London, United Kingdom
Day 68
I can’t help but be fascinated by the range of scientists, from around the world, trying desperately to find a vaccine. The number of faces, most of them blurry or dropping in and out, made me feel emotional. I wish I could send a message out to the world: “We’re trying, I promise! We will find a vaccine.” It’s been two weeks since Dad died and every time I see evidence of the people desperately trying to stop more men dying, in labs across the globe, I want to weep with gratitude even though it can’t help Mom and me to bring him back. For now, I keep busy and keep smiling. Forward motion is the only thing that’s going to keep me upright.
After the call, George and I catch up for coffee to go over the progress my group in the lab has made in identifying the vulnerability of men and immunity of women. We’re gradually inching closer to an answer. We all think it must be genetic in some way, but we can’t know that until we have evidence for it. I’m setting out the plan for this week’s lab work when George stops me and rubs a hand over his tired face.
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I need to figure out the labs better. I just don’t have the bandwidth to cover this much ground.” He sighs. “There’s four labs all working hell for leather, all producing information and I’m reviewing everything. I think we need to have a better system. I can’t do all of this and process it properly. We need a chain of command.” This vaguely military phrase sounds odd coming out of George’s mouth in his calm, exhausted voice. “I need to find people quickly and then, I don’t know. I’m sorry, I just know that I don’t have the capacity to take in what you’re telling me and use it right now. I don’t want to waste time, yours or mine.” His eyes are bloodshot from sleepless nights and late-night calls with the prime minister and senior government officials that I know about but don’t take part in.
“Make me your deputy,” I say, the words popping out of my mouth almost before I realize I’ve thought them.
George looks dubious.
“Trust me,” I go on, determined now for him to see that this makes sense. “I’m running the lab I’m in already and doing a good job, even if you haven’t officially told me I’m running it.” George makes an expression I interpret as meaning: can’t argue with that. “I did summer schools at Stanford Business School so I know about all the stuff you hate, like human resource management theory and Gantt charts that you need to show politicians and civil servants that you have a plan. I know the science. I know how to get on with people and you can trust me.” I smile my most winning “Let me go to Stanford, please” smile even though I’m so tired and sad that smiling feels only breaths away from grimacing. “And I literally can’t fly home or get sick so I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re so young though,” he says. “And please, don’t think I’m saying that as an insult. You’re doing an extraordinary job, but it’s a lot of responsibility to give someone in their twenties.”
I almost add, “I’m nearly thirty” but I don’t think that’ll help disprove his point.
“George, you’re exhausted, sleeping two hours a night, and you don’t have enough bodies because men keep dying. I’m a safe pair of hands, safe pair of female immune hands. And people trust me. I’m nice and people like working for me, working with me. I’m good at this, at leading people.” For a moment I think about how horrifying I find confrontation—the way that my mouth clams up and I can’t focus when I’m in the middle of an argument—but I dismiss it. I’m not a wallflower or a fifteen-year-old dork anymore. If I need to have difficult interactions, I can manage it. I left my entire life behind, for God’s sake, and moved to a different continent in the middle of a pandemic.
I give him a moment to think about it but can tell that he’s so tired it’s difficult for him to make any decision at the moment.
“How about this,” I say in an inarguable, cheery tone. “Let’s try it this way for a week. If it doesn’t work, we’ll find a different way to do it. If it works, you have a better management structure, together we figure out ways to run the labs efficiently and you have to process less raw data and do more of the strategic thinking.”
“Okay, you’re on.” George’s shoulders dip about an inch even just having this temporary plan in place, sparing some essential room in his brain.
And just like that, I’m deputy director of the United Kingdom’s Plague Vaccine Development Task Force. I can imagine my dad saying, “Not bad for a girl from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Not bad at all.”