Lessons in Chemistry (31 page)

As Elizabeth read the new piece, she held her breath. It was all there: her goals, her experiments. And these other women and
their work—she felt fortified by their battles, inspired by their progress.

Madeline, however, was crying.

“Honey,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t understand. Why did this upset you? Mr. Roth did a good job. It’s a good article. I’m not mad at you; I’m glad you read it. He wrote something truthful about me and these other women and I very much hope this gets published. Somewhere.” She looked at his note again. Rejected by science magazines ten times already? Really?

“I know,” Madeline said, swiping her hand under her nose, “but that’s why I’m sad, Mom. Because you belong in a lab. But instead you make dinner on TV and…and…and it’s because of
me.
”

“No,” Elizabeth said gently. “Not true. Every parent has to earn a living. It’s part of being an adult.”

“But you’re not in a lab specifically because of
me
—”

“Again, not true—”

“Yes, it is. Wakely’s typist told me.”

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open.

“Jesus Christ,” Wakely said, covering his face with his hands.

“What?” Elizabeth said. “Who is this typist of yours?”

“I think you might know her,” Wakely said.

“Listen to me, Mad,” Elizabeth said. “Very closely. I’m still a chemist. A chemist on television.”

“No,” Mad said sadly. “You’re not.”

Dear Sirs

It was two days earlier, and Miss Frask was on a roll. Usually she could type around 145 words per minute—fast by any standard—but the world’s record was 216 words per minute, and today, Frask, who’d taken three diet pills with coffee, had a feeling she might break it. But just as she entered the home stretch, her fingers pounding the keys, a stopwatch ticking just off to the side, she heard two unexpected words.

“Excuse me.”

“Geez Louise!” she shouted, pushing herself away from the desk. She swiveled her head to the left to see a skinny child clutching a manila envelope.

“Hi,” the child said.

“What the hell!” Frask gasped.

“Lady, you’re fast.”

Frask pressed her hand on her heart as if to keep it contained. “Th-thank you,” she managed.

“Your pupils are dilated.”

“Ex-excuse me?”

“Is Wakely here?”

Frask sat back in her chair, her heart fibrillating, as the child leaned in to scan the contents of the typewriter.

“Do you
mind
?” Frask said.

“I’m calculating,” the kid explained. Then she drew back in awe. “Whoa. You’re in Stella Pajunas territory.”

“H-how would you know who Stella—”

“World’s fastest typist. Two hundred sixteen words per—”

Frask’s eyes widened.

“—but I interrupted you so we gotta take that into account—”

“Who
are
you?” Frask insisted.

“Lady, you’re sweating.”

Frask’s hand flew to her damp forehead.

“You’re at a hundred eighty words per minute. If we round up.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mad,” the kid said.

Frask took in the child’s puffy, purplish lips, her long, clumsy limbs. “Evans?” she filled in without thinking.

They looked at each other in equal astonishment.

“Your mom and dad and I used to work together,” Frask explained to Mad over a plate of diet cookies. “At Hastings. I was in Personnel and your mom and dad were both in the Chemistry Department. Your dad was very famous—I’m sure you know that. And now your mom is, too.”

“Because of
Life,
” the child said, hanging her head.

“No,” Frask said firmly. “In spite of it.”

“What was my dad like?” Mad asked, taking a small bite of cookie.

“He…” Frask hesitated. She realized she had no idea what he’d been like. “He was completely in love with your mother.”

Madeline lit up. “Really?”

“And your mother,” she continued for the first time without jealousy, “was completely in love with him.”

“What else?” Mad asked eagerly.

“They were very happy together. So happy, that before your
dad died, he left your mother a gift. You know what that gift was?” She tipped her head toward Mad. “You.”

Madeline rolled her eyes slightly. This was the sort of thing adults said when they were trying to paper over something darker. She’d once heard Wakely tell a librarian that although her cousin, Joyce, had died—dropped dead in the middle of the A&P clutching her heart—Joyce had not suffered. Really? Did anyone ask Joyce?

