Posttraumatic

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

AT A WALKING distance beyond Georgetown, in upper northwest Washington, lies the affluent residential suburb of Tenleytown, wedged between Glover Park and the urban sprawl of Friendship Heights. For decades, this inner suburb had been a sanctuary for political animals; one of the rare species unthreatened by extinction.

The houses are large and well suited for small fund-raising dinners of thirty-some; people willing to shell out a few thousand dollars for quality time with a political heavyweight. The plight of the inner city has made no inroads in this neighborhood. Weighed against the squalor of bankrupt Anacostia, Tenleytown is the Paradise where low profile political wives will forever continue to fine tune their search for chic restaurants and ritzy stores. And swap nonpartisan gossip, if nothing more exiting.

Framed by leafy acres, upstairs in a roomy bedroom of an elegant, timbered house, a gorgeous woman is lost in a large bed as she cuddles in sleep against a five-year-old daughter. The two are watched over by a dead husband; a dark-haired man in an ornate silver frame that is perched on a stack of books. The books are on medical research. All is silent. A framed certificate on the wall; Doctor of Medicine.

A clock radio flips a number, and the sweet voice of Donna Anna rises to engage the two in a seductive operatic passage from Don Giovanni. The mother, entangled in her daughter’s hair, is tickled in her dream by the whiskers of a large rat. This is not in the least disturbing to Dr. Caroline Glyn. At thirty-two, the former Mrs. Griffith is an authority on malignant cells. As the driving force behind the most interesting research project at the moment; carving up hairy creatures in the hunt for cancer-causing genes is routine.

In her dream, the first rays of sun strike through a jungle of laboratory glassware. The big rat raises its head inside the wire cage. The heartbeat of her child turns into drops that fall with a hollow sound from a leaky faucet into a laboratory sink. Lining the sink, stainless utensils await the rat’s dissection.

This particular rat is too clever by half.

Caroline reaches into the wire cage where the curled-up rodent awaits its fate. The pink rat rises on hind legs to sniff the air, stretching upwards, rising to her hand. As she grips its muscular middle, the rat changes into a male reproductive organ. Caroline is holding a fat pink c**k with whiskers. It feels alive, moving in her grip, wonderful to the touch. Caroline clings to this dream.

The man in the silver frame smiles.

In the odd hours of morning where fact and fiction mingle, Dr. Caroline Glyn is deeply enjoying her sleep when the alarm clock sounds. She wakes to stretch contentedly every which way under the covers while her dream slips away. After a relaxing shower, she works contentedly in front of the bedroom mirror to chase away the puffy remains of sleep. This daily ritual to preserve a beauty that would soon be deserting left a residue of guilt, but the weakness was strong, and she rarely abstained. It went against her deeply held beliefs to spend time on pointless labors like this; Time was a precious possession. Dr. Caroline Glyn puts aside a lipstick and admires her handiwork – still there. The fine wrinkles that spread away from her eyes were now as invisible as fine whiskers. She smiled at the thought, watching the marks of age. She smiled too much.

It was time to wake Mary.

Another measure of the uniqueness this morning was that her thoughts at the moment were not occupied with her research but rather with the Washington Post, which she found disturbing. Normally her first waking thoughts were on her work. She had become completely at ease with a life lived entirely through her profession. She loved every moment of it. The Washington Post article was due out today. Having come to believe that she hated the spotlight, she found it troubling how she had pulled all the stops to help the Post reporters to gather whatever material they considered relevant. A childish ambition to play the public hero was not a wise move, and about as upsetting as the daily exercise to hold on to fading beauty. The rewards in both cases would be fleeting. While taking care of her looks did rarely occupy her thoughts, the inner turmoil that came from public rites of self-glorification through the press was another matter.

Out on the porch, she picked up the morning paper and inhaled the humid air, heavy with spring. The neighborhood did not stir. She hoped the article had stayed on target; that Robert Noyes, the Post reporter, would leave out her comments on her social life, such as it was, and put the focus back on her work. She had mistaken his caring interest in her private life for kindness. Little wonder that a reporter seasoned in the interest of a broader public wanted more than the daily grind of medical research.

A biased story in the Post would doubtless make her name a topic at a reception or two. It would be a first after the death of her husband. Robert had been hugely popular with his valuable inside knowledge of official Washington, and since he passed away, she had not been to a single party. It would be a lie to say she did not miss being there on his arm. A lone woman who did not bother with politics in this capital, and cared even less about the latest Redskins game, was nobody’s nominee for a table companion, gorgeous or not. In this two-subject city, malignant cells were not the most suitable topic for a dinner discussion.

