Out of Reach (7 page)

Exiting off the freeway I open the sunroof
so I can enjoy the night air. I love all parts of California but
San Diego, with its temperate climate and unlimited supply of
sunshine, is perfect for a sun worshipper like me. In retrospect,
I’m not sure how I survived living in Boston, which most definitely
has four seasons. I’m happiest with one season: summer.

Presently I’m renting a small two-bedroom
house about a mile or so from the beach in La Jolla. It’s a cute
little one story with wide bay windows, a large back patio, and a
fat little garden gnome that guards the front porch. He’s a little
cliché and very cheesy but he came with the place and just kind of
fits. On my own I could never afford a place like this. Luckily I
rent from family at a greatly reduced price in return for keeping
up with the maintenance of the place. I absolutely adore this home.
Pulling into the driveway, I park in the detached garage and follow
the slate stepping stones to the porch. The scent of star jasmine
fills the air and I make a quick mental note to water those pots in
the morning. They are the only green things besides the grass that
I’ve been able to keep alive, and I don’t want to jeopardize the
health of my only gardening success.

As I unlock the front door I realize I’ve
forgotten to pick up the mail. Dropping my purse on the entry table
I jog back down the driveway and empty the mailbox. Gauging by the
numerous handfuls of junk mail I pull out, it has been a few days
since I remembered to empty the thing. I pause by the trashcan next
to the garage and toss the undesirable catalogs and coupon ads
inside. Pushing through the front door a second time, I flip on the
lights and make a beeline for the kitchen, dropping my keys and a
stack of mail on the counter. I store my leftovers away in the
fridge, flip off the lights, and head down the hallway toward the
bedroom.

Mere steps from my destination my foot makes
contact with a soft bundle, catching long enough for me to lose my
balance. My arms shoot out in a desperate attempt to catch myself
and latch onto the only object in reach, the bedroom door-frame,
which prevents me from falling flat on my face, but does little to
cushion the impact of my body when it hits the wall.

“Damn it,” I mutter, reaching through the
bedroom door and turning on the lights. In the now illuminated
hallway, I see the offending pile of clothes I tripped over.
Growling I grab the bundle of clothes and throw them as hard as I
can in the direction of the laundry room. Feeling somewhat
vindicated, I stomp back toward the kitchen, collecting the shoe
that went flying during my ordeal, while muttering curses under my
breath the whole time.

The perfect end to the
perfect day
, I think to myself as I hang
up my clothes. After removing my shirt, I am able to make a better
assessment of the damage done to my body, which becomes immediately
apparent when I glance in the full-length mirror. Curses on my fair
skin! There’s going to be a nasty bruise on my shoulder for sure.
Frazzled and testy, I put my shoes in their designated spot on the
shelf and throw my dirty clothes in the hamper at the back of the
closet. I grab a tank top and sweats from the bedroom dresser and
dress quickly. Pausing briefly on my way to the bathroom, I look at
the treadmill. The internal struggle being waged is clearly
reflected on my face. Knowing I could desperately use the
endorphins brought on from a long run gets weighed against my
mental exhaustion and the hallway beating I just took. Finally, my
mind capitulates and I proceed into the bathroom to brush my
teeth.

I try desperately not to let my mind wander
to thoughts of work, but I can’t. I find myself running through the
procedures we have been using to bring compound 253B to room
temperature and maintain stability. Once that’s done, we can look
into mass synthetic reproduction. Compound 253B seemed similar to
several other compounds we had successfully synthesized this year.
So, naturally, we applied the previously successful methods to
253B. Unfortunately, this compound is just different enough that it
hasn’t worked. Joe and I are probably going to have to start from
scratch tomorrow and find some way to attack the problem from a
different angle.

Exasperated, I lean over the sink and manage
to rinse out my toothbrush before throwing the thing across the
bathroom countertop in a fit of frustration. Laughing out loud at
my ridiculous behavior, I head back into the bedroom thinking maybe
I really should have gotten on the treadmill and ran a few
miles.

