Unforgettable (18 page)

Rett stared after her in a sort of shock. Every step stretched the electric tendrils between them ever tauter until Rett’s skin prickled. Angel couldn’t be serious.

The guitar was playing the opening to “Four Strong Winds.” The Wiffenpoofs were expecting her to sing alto.

Messenger ribonucleic acid (mRNA) indirectly transmits instructions for protein coding of genes after transcription between the nucleus and cellular cytoplasm. Messenger RNA can also be used to sythensize cDNA to aid the chromosome!autosome map. This information formed the first level of inquiry into chromosomal examination by light microscope to accomplish karyotype (JNCI Vol 89).The cDNA map provides further banding refinement with specific amplified DNA fragments … 

Rett sat back in the library chair and tried to shake off the chill in her stomach.

She’d woken up feeling so good, too. After the Wiffenpoofs’ impromptu concert she’d been invited to join the Martinetta clan for dinner and conversation.

“Angel told us she had run into you in L.A.,” Angel’s brother had said after he’d reminded Rett who he was.

“At a charity event,” Rett had replied vaguely. She didn’t know how much Angel had told her family and didn’t want to put a foot wrong by saying, “At a lesbian bar.”

“Mama wondered if you would be interested in strawberry shortcake with all the trimmings.”

“You betcha,” Rett said. “Is my memory correct? Are both you and your brother named Tony?”

“You got it — my big brother is Antony Michael, but we call him Big Tony and I’m Antony Carmine, which is also my father’s name. That’s where the Tony Junior comes from. But please, call me T.J. Everyone does.”

Everyone had to. Nicknames abounded as some sort of family naming tradition involving grandmother and grandfather names made given names very confusing when introductions were made. Rett’s near-perfect recall only worked when she got something fixed in her mind and she lost count of the Antonys, Angelicas and Carmellas. Not all of the grandchildren were present, either. The Martinetta exuberance was a little overwhelming, but she could certainly get used to it.

She had found herself sitting next to Angel and facing a plate of homemade shortcake with a heap of fresh strawberries and cream. “Angelica says that you met again in Los Angeles,” Mrs. Martinetta commented. She was beaming at Rett with unnerving approval.

“A few months ago. The horrid truth is that I didn’t recognize her.”

“Out of context people can look different.” Carmella, the youngest of the five siblings, was dishing out strawberries to the line of teenagers. “I don’t think I’d have recognized half the people here if I saw them in Ann Arbor.”

“That must explain it,” Rett said. She liked that excuse. She smiled benignly at Angel, who had not ceased glowering at her from the moment she had walked up with T.J. Obviously the invitation to join them had not been Angel’s idea. But it would have been rude to refuse.

“Did you see much of each other after that?” Mrs. Martinetta never paused in her continuous slicing of shortcake.

Angel took a deep, long-suffering breath. Carmella gave her a sympathetic glance while T.J. muttered, “Your turn, finally.”

Things were moving too fast for Rett to figure it all out. She kept her answer simple. “No, I left on tour the next day. I was gone three weeks and have been incredibly busy ever since.” She forbore mentioning that Angel had had her number and never called. She fluttered her eyelashes innocently at Angel.

“We didn’t see each other again until just before I left on vacation, Mama.” Angel’s tone said she wanted the subject dropped.

“Angel tells me you sing professionally with a symphony.” 

“An orchestra, Mama.” Angel’s voice was almost inaudible.

“What’s the difference?”

Rett chimed in. “I’m singing with a big band orchestra.”

“I see. Angel said your voice is one of the finest she’s ever heard.”

Rett could feel Angel cringing. So Angel liked her voice — that was nice to know. Mrs. Martinetta was far more forthcoming than her daughter. “I’m flattered.”

“You should come to dinner. Thursday night.”

“Mama,” Angel said weakly. She said something in Italian and the whole family laughed. Rett stole a look — Angel was blushing.

Ignoring her daughter’s obvious discomfort, Mrs. Martinetta asked, “Do you like Italian food?”

“Say yes,” several of the family said in unison.

“Just say yes.” Angel had an air of resigned acceptance.