“And then what happened?”

What happened?
Frask thought.
Well, I spread vicious rumors about your mother, which culminated in her firing, which led directly to her state of penury, which led to an eventual return to Hastings, which led to your mother screaming at me in the women’s bathroom, which led to the discovery that we’d both been sexually assaulted, which led to our inability to get our PhDs, which led to unfulfilling careers in a company led by a handful of incompetent assholes. That’s what happened.

But instead she said, “Well, your mom decided it would be more fun to stay at home and have you.”

Madeline put down her cookie. There it was again. Adults and their on-again, off-again relationship with the truth.

“I don’t see how that could be fun,” Mad said.

“What do you mean?”

“Wasn’t she sad?”

Frask looked away.

“When I’m sad, I don’t want to be alone.”

“Cookie?” asked Frask half-heartedly.

“Home alone,” Madeline continued. “No dad. No work. No friends.”

Frask took a sudden interest in a publication called
Our Daily Bread.

“What really happened?” Mad prodded.

“She was
fired,
” Frask said, without considering the effect her words might have. “Fired because she was pregnant with
you.
”

Madeline crumpled as if she’d been shot from behind.

“Again, not your fault,” Frask reassured the child, who’d been sobbing for the last ten minutes. “Really. You wouldn’t have believed how close-minded those people at Hastings were. Complete jerks.” Frask, remembering she’d been one of those jerks, ate the rest of the cookies, while Mad, despite her raggedy breath, pointed out that the cookies contained tartrazine, a food coloring additive that had been linked to poor liver and kidney function.

“Anyway,” Frask continued, “you’re looking at this all wrong. Your mother didn’t leave Hastings because of you. She got out
thanks
to you. And then she made the very poor decision to go back, but that’s another story.”

Madeline heaved a sigh. “I gotta go,” she said, blowing her nose while looking at the clock. “Sorry about wrecking your typing test. Would you give this to Wakely?” She held out the unsealed envelope marked
Elizabeth Zott: PRIVATE.

“I will,” Frask promised, giving her a hug. But as soon as the door shut behind her, she ignored the child’s instructions and opened the envelope. “Holy hell,” she fumed as she read Roth’s latest. “Zott really is the real deal.”

“Sirs,” she typed ferociously, addressing the editors at
Life
magazine thirty seconds later. “I read your ridiculous cover story on Elizabeth Zott and I think your fact-checker should be fired. I know Elizabeth Zott— I used to work with Elizabeth Zott—and I know, for a fact, that everything in this article is a lie. I also used to work with Dr. Donatti. I know what he did at Hastings and I have the documents to back it up.”

Her letter went on, listing Elizabeth’s accomplishments as a chemist, most of which she discovered only after reading Roth’s new article, while highlighting the injustices Zott had faced at Hastings. “Donatti reappropriated her funding,” she wrote, “then fired her without cause. I know,” she admitted, “because I was part of it— a sin for which I’m currently trying to atone by typing sermons for a living.” Then she went on to explain how later,
Donatti not only stole Zott’s research but lied to important investors. She finished, asserting that while she knew
Life
would never have the guts to print her letter, she felt she had to write it anyway.

It appeared in the very next issue.

“Elizabeth, read this!” Harriet said excitedly, holding the latest copy of
Life
in her hands. “Women from all over the country have written to
Life
in protest. It’s a rebellion—everyone’s on your side. There’s even one from someone who claims she worked with you at Hastings.”

“Not interested.”

Having finished her daily lunch box notes to Madeline, Elizabeth closed the lid, then pretended to fuss with a Bunsen burner. For the last few weeks, she’d done her best to keep her head up—ignore the article, she told herself. Carry on. That was the coping strategy that had carried her through suicide, sexual assault, lies, thievery, and catastrophic loss; it would again. Except it hadn’t. This time, no matter how high she lifted her head,
Life
’s misrepresentation of who she was beat her back down again. The damage felt permanent, like a brand. She would never outrun it.

