Lullaby of Love (3 page)

My interview for the spot had been absolutely professional, and when I arrived the first day I thought that that tone would continue on. And my,
Welcome to your first day at Yale’sMolecular Biology Program
, became his—
“Just because you got into this program doesn’t mean you’re going to remain in it. I don’t want to know your personal problems. I don’t want any excuses—I’m not your friend. You will perform beyond your own expectations and perform to mine—and then— I’ll decide how far you get.”

It hit me fast and hard as it should have. I was in one of the best programs in the country and hundreds of other hopeful students didn’t get accepted into it. There weren’t going to be too many pats on the back—with him maybe none, and rightfully I needed to prove
myself for being one of the students that did get in.

* * *

“Shay? We’re here.” Jenny nudges my arm. I guess I had leaned my head back and fallen asleep on the drive home.

“Sorry. Are you hungry? I’ll order us a pizza,” I offer, getting myself awake.

“Sure. Sounds great,” she calls from around the trunk, taking out my luggage. I pile my things together from the backseat. I know I’ll have to get to the lab extra early tomorrow to beat Richards to my room and finish setting up. There’s just one more day before classes start again and I don’t want to spend it with steely eyes looking over my shoulder.

dane

“Hey dude, smells great in here!” Vince closes the door behind his girl-of-the-night. “You got any leftovers? We’re starving,” he asks already rooting in the refrigerator.

I could’ve been landed with a lot worse roommate, but ideally
no
roommate is at the top of my wants for housing next year. Senior year has a few perks for us athletes, one of them being a room to yourself if you get your name on the list early enough.

“Sure, help yourself. Lasagna’s on the bottom shelf.” One thing I did know how to do well on my own was cook. Mom gave me a few lessons for some easy meals before I came out here, so I wouldn’t be left eating junk in the cafeteria all the time. If I’m lucky enough to make it just for myself, it’ll last a couple of days, but I’ve come to be heavily relied on as food supplier in our two bedroom suite.

I catch a glimpse of the new face standing by his side, lightly teetering from one foot to the other to keep her balance. I’m sure they’ve been drinking all night at
Gathering House
. If anyone wants freedom from the rules after their first year here, they usually ended up sharing a room there, sometimes four of them piled into a bedroom together—famously known as the athlete’s
designated
off-campus house, just down the street. It’s a monstrous, dilapidated shell of how nice it once was I’m sure. Some professional athlete alumni years ago passed it down as owner after his claim to status, and leased it to athletes, and encouraged the free-for-all that it is now. Not that I’m against having a good time, but the one time I did go in it the scene had to be like a bachelor party for an NBA player in some hotel. Being raised by a single mom, I had too much respect for women, and if any of the
goons
found out that I was 22 and still a virgin I’d be their centerpiece for an unrelenting game of Dane Must Score.

I switch off the television and head to my room as he microwaves a heaping plate of lasagna. Entirely lacking in any kind of manners towards women—I only know this because of two semesters of
unavoidable
observation
and things like him thinking the extent of being a nice guy is showering with one of them to clean her up after she gets sick in the bathroom. Anyway, he’ll no doubt grab two forks from the drawer and eat from the plate like it’s a dog bowl. But at least this way he’ll have a full stomach and maybe crash before I’m resigned to force my head under the pillow to muffle out sounds of pleasured moaning and a squeaking bed frame gnashing into the wall. . .

shay

Coffee
. . . the aroma winds its way through the air and stirs me from my sleep.

Of all the Christmas presents that I’ve gotten over the years, I think my favorite would have to be the ugliest black coffee maker I’ve ever seen, with big, neon-greenish numbers on the clock—
that I love
, and without a blip, faithfully has a steamy pot of coffee ready and waiting for me every morning.

I look at the time on the alarm—5:58—two minutes before it would blare at me, jerking me awake. I shut it off, telling myself to keep my eyes open and look at the sunlight cresting through the window.
It’s one hour before I would normally get up, especially on a day when there isn’t a lab to teach, and after two semesters here I’ve finally earned a schedule that isn’t dragging me out of bed every day at a punishing time.

I burrow in the covers and stretch for a moment, absorbing the soft, warm feeling, before my feet feel the shock of the cold floor, and knowing that I won’t be this comfortable again for a whole tedious day. Slowly sitting up, I get a clear look out of the window. The street is quiet this early and there’s only one walker with an anxious dog on a leash.

As irritable as I could be at such an early start, I’m actually a little excited at the thought of having the tranquility of Yale to myself.

I tiptoe across the chilly floor, happy for the short time I’m walking on the rug, and lift a mug from the cupboard, pour myself a cup of coffee, and fast retreat to the warmth of my daybed, just until I finish this first cup.

I can see the lab room in my head—there wasn’t that much to do really. If my shipment of half-semester dissection specimens arrived, I only needed to claim them from the supply room, sign the inventory sheet on the refrigerator, after checking the quantity and quality of their arrival, and take them to my lab. Then finish setting up each of the lab tables with two working microscopes. By now the few replacement bits I ordered for them would surely have been in the office mailroom waiting for me and I could replace the parts that became damaged.