Climbing into bed, I make a big fuss about
the covers, flopping around angrily until everything around me is
situated exactly right. And of course, now that I’m comfortable, I
remember I need to plug my cell phone into charge and set the alarm
clock.

“Fuck,” I whisper loudly.
Stomping over to the dresser, I collect my cell phone and furiously
plug it into its charger. Then I program my alarm for the morning,
being sure it’s early enough I’ll be able to hit the snooze button
a couple times before actually having to be out of bed. Lying back
down after turning out the lights, I sigh, all my anger from the
day completely spent at this point. Rolling onto my side, I remind
myself,
You are near a break through, you
are near a break through
, before closing
my eyes and completely blacking out.

Beep, beep, beep.

The incessant noise of the alarm clock
rouses me long enough to read the time: 0600. I roll over and hit
the snooze button. Twenty minutes later, I’m out of options when
the dreaded beeping begins again. Dragging myself into a sitting
position, I fire off a string of curses under my breath for the
indecency of having to get up before ten.

Turning off the alarm clock, I stand up and
stretch, then head to the bathroom long enough to turn on the
shower before climbing back under the covers to wait for the water
to warm up. Anything less than scalding isn’t worth getting
undressed for.

I know it’s pathetic, but I am absolutely no
good before 9 a.m. There is no amount of hot water or caffeine that
can overcome my mental funk in the mornings. And conversation is
out. My family knows from years of experience I ignore all forms of
communication in the morning. I had one prayer as an undergraduate
student: that I wouldn’t get a chatty morning person for a
roommate. God, who has an enormous sense of humor, only halfway
answered my prayer. I got Melanie as a roommate. Now she most
certainly is a morning person, but, being like a sister, she was
well aware of my no-talking-before-9a.m. rule. If my life had an
equation, it would be simple: Gwen plus time less than or equal to
8:59 a.m. equals don’t talk to me! Lucky for me I have the next
hour and a half to myself.

When I finally get into the shower, I linger
under the hot spray long after I’ve finished washing. It’s always
hard to leave the shower. Instinctively I know it will be cold in
the bathroom. But, thanks to my stunt with the snooze button, I now
have limited time to get ready for work, so I will myself to reach
out the door and grab my towel. Swiftly drying off, I bound into
the closet to get dressed. When it comes to attire, working in a
lab definitely has its pros and cons. Pro: I can wear whatever I
want to and from work. Con: once at work, I will have to change
into attire that meets current safety standards before entering the
lab.

Translation: I spend fifty percent of my day
looking like a giant marshmallow. My revenge usually comes in the
form of a cute pair of pumps, jeans, and a classy top. Today is no
exception. I top off my jeans with a deep green dolman sweater over
an iridescent tank. Some days I will throw a little jewelry into
the mix, but I can’t wear it into the lab and it’s hard to keep
track of anything that small at work. Flashy sunglasses have become
my staple accessory instead.

While dressing, I take the opportunity to
reassess my injuries from the previous evening’s escapade.
Shrugging my shoulders, I notice the right one is a little tender
and nicely bruised. Thankfully my outfit selection nicely hides the
glorious purple splotch on my shoulder.

Shoes in one hand, phone in the other, I
pause for a moment in the bedroom doorframe and carefully screen
the surrounding vicinity for fall hazards. Satisfied I will likely
make it to the kitchen unscathed, I proceed down the hallway. The
aroma of fresh coffee greets me and intensifies the closer I get to
the front room. Silently I send up a prayer thanking God for the
invention of the automatic coffeemaker.

Filling a travel mug with what is sure to be
the first of many caffeine hits today, I take a moment to enjoy the
view of the sunrise out my kitchen window. The rosy glow extends
into the kitchen while the smaller tendrils of light try to wind
their way further into the living room. It makes me smile and fills
me with a positive energy only the sun can. In the light of that
magnificent orb I feel like I can do anything.

A quick glance at the stove reminds me it’s
0705 and I have someplace to be.

