She’s definitely the type to go completely off the rails if someone triggers the right spot. She has impulsivity issues, probably hidden anger issues, the perfect combination for reckless behavior.
When the lecture is finally over, I pack my stuff fast and get back to my office. There, I pace. Thinking. Making up my mind. Or rather, convincing myself not to do what my body wants.Because what my mind wants is to get the folder with the NDA from my lab, get her phone number from it, and ask her if everything is alright.
“No,” I tell myself. “You are not responsible for her. You will stop thinking about it. She might just be sick, and you will sound like an idiot.”
And what if she lies somewhere OD’d?asks a voice in my mind. The anxious overthinking one.
I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath.
“No. She is alright. I am not her mother. She is a grown woman.”
I try to get on with my day as normally as possible, but I can’t. It is 8 pm when I slam my hands on the desk.
I can’t do this any longer. I need to know.
So I do the one thing I will regret, grab the folder, and open it. My eyes fly to the personal details.
Amelie Degard, born June 3, 2007.Address: 53 Walker St, New York, NY 10013.
“Huh,” I say and mumble,“Walker Street. Tribeca. That’s hell of an address.”
And it makes me hesitate for a moment, wondering if my first impression wasn’t that far out of the park after all. She overpowered a man with a gun. She reacted so fast. The drugs. The knowledge. The way of asking. The past she doesn’t want to talk about.
I stare at her writing for another moment. It’s very orderly, straight, and clear. She is a messy person—she said it about herself.
The letters are pressed onto the pages just a bit too much. As if she has forced herself to write with clarity.
I rewatch every conversation we ever had.
“No,” I say and give myself a pep talk. “You are going crazy because of the stalker thing. You will not be ruled by fear. She isa student. A normal girl. Maybe she has rich parents. I can’t walk around expecting everyone to have malice in mind.”
It calms my nerves. And because I have calmed down, I press the button and call.
It rings, and rings.
My heart skips a beat. I hate phone calls, but they are required in this timeline. I dislike not seeing the person, not getting any visual cues.
It rings the fourth time.
But she doesn’t answer. No mailbox.
I hang up, none the wiser.
There is not much I can do, so I get home.
Do I have the thought of just checking her address? Yes. But that would make me a crazy stalker.
That night I sleep, at least. Not very rested, but I am so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. When I wake up the next morning, my pajamas are as wet as my hair from sweat.
I can’t quite grasp the dream as it fades, leaving blurry images in my mind.
Before I shower, I check my phone, half-hoping to see a missed call—but there is nothing on it.
I am in the lab all day, but my mind can’t focus, not with music, not with distracting myself by mentally creating a chart with all Fibonacci sequences from the numbers 0 to 100 until I reach a trillion.
Just when I start with 99, my phone vibrates. I always have my phone on mute, but even the vibration makes my blood pressure spike. I jump up with my heart stumbling over itself—only to see my mother’s picture on the screen.
I sit down and rest my face in my hands, ignoring the call. I can’t deal with my mother right now.