“I love Italian food,” Rett said. “Give me a spignotti e aglio or pollodora scallopine and I’m in heaven.”

Mrs. Martinetta glowed with satisfaction.

Angel was looking studiously at her plate. “It would seem you’re coming to dinner.”

“Yes, I think it’s a date.”

Angel turned to her in a panic. “Don’t use that word. We’ll be married between the tiramisu and the coffee.”

Rett opened her mouth to ask for clarification but Mrs. Martinetta sighed loudly, looked at her eldest daughter and observed that Angel was her only child not yet settled down. Someday, maybe she would be lucky enough to know that all her children were happy. Angel’s siblings snickered.

“Okay, I understand.” Rett gave Angel a long, direct look, then said loudly enough to be overheard, “It’s a date, then.”

“You shit,” Angel had muttered, but her lips had twitched.

It was a date. Meeting the whole family officially on their first date — Rett had sung to herself all the way home and awakened on Monday morning with a smile. She’d showered and dressed, grabbed the packet of reunion materials to read, finally, and headed for the nearest waffle restaurant. After that she had promised herself a long walk and at least an hour of practice. The Wiffenpoofs were going to do several selections at the reunion dance on Saturday night. A practice session was set for Wednesday at lunchtime. If she wanted to keep her voice in flex she needed a good practice.

She read every word about Angel in the materials, but the few short paragraphs only whetted her appetite. Angel’s undergraduate biochemistry degree from Cal Poly had been followed by an M.D./Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins. Education alone accounted for nearly twelve of the past twenty-three years. After her medical residency, she’d gone on to be an investigator on the Human Genome Project, whatever that was. Then the short bio stated she’d been awarded the National Science Award for leading a team of UCLA researchers who had isolated the genetic sequence that created a predisposition for ovarian cancer.

Rett had nothing else to do with her time and any excuse to avoid seeing her mother was a welcome one. 

Minnesotans had always prided themselves on their public library and school systems. With a phone call she discovered that the nearest library did indeed have Internet search engines available.

A search for “Martinetta, Angelica” had returned over a hundred hits. Twenty or so were from UCLA’s Web site, another twenty from CNN news articles and the rest from other university and medical research sites. Rett scrolled down until she found a CNN article about the most recent National Science Award. The article was too sketchy to be of much help in understanding Angel the scientist or the woman, but it gave her a link to the Journal of the National Cancer Institute, which had published the paper that had led to the award.

She followed that link and found she had to subscribe to read the paper. She went back to the original hits and finally found her way to UCLA bios of some of its professors and even discovered a head shot of Angel. She cursed herself for not thinking of going to UCLA’s Web site a couple of months ago, but the path to the pictures was a long and involved one that she probably wouldn’t have known to follow. She gazed at the posed photograph. Angel looked so serious and so damned intelligent.

That was when her stomach first felt a chill. Then she found the Web site for the Human Genome Project. It was a modest undertaking — an international team of researchers were just trying to create a map of the three billion genetic pieces that made up the human body. Angel had done a stint there and Rett was now reading a paper she’d written during that experience.

When Rett looked at skin she saw color and texture. What must Angel see? Pairs of banded chromosomes, DNA coiled in double helix strands? What was it Angel had said that first night? That everything a person could be was already written on her genes. Thirty billion gene markers made up one human body. Thirty billion pieces of information to understand a single human being. The scope daunted Rett, but apparently Angel thrived on the challenge of mapping the essence of humanity. Angel was trying to understand the blueprint of human existence, what some people might call the mind of God.

Endonuclease proteins …

Rett swallowed hard and fought down a feeling of panic. The fragile woman’s body she had held in her arms, with thighs of silk and fingers of pure magic — that small, passionate creature had a mind that could understand the universe’s most secret workings.

Recombinant DNA … genomic sequence … autonomously replicating, extrachromosomal circular DNA molecules …

It was terrifying. What would they talk about on long winter nights that Rett could possibly comprehend? Every science class had been a struggle for her. She’d never taken math beyond simple geometry. Angel was a medical doctor, too. She probably understood how vocal cords worked better than Rett did.