The article proved to be an uncomfortable public intrusion into her private life, almost an out-of-body-experience. She felt like a boiler room rat, running an obstacle course through a scalding text that gushed on about her social life. Not once did the reporter note that her social life was a thing of the past. Her private likes and dislikes were sorted out one after the other and all of it cloaked the importance of her research. In some quarters, it would doubtless be considered an entertaining piece.

While Caroline made coffee, her daughter fended in her corner of the elegant breakfast table. The cereals ended more or less on her plate and some among the exclusive tableware. Sleepily, Mary watched Mom sort through the bulky morning paper. Weighing the alternatives, it seemed a good time to disturb. It was not unusual for her mom to forget to set breakfast altogether. Mary was fond of their dining room. It was a favorite place that struck the same solid tone as had her father, or so Mom had told her. Having inherited her father’s raven-black hair, the child posed a stark contrast to her mom’s pure gold.

“Can I have the milk, please,” she asked politely.

“Of course, milk is good for your bones.”

Caroline sipped her coffee with a grimace. When nothing else happened, Mary made a face at Babushka, a large rag doll propped up on one of the eight high-backed chairs. Babushka was smiling. Like her father in the bedroom photo, Babushka was always smiling. Annoyed by her mother’s preoccupation, Mary started to read the front-page headline.

‘Russia awash in weapons grade uranium!’

Puzzled, she shook her black curls and slid her thin frame off the chair. This was not English.

“Look, a picture of Mom,” Caroline exclaimed on the other side of Russia. Mary came over to have a look, holding the milk jug. There was a photo of Mom with Alice, her lab assistant. Dr. Alice Christian had visited several times, but mostly she called Mom a lot on the phone. Unimpressed, Mary poured milk into her mother’s coffee and returned to her seat. Caroline took another sip, this time without the grimace.

Mary studied her mother with wonder She never bothered with the morning paper. Today she was really focusing as she moved a hand angrily to a flushed forehead to brush away strands of hair. Must have something to do with her work.

“Bill will be pissed.” For a moment she lowered the paper to stare blankly at Mary.

“Pissed off! Who is Bill?”

“Our Project Director, and a young woman must never use words like that.”

Mary noted a new incredulous facial expression as Mom tried to hide behind the newspaper. The child did not know that this was the classic look of contradiction, rapt in both pride and shame. Mystified, Mary could not have guessed that her mother wanted nothing more at this moment but to vanish from the face of the Earth. She flinched physically away from the unwanted spotlight, as if caught in flagrante, bumping against the breakfast table, rattling the tableware.

“s**t”!

Mary made a surprised face at the equally dark-haired Babushka. She was about to point out that a woman does not use words like that, when her mom brightened.

“Listen, about your dad!” Her scholarly voice carried the deep measure of love that they both held for the man.

“When the renowned Dr. Robert Kingsley Griffith after a brilliant career in medicine, died of a mysterious brain tumor last year, he passed the torch to his companion and wife, Dr. Caroline Glyn-Griffith.” Caroline slipped in a few words of her own, “to care for their five-year-old daughter Mary.” She smiled brightly across the table. “Six months after his tragic death, his wife has fulfilled her vow to bring their common research into cancer-causing genes to a successful completion. Scientists are closely watching her latest breakthrough.”

Caroline met daughter’s eyes, and the child saw irritation behind the tears she attempted to blink away.

“Must they make everything melodramatic? And why is your breakfast all over the table?”

Mary ignored the angry question as another feigned routine, watching her sink back into the morning paper in a blend of misery and elation.

The telephone on the side table purred softly. It was a Federal inlaid cherry-wood sideboard with a serpentine top, valued at over twenty thousand dollars. It had been in Robert’s family for generations. With her mother unresponsive, Mary slid from her chair to take the call.

“Hi Alice! Yes, reading the paper.”

Mary handed over a cordless phone, reluctantly accepted.

“I cannot believe it. The whole article is off topic. This is all about my private life. Bill is not mentioned. How do you think I feel? Makes me feel cheap.”

“Makes me feel great,” said Dr. Alice Christian. A rare sentiment from a serious woman. She seldom sympathized with men in general and least of all with Dr. William Tailor, the nominal head of their team. She thought the man ashes all through.