Harriet read aloud from the letters. “If it weren’t for Elizabeth Zott—”

“Harriet, I said I’m
not
interested,” she snapped. What was the point? Her life was over.

“But what about this unpublished piece of Roth’s,” Harriet said, ignoring Elizabeth’s tone. “The science-y one. I had no idea there were other women scientists—besides you and Curie, I mean. I’ve read the whole thing twice. Found it riveting. Which is saying something because you know. Science.”

“It’s already been rejected by ten scientific magazines,” Elizabeth said in a deadened voice. “Women in science isn’t something people have any interest in.” She picked up her car keys. “I’ll go kiss Mad goodbye, and then I’m off.”

“Do me a favor? Try not to wake her this time.”

“Harriet,” Elizabeth said. “Have I ever?”

After hearing Elizabeth back the Plymouth down the drive, Harriet opened Madeline’s lunch box, curious to see what words of wisdom Elizabeth had written this time.
It’s not your imagination,
said the note on top.
Most people are awful.

Harriet pressed her fingertips against her head in worry. She padded around the lab, wiping down counters, the weight of Elizabeth’s depression evident in ways she hadn’t really registered before. The pile of empty research notebooks, the untouched chemical supplies, the unsharpened pencils. Damn that
Life
magazine, she thought. Despite its name, the magazine had stolen Elizabeth’s life—ended it—due in no small part to fraudulent quotes from people like Donatti and Meyers.

“Oh honey,” Harriet said as Mad appeared in the doorway. “Did your mom wake you?”

“It’s another day.”

They sat down together and picked at the breakfast muffins Elizabeth had baked earlier that morning.

“I’m real worried, Harriet,” Mad said. “About Mom.”

“Well, she’s feeling very down, Mad,” Harriet said. “But she’ll bounce back soon enough. You’ll see.”

“Are you sure?”

Harriet looked away. No, she wasn’t sure. She’d never been less sure of anything in her life. Everyone has a breaking point; she worried that Elizabeth had finally reached hers.

She turned her attention to the latest issue of
Ladies’ Home Journal.
“Can You Trust Your Hairdresser?” an article asked. “The Year of the Important Blouse” informed another. Sighing, she reached for another muffin. She’d been the one who’d talked Elizabeth into the
Life
interview. If someone was to blame, it was her.

They sat in silence, Mad picking the paper wrap from her muffin as Harriet replayed Elizabeth’s words about how no one had any interest in reading about women in science. It rang true. Or did it?

She cocked her head to the side. “Wait a sec, Mad,” she said slowly as an idea came to her. “Wait just a goddamn second.”

Normal

“I think about death a lot,” Elizabeth confessed to Wakely one chilly November evening.

“Me too,” he said.

They sat together on the back step, their voices low. Madeline was just inside watching TV.

“I don’t think it’s normal.”

“Maybe not,” he agreed. “But I’m not sure what normal is. Does science recognize normal? How would you define normal?”

“Well,” she said. “I guess normal is a little like average.”

“I’m not so sure. Normal isn’t like weather; you can’t expect normal. You can’t even make normal. From what I can tell, normal may not exist.”

She looked at him sideways. “Strange words coming from someone who finds the Bible normal.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I can safely say there is not a single normal event in the Bible. Probably one of the reasons it’s so popular. Who wants to believe life is exactly how it seems?”

She looked at him curiously. “But you believe those stories. You preach them.”

“I believe in a few things,” he corrected. “Mostly the things about not giving up hope, not giving in to darkness. As for the word ‘preach,’ I prefer ‘relate.’ Anyway, what I believe is irrelevant.
What I think is that you feel dead, so you believe you are dead. But you’re not dead. You’re very much alive. And that puts you in a difficult position.”

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying.”

