I can hear Abigail singing in the shower. Abigail Baker.
I looked at the lease Sara emailed me so I could be sure of her name, which is how I also learned that she works at the college. For my mother.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to Abigail singing show tunes through the thin walls of the duplex, and take stock of my situation.
My lab, if you can call it that, is up and running. My students start classes today and it’s going to take all my energy to be patient with them, constantly reminding myself that they are teenagers eager to learn rather than world calibre scientists with multiple graduate degrees. It all sounds exhausting.
Abigail flubs a high note and I groan, rising from bed to start my day.
I still revel in the readily available fresh fruits and vegetables. After half a year of dehydrated mush, I inhale apples and bell peppers. The crunch and splash of the juice…the pure joy of it overpowers my discomfort at Abigail’s off-key singing, which has moved down to her kitchen on the other side of mine.
Eventually I hear her leave her house and, noting the time, I grab my bag and walk to my first lecture of the day. Diana helped me prepare my syllabus and she suggested I start by telling the students about my research in the space station to build rapport. Diana predicted they’d ask me about using the toilet and shaving and sleeping in zero gravity, and I’m stunned to discover that she’s right.
It always confuses me to learn that people understand other people, can predict what they will do or say or feel. Other people are such a mystery to me. I am far more comfortable analyzing tissue and vessels. When a student asks the purpose of my research, I light up. This I can do.
“The hope is to develop more effective medications,” I explain. “The majority of potential candidates in clinical trials actually fail because the new drugs do not have the intended effect in their body. The more we can study aging tissues, the more accurately we can predict their interaction with chemicals…medications.”
The students all seem nervous. They’re worried this class will be very difficult, I remember Diana had told me. You intimidate people. I hold my hands out palms up, a gesture of peace, or so I’m told. “In this class, we will start with cells and once we understand those, we will build up slowly. Maybe we will talk about bones by the end of term.” They laugh a bit and I feel relief that I’ve made a connection.
Maybe this won’t be so bad.
My second class goes down in much the same fashion and then, after a few hours in the lab, I walk home eager to work out. We had such limited access to exercise equipment in the space station, and between all the drama with Heather and my job I didn’t really get to do much when I got back. A few runs here and there…my body is literally aching to lift weights.
I spent almost all of my personal time in the space station planning out a year’s worth of workouts and meals. Digger said it’s odd to fantasize about exercise and food while everyone else played cards or read. I realize my meticulous notes about caloric intake versus output are impractical, but I like to aim high.
I made the dining room into my home gym. I don’t plan to have guests over to eat and I’m fine eating my meals at the counter or, more likely, sitting at my computer desk, which takes up much of the living room. I tried to explain to my brother that it’s my house and I’m going to set it up to meet my needs. Heather always had cushions and decorations all over the place. I never felt comfortable in my house, always worried I’d move something and forget exactly where it was.
I have no desire to use the workout facilities on campus, to wait in line for equipment or overhear undergraduates discussing their conquests while they bulk up their biceps doing preacher curls.
My home gym is my kingdom. I bought everything I need to get a full workout right there. I like to work out without music, to focus on my body and what it’s saying to me as I move. I’ve put in a lot of time studying my biology, figuring out the most appropriate routine for optimum results. I covered the wood floor with thick mats in case I drop a barbell and I hung a pull-up bar on the wall opposite Abigail’s half of the house, so it won’t make noise. I think I did a pretty good job considering my tenant and her right to peace and quiet.
I arrive home, feeling the warmth of anticipation. Finally—a grueling workout. A chance to burn away everything that happened in Texas, start fresh.
I strip down to my bare feet and mesh shorts so I can concentrate on my form and feel the earth beneath me as I lift the weights. I feel a little warm, so I open the back door to let in the late summer breeze. Soon, I am lost to the beautiful ache of my workout, pushing myself hard.
I am aware that I grunt as I move between exercises, dropping the bar and moving to sets of pull-ups. All my concerns melt away: the worry over my legal situation with Heather. The confusion about what questions my students might ask. Anxiety about how I will find investors to continue my research. All of that is gone—there is only my body and this metal and how fast I can move it.
By the time I’m halfway through a set of pull-ups on the rings, I realize I should have consulted my father about hanging anything from the ceiling. I hear the hardware start to groan as I pull myself up, and then several things happen simultaneously: I curse my failure to plan properly in my excitement, I fall to the ground as the rings give way, and I smack my face on the edge of my weight bench.