For some reason the
overzealous
undergraduates had a habit of being less than gentle with the equipment—even when they were reminded over and over again that it’s somewhat fragile. “Our benefactors aren’t interested in giving their money to refurbishing equipment—it’s for research! Take care of your labs!” Richards would yell each time he got approached with a requisition form. It was worth it to share any extra parts among ourselves just to avoid his repetitive lecture. But this time I needed too many and had to subject myself to his familiar wrath.

I finish my last sip of coffee and look over at the clothes stacked on top of the dresser beside the fireplace that I set out last night after my shower. The pale blue blouse and light gray, button-up sweater with a hood still seemed just right for a breezy morning like today; some lightweight jeans and loafers and I’ll be comfortable all day.

I place my mug in the sink and open the curtain for the little sunshine peaking through this early. The big green numbers on the coffee maker read 6:22, enough time to freshen up and be up the hill by 7:00—one hour before Professor Richards is likely to be passing through the labs—and enough time to give me a good head start on being prepared.

dane

I’d already hit the snooze button once.
“Discipline!”
Coach Lewis rants. How many times has he been the voice in my head? Summer break couldn’t come soon enough. Spring break was for everyone else. This time around I managed to take one day off to spend it with Katie and mom. Their trip here had been planned since Christmas—had to do it for them. But now with classes about to start it’ll be full on grind.

I lumber into the bathroom and place my palms on both sides of the sink to get a good look at myself.

Right.

I reach in and turn on the shower to get some steam going and heat up the cool morning air. I’ll never get used to being either too hot or too cold. I’m sure the thermostat for all of the rooms is set by some antagonistic troll in the darkest corner of the basement, who likes seeing us suffer year round. To make matters worse, Vince keeps the bathroom window permanently open a couple of inches to aerate the constant puke smell from him and whoever he introduces into our room for the night.

“Hey, Dane? You gonna be long? Gretchen’s gotta pee,” he pleads, rapping on the door.

Jesus
—I just got in here. I ignore him altogether and step into the shower, leaning my head back in the water and soothing myself with the warmth. I move my spread fingers down my chest and linger a moment before reaching for the soap. I slide the bar down my leg, slowly guiding it around my toned form; it’s less tender. The hypnotic calming of the shower shrouds me and I alert myself to move a little quicker finishing up, knowing the water will only stay hot for about five minutes.

I grab the track practice shirt and shorts off the top of the towel rack and slip them on. I’ll eat breakfast when I get back—too eager to get started up to campus while it’s quiet.

shay

God
—
Spring is wonderful!
I know I don’t have much time to daydream going up the hill, but it’s only a five minute walk.

The melodies of the birds are about the only sound you can hear this morning, perched in the newly-budding trees. And the sunlight is so glistening and the beauty of it, the way it bends through the branches coming fully into view, almost makes me want to cry. I forget how peaceful it can be here.

I decide to take the narrow, curving walkway through the trees, passing alongside the small pond and bell tower leading up the hill, instead of my usual more direct route up the main street lined with lecture halls and offices that goes right to my building. I should do this more often I think to myself.

I follow the bending sidewalk to the bottom of the cascading steps that leads up between the backs of my building and Langley, the chemistry building beside it. There’s just a short walk down the sides of them as I get to the top.

I get almost to the end to turn and be at the front of the building, and stop for a minute to admire the large lilac bush that spans several feet out from the corner and is way over my head. I can see it from my office window on the third floor, and in the whole time I’ve been here it’s the first moment I’ve taken just to touch the delicate purple flowers and smell their fragrance.

I reach for a tight cone of its blooms and gently pull it to my face, closing my eyes with the slow inhalation. I carefully release it from my fingertips and take a few steps further and reach for another one—my eyelids closing, only wanting the perfect aroma to exist in the
moment. . . slowly stepping out from around the bush. . . the perfumed scent lingering with me.

“Holy shit—!”
Someone’s words cut into the air.

—My body stings as it collides with the concrete.

The back of my head immediately throbs. . . I can’t find my focus.

I reach down my side, my satchel’s not there.

I hear a desperate voice.
“Are you okay?”

I slowly turn my head his way.
“Ou—. . .,”
my thought stops. He hurriedly kneels beside me.
Yale Track.
The large letters on his shirt come into view. He must not have seen me come from between the buildings.

I start to tremble; I can’t speak. I move my left hand slowly up to my head and slide my fingers into the back of my hair feeling my scalp for blood. His face is near me searching—I can tell he’s upset.

He speaks softly, his eyes full of concern,
“Don’t try to move just yet, let me see if you’re bleeding.”

I don’t take my hand away; I just listen to his voice. He cradles one hand behind my neck and stretches his other hand over mine, lacing our fingers together; the unfamiliar touch makes me flinch, and he begins slowly moving through my hair.

“No blood,”
he whispers. The relief is evident in his smile beginning to form.
“Do you think you can stand?”

“Yes,”
I struggle saying, my lips quivering—my voice nearly inaudible.

I get myself to a sitting position, forcing back tears as the pounding in my head gets stronger with rising.

He leans to me reassuringly,
“Ready?”

I nod.

He slides one arm around my waist and holds my hand with the other, bracing me as he lifts me up. He must be nine or ten inches taller than me and I let the weight of my small frame fall guiltlessly into him. A tear streaks down my face and I bend my head further trying not to be seen. I don’t know if I’m crying because of the scare and the pain, or that I’m so close to him now.

He leads me a few feet to the small bus bench outside of my building.