“You’re a strange minister.”

“No, I’m a terrible minister,” he corrected.

She hesitated. “I have a confession to make, Wakely. I’ve read your letters. The ones you and Calvin wrote to each other. I’m sure they were private, but they were in his belongings and I read them. Years ago.”

Wakely turned to look at her. “Evans
kept
them?” He felt a sudden longing for his old friend.

“I don’t know if you know this, but you’re the reason he took the job at Hastings.”

“What?”

“You told him Commons had the best weather.”

“I did?”

“You know how Calvin felt about weather. He could have gone a million other places and made a lot more money, but he came here, to Commons. ‘Best weather in the world.’ I think that’s how you phrased it.”

Wakely felt the weight of his flippant advice. Because of something he’d said, Evans had come to Commons, then died in Commons. “But the weather is only good later in the day,” he explained, as if he had to. “After the morning fog burns off. I can’t believe he moved here to row in the sun. There’s no sun—not when rowers row.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.”

“I’m responsible,” he said, horror-struck, fully recognizing the part he’d played in Calvin’s premature death. “It’s all my fault.”

“No, no.” Elizabeth sighed. “I’m the one who bought the leash.”

They sat together listening to Madeline sing along with the TV theme song playing in the background.
A horse is a horse, of
course, of course, and no one can talk to a horse of course, that is, of course, unless the horse is the famous Mister Ed!

With a start, Wakely remembered the secret Madeline had whispered in his ear that day in the library.
My dog knows 981 words.
It’d taken him by surprise. Why would a child like Madeline, obsessed with the truth, choose to share such an obvious lie?

As for what he’d told her? It was the worst.
I don’t believe in God.

She closed her eyes briefly, then cleared her throat. “I had a brother, Wakely,” she said as if confessing a sin. “He died, too.”

Wakely’s eyebrows furrowed. “A brother? I’m so sorry. When was this? What happened?”

“It was a long time ago. I was ten. He hanged himself.”

“Good
god,
” Wakely said, his voice trembling. He suddenly remembered Madeline’s family tree. At the very bottom was a kid with a noose around his neck.

“I almost died once, myself,” she said. “I jumped into a quarry. I couldn’t swim. Still can’t.”

“What?”

“My brother jumped in right after me. Somehow got me to the side.”

“I see,” Wakely said, slowly unraveling her guilt. “Your brother saved you—so you think you should have been able to save him. Is that it?”

She turned to looked at him, her face hollow.

“But Elizabeth, you couldn’t swim—that’s why he jumped in after you. You have to understand, suicide isn’t like that. Suicide is lot more complicated.”

“Wakely,” she said. “He didn’t know how to swim either.”

They stopped talking, Wakely despairing because he didn’t know what to say, Elizabeth depressed because she didn’t know what to do. Six-Thirty pushed through the screen door and pressed himself against Elizabeth
.

“You’ve never forgiven yourself,” Wakely finally said. “But it’s him you have to forgive. What you need to do is accept.”

She made a sad sound, like a tire slowly losing air.

“You’re a scientist,” he said. “Your job is to question things—to search for answers. But sometimes—and I know this for a fact—there just aren’t any. You know that prayer that starts ‘God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change’?”

She frowned.

“That’s definitely not you.”

She cocked her head.

“Chemistry is change and change is the core of your belief system. Which is good because that’s what we need more of—people who refuse to accept the status quo, who aren’t afraid to take on the unacceptable. But sometimes the unacceptable—your brother’s suicide, Calvin’s death—is, in fact, permanent, Elizabeth. Things happen. They just do.”

“Sometimes I understand why my brother left,” she admitted quietly. “After everything that’s happened, sometimes I feel like I want out, too.”

“I get that,” Wakely said, thinking of how damaging the
Life
article was. “Believe me. But that’s not really your problem. It’s not that you want out.”

She turned to look at him, confused.

“It’s that you want back
in.
”