“We need him to tap the money networks. He sold the Washington Post on this stupid interview, and he is not mentioned.”

“Caroline, you are not his promoter. The man is nothing but trouble at the lab. He cannot leave the girls alone.”

“So, he’s a social animal.”

“Animal, yes, not a bird with a broken wing.”

“All his contacts will read this garbage.” Caroline watched Mary grapple with a coloring book.

“Hurry up, dearest,” she said halfheartedly, eat your cereals,” then back to plead some more on the phone.

“I thought Robert Noyes was serious reporter. He told me the Post needed the background. I told him a few stories. Not for publishing, for spice. He promised me. This is a disaster, that dad had no education. It reads like a politician peddling himself, a crooked politician. It’s embarrassing. Please remind me to be more assertive.”

“Oh, my erotic instincts forbid!”

“What?”

“I do little else, my everlasting suckling.”

“If Bill comes crying to you, remind him; it was his idea.”

“We are not on speaking terms.”

Caroline covered her eyes and squeezed her forehead to keep this trivia out of her thoughts.

“Check with our receptionists if any envelopes that came with my private bank statements have been filed.”

“Your bank statements?”

“I need to know how they were posted. My bank manager called me to refuse my loan application. I had to tell him I never applied for one; not a quarter million or any other sum. Somebody hacked into their mainframe to change my address. Not easy with their security. Says they rerouted my statements to a dead-end post-office box. I always receive them unopened in the mail, as far as I know.”

“You are kidding me?”

“My bank manager thinks it has been going on for months.”

“Good God.”

“Don’t worry. Bank checked my credit and said no to the loan. What kind of con man tries to apply for unsecured loan in my name? I am not credit worthy after mortgaging the house to the hilt to help the lab”.

“Did they catch him?”

“The bank asked the FBI to look into it. They haven’t a clue, but no harm done.”

“This is your life, Caroline. Talk to the police.”

Caroline studied her laptop screen. “There is a new article on our altered genetic sequence on the Walter Reed database, published in France yesterday.” Slowly her hand came down with the phone, placing it carefully on the table. After a focusing on her notes for a while, it became clear to Mary that mom was back to normal again. The child walked over, picked up the phone, said bye to Alice, and hung up.

Immediately, the phone started to purr again. Caroline jumped up and started to stuff documents in varying forms of disarray into a leather attaché case. She steered Mary towards the front hall. They heard a woman editor of a New York magazine make a pitch to the machine for an interview, promising loads of publicity for the cause. This was natural, the Post article read like an announcement for office. The media was going to haunt her for days, least while the public was buying.

“We got to scramble, where’s your coat?”

“Don’t want to leave Babushka.”

“Babushka?”

“My new friend Krupskaya is called Babushka.”

“Ah, you named her after your new friend. She’s a fine doll. Promise never to accept gifts like that from your friends in kindergarten. And why this dance every time we leave? Kindergarten does not allow private toys.”

“Why?”

“Think about it. What if the other kids cannot afford beautiful toys?”

“Babushka is a rag doll. And they all say they have rich dads.”

“And what do you say?”

“I think we are poor.”

“Hey, we may not be rich, but we are not poor.”

“You told me we have no money!”

“Ah, that was just a minor cash-flow problem.” Caroline smiled at Mary’s questioning face.

There was another purr from the cherry-wood sideboard and the machine received an offer for her appearance on some midmorning chat show. Would Dr. Glyn-Griffith like to comment on the present state of stem cell research? The day was turning into a nightmare.

“Remember, if the world wants a song and dance routine, a woman must say no.” She steered Mary towards the front door. “Why not ask Babushka to look after our home while we are gone? A good friend would do that!”

The child looked between her, and the smiling Babushka perched up on the dining room chair. For the umpteenth time, her mother realized she had a battle to win. Smiling joyfully, Caroline Glyn, formerly Mrs. Griffith, fell to her knees to embrace Mary’s tiny waist in a game they often played, by now almost a daily routine. She cuddled her daughter, reciting an old ditty, gleefully tickling her ribs for effect.

“We are two of a kind, alone against the world. Let’s make a pact; you for me and I for you.”

Little Mary Griffith squealed in delight. The doll in the high-backed chair was laughing too. The gleam in her glass eye mirrored the homely setting as would any other hidden high-quality lens. Babushka did not mind watching their home.

As tortured reflections off a glass eye, mother and child disappeared out of a deformed doorway into a brilliantly lit spring morning.