How does anyone compete with the universe?

The sequence-tagged sites were compared to the full genome duplication in the daughter cells… Rapid and highly specific amplification was achieved by successive rounds of primer annealing, strand elongation and dissociation. 

She closed the document window, packed up her things and bolted for the car.

She had no energy for anything as adventurous as a walk. Her thoughts turned in circles as she wound aimlessly through the area surrounding the motel several times. She walked until her sandals rubbed a blister on one ankle. She hadn’t thought to change to walking shoes. She limped back to the motel and found it mostly deserted — it was already eleven, checkout time for most people.

She would forget all about Angel for a while if she practiced. Of course she would. She plugged in the Casio keyboard, played her Mozart fanfare and concentrated.

Feel your feet on the carpet. Feel the carpet on the floor. Feel the blister you shouldn’t have gotten —

Damn.

Breathe in, breathe out. Her lungs obeyed and she vocalized middle C, holding it. Full voice, half voice, a whisper. There. She hadn’t thought once about Ang —

Damn, damn, damn!

Screw note practice, then. She played the opening chord for “She Believed in Me” and found herself humming “Angel of the Morning” instead.

She wanted to heave the keyboard against the nearest wall.

She threw herself on the bed instead and stared at the ceiling. Just deal with it, she told herself. Okay, the woman is a certified genius. But she’s a woman, just like you. She obviously finds you physically attractive — yeah, but there has to be more than that.

Good God, she thought, her friends will think I’m the empty-headed bimbo Angel keeps around for relaxation.

She rolled on her side. Don’t do this to yourself, she scolded. That’s just your mother talking. You are not a bimbo. You are not a lightweight. So you don’t know a genome from a gerbil — what the hell difference does that make? It’s probably a fact that not one of Angel’s friends knows every word to “American Pie” and can sing the entire song on pitch a capella. Maybe they have stared the mysteries of the universe in the face, but they have probably never cradled a couple of hundred people in the warmth of their voice and felt that warmth come back as applause and cheers.

Maybe they would find a way to help millions of people live longer, pain-free lives. Give me a little more time, she thought, and I’ll make millions pause in their daily grind and I’ll give them a reason to smile, to let music lift them up for a minute or two.

There’s nothing lightweight about that, she repeated. Just let go of your inferiority complex and let go of it now. Art is not more pure than science and science is not more worthy than art. Art is why people want to live and the desire to live is why Angel is trying to cure cancer.

You need each other. So there.

She sang the crap out of “American Pie” just for good measure. 

Denton’s Diner had always served awesome sandwiches. Walked and sung out, she tossed a swimsuit and towel into the car and headed for Woton for a late lunch. After that, any beach was on her menu. A little time in the sun wouldn’t hurt her. This was a vacation, after all.

It was going to be a long time until Thursday night.

She found a shady place to park and wandered up Main Street. There were some elegant dried flower arrangements in one shop. Mrs. Bernstein would like something like that — not too big, rich but not gaudy colors. She made a mental note to stop back before she left. Her stomach growled and she turned toward Denton’s.

She stood at the door to the diner and grinned at her luck. Thank you, universe. We might almost be even now. She went inside and slid into the booth to face Angel.

“Hi.” Angel was obviously startled, but Rett didn’t detect any displeasure.

“Hi. I was just coming in for a sandwich.”

Angel indicated her half-empty plate. “They’re still great. Pickles, too.”

“I’ve decided you’re right.”

“About what?”

The waitress arrived to bring Angel a tall, frosty lemonade and to take Rett’s order. “We had to make a new batch. Sorry it took so long.”

“I’ll have one of those, too,” Rett said. “And a Reuben.”

Angel waited until the waitress was out of earshot before asking, “What am I right about?” 

“Slowing down.” Time was what they needed. Time for Rett to get over feeling like a mental pygmy next to Angel.

“Oh. I’m right, am I? Which kind of slowing down did you mean?”

“The one you were talking about. About getting to know each other.”

Angel was blushing. Rett felt the knot in her stomach uncoil. Okay, she might be a genius, but she could still blush. “You mean when we were walking in the water or … later?”