Grabbing a couple of granola bars and a
pitcher of water, I head out the door. Not exactly the breakfast of
champions but I need to eat and I hate breakfast. None of the food
items associated with breakfast are worth eating in my book. I’d
rather wait and waste extra calories on lunch. I stop on the porch
long enough to dump the pitcher of water I’m carrying over the star
jasmine.

“There you go, babies,” I tell them before
hopping in the car and heading to work.

* * *

Hours later I emerge with Joe from what I’ve
nicknamed the command center. Technically the command center is
just a conference room we’ve commandeered for the morning meeting,
but naming it makes it sound cooler. Shortly after clocking into
work and way before our usual morning debriefing Joe stopped by my
office asked me to collect all my project notes and meet him in the
command center. I obliged and was greeted with several hours of
mind-numbing work on the predicament compound 253B was posing,
including a brief chemistry review thrown in by Christine, whom we
Shanghaied when she made the mistake of leaving her lab for a
coffee break.

Right when we were starting to make some
headway, the grumbling stomachs of our crew forced us to break for
lunch. Truthfully, I would rather have toughed it out another hour
or so. Now that we had reworked a few steps, I didn’t want to stop,
afraid of losing our hard earned momentum. Reluctantly I agreed to
reconvene after a one hour break for lunch.

“Are you coming with us for lunch?” Joe asks
me.

“No, I already have plans,” I lie.

“Ok then, see you in a bit,” he replies,
already heading toward the elevators with Charlie. Following behind
the guys, I bypass the elevators and open the door to the
stairwell. It’s a short flight of stairs down to the lobby and I
can probably make it to the vending machines and back before the
elevator even stops to pick the guys up, I think to myself. A few
minutes later, it turns out my prediction was wrong -- the guys
emerge from the elevator about the same time the vending machine is
spitting out my can of Coke. Waving as they pass, I head up to my
office to quietly enjoy my third caffeine fix of the day.

Kicking my clogs under the desk, I move
around my office, opening the mini-blinds and letting in as much
light as possible. Just this simple task helps to cheer up the
stark environment of my office.

Someday
, I think,
I need to let Melanie in
to decorate the place—it’s so sterile.

Curling up in my office chair and getting
comfortable, I reach for the soda can and pull the tab; I’m
instantly greeted by the sweetest sound on earth: the decompressing
hiss of a freshly opened Coke. Sigh.

Heaven!
I think to myself. Savoring that first taste, I dig through
my top desk drawer and pull out a badly battered book and begin to
read. I’ve no more than flipped to the second page when
...

“Ahem,” interjects Melanie to get my
attention. “Are you reading that thing again?” she admonishes.

“I love this book,” I counter.

“Yeah, but you’ve read it a hundred times.
And I guarantee it ends the same way it did last time,” she
finishes. Knowing her disdain stems more from the fact she’s miffed
I’m not using the Kindle she got me for my birthday, I play
along.

“I don’t have anything else to read at work.
I lost my Kindle.”

“You what!” she screeches. Laughing too hard
at this point to keep up the ruse, I reach back into my desk drawer
and pull out the Kindle before she can berate me.

“You’re such a bad liar,” she says, grabbing
the thing out of my hands. Flipping it on, she verifies it’s still
in working order before turning the face back toward me and saying,
“See, I’ve even taken the liberty of downloading some of that
vampire porn for you.”

Melanie doesn’t share my love of the fantasy
fiction genre. The “vampire porn” she is referring to is nothing
more than a clever title she uses to categorize the whole genre. I
don’t actually read pornography. But I have been drawn to the
supernatural for as long as I can remember. Vampires, werewolves,
angels, and demons ... who says they don’t exist! Admittedly, to my
knowledge I’ve never seen anything supernatural, but who knows,
maybe that’s only because my human senses aren’t keen enough to
notice. Authors all over the world are regularly capitalizing on
the existence of the supernatural; maybe they’re just more
enlightened than I am.

I’m not
crazy
, I remind myself. I don’t actually
run around in my spare time looking for the existence of
vampires.
Well, except maybe once in
undergrad
, but I was really really drunk I
remind myself.