want to display. There’s one of my sisters and me before I left for college. Olivia was still so little. One of all five of us, parents included, last Christmas. My sisters and I were wearing matching Christmas pajamas as a surprise for my mom. Then, one of me with Nicole when she visited New Orleans earlier this year.
I pick through the photos until I’ve made my final decisions. I seal the deal by putting my choices into frames. Now I’m looking at the walls, trying to determine where to hang each frame.
A blaring noise from my phone brings me back to the coffee table. Wait! That can’t be the alarm I set to remind me when I need to leave the house to get to work on time. But it is.How have thirty minutes passed?
I skip breakfast, gather my things, and head out the door. My apartment is only a few blocks from the lab so unless the weather’s bad, I typically walk.
When I get to street level, the humidity slams me in the chest. August in New Orleans is unbearable—hot and sticky, and no matter where I go, it smells like I’m standing inside a dumpster.
Mostly, I like New Orleans, though it’s very different from where I grew up in Texas. I like the food, by which I mean beignets. I like being near the water. I like my lab.
I arrive at the lab, and I’ve hardly had time to set my water bottle on my desk before my boss, Dr. Gantt, approaches.
“Good morning, Dr. Delaney.” She smiles. “Can I speak with you in my office for a few moments, please?”
Um. Okay.
Hands sweating, I follow her across the room to her office, where she ushers me in and shuts the door. I feel like I’ve been called to the principal’s office, though I’m not sure what I might have done wrong.
She gestures for me to sit in the empty chair in front of her desk while she settles behind it. Dr. Gantt is young for her position—somewhere in her forties, I’d guess. Her tight box braids are pulled into a high ponytail on top of her head, and the strands bounce as she rolls her chair closer to the desk.
She folds her hands and places them on her lap. “Dr. Delaney, I want to discuss the work you’ve been doing this year.”
