Page 1 of Convergence

1

The late summer sun was bright on the sidewalk as I left the hotel. The walking directions on the navigation app on my phone told me to head left down the sidewalk. It was a ten-minute walk to the Truman College campus where my orientation into their prestigious Ph D. program for microbiology was being held.

I shouldered my black overnight bag and headed off down the mostly empty Cleveland city sidewalk. I placed a quick pick-up order for the Starbucks I had scoped out when I checked in yesterday, so I wouldn't have to talk to the barista.

I walked confidently and with reserved excitement for this opportunity ahead of me. I had been recommended by a graduate school professor for this program and my coursework from that class had single-handedly earned me an invitation to this program at Truman College. I had been selected specifically for this work, which had yet to be disclosed to me, but I knew it had something to do with bacteria, as that had been the concentration of my coursework with the professor who had recommended me. During my only interview for the program, completed over Zoom, Professor Hoffmann had explained that the nature of the experiment we would complete required confidentiality, but I would be compensated for my work and contribution. It wasn't unusual to have secrecy in the scientific community, but having to sign a non-disclosure agreement before even hearing what the experiment entailed seemed out of the norm. I had hesitated only a moment before accepting. Professor Hoffmann had quoted my coursework, so it felt like they needed me for this experiment.

After picking up my caramel macchiato and blueberry muffin, I walked and drank and checked my text messages. Caleb, my sort of ex- sort of friend with benefits, sent me a message.

Caleb: Good luck today! You'll do great!

I replied in thanks as a message from Dad came in.

Dad:heart emoji. thumbs up emoji.

I smiled and returned the heart. Pocketing my phone, I ate my blueberry muffin while I took in the new scenery and thought about my most recent date with Caleb. I wasn't sure if it could be called a date since we had stopped being exclusive after our first semester of undergrad away from each other, but we still met up for dinner, a movie, and sex when we were both in town. He knew about my opportunity at Truman, and while he was back in our hometown and single, he supported my achievements. For sure, he was not leaving my life completely. He was one of the two people in this world I could talk to, my dad being the other. He was also one of two people who knew the physical pain and emotional struggles I dealt with after my accident and my mom’s death.

A little clench of my stomach went with every thought I had about my late mom, even now after twelve years. She and I had been in a terrible car accident that killed her on impact and left me in the hospital for months. I had to miss her funeral due to being in a coma.

I shook my head and finished my muffin as the navigation app alerted me to my arrival at Harold Hall at Truman College. With a pep in my step, I quickly ascended the stone stairs and pushed open the large wooden doors. The grand architecture suggested this was once a church and was now part of a college, priding itself on its contributions to the science community. I found that to be a bit tongue in cheek, but I appreciated the beauty of the building. A small receptionist desk was placed at the back of a marbled lobby, and I approached the young woman.

“Are you here for the PhD meeting?” she asked before I could even begin thinking about how I was going to ask her where to go.

I nodded with a small smile.

“It is back there in the 1948 room. Last door on the right,” she said, pointing behind her.

I smiled again in thanks and headed down the hall. Taking a deep breath, I entered the open room to see a large ornate conference table with plush maroon office chairs. I felt like I was about to sit in on an important business meeting and not like I was starting the first day of school. In the room was Professor Hoffmann and another student, a girl with curly red hair.

“Hello, Miss Reid, it is good to see you,” Professor Hoffmann said as I entered. He held out a hand for me to shake. I smiled brightly and gave a firm handshake. He was a large man, while maybe six feet tall, he had a barreled chest and torso like he was muscular under a thick layer of fat. His hair was gray and neatly cut short, only visible in contrast to his dark skin. His eyes were a dark brown and while not unkind, they were more serious in expression. Maybe this was a business meeting after all.

I sat in the chair he gestured to as the other student leaned over from the chair next to me. “Are you the one who can't talk?” she asked curiously. No malice sounded in her tone, only blatant curiosity.

“I can talk. It's just difficult for me.” I swallowed a gulp of air and said, my voice hoarse from disuse and therefore proving my point more.

“Oh, that's wild,” she said, sitting back in her seat. She had shoulder length auburn hair with a tight curl, and bright blue eyes. Her skin was clear and had a lightly shimmery layer of foundation, thick black mascara, and a blood red lipstick. She was beautiful and had an atmosphere of excitement about her. As she moved, her hair circulated the bright scent of peonies and apples.

It was true when I said Caleb and my dad were the only people I could talk to. The accident that killed my mom had left me with a broken spine, among other injuries, which required a brace that extended up my neck to my chin. It was painful to speak around the brace, so I didn't speak for three months. After the brace was off, I needed surgery on my jaw, which was another painful few months without speaking. I had to do speech therapy to regain my ability to articulate. Overall, it was well into a year before I could speak clearly after the accident. The trauma of being a thirteen-year-old girl who had violently lost her mother, experienced extremely painful injuries, and endured multiple difficult surgeries further affected my willingness to speak to anyone. It is twelve years after the accident, and I am now physically able to speak and can hold conversations when necessary. If I know a person well, then I can talk to them more freely. I was mostly worried about saying the wrong thing, accidentally offending someone, or plainly not being listened to, which causes my current speech anxiety. I've done the therapy and taken the anxiety medication, but I always find something else to fear.

“My name is Francesca, but you can call me Daisy,” she said and reached out a hand for me to shake. Her eyes were bright in color but also in expression. She was warm and confident, with a huge smile. As I shook her hand, I noticed she was wearing a low cut hot pink blouse. It showed more cleavage than I would typically show, but further showcased her confident personality.

“Evangeline, Eva,” I mumbled. I swallowed a gulp of air down, feeling the air bubble go down my throat before I spoke again. “I'm a microbiology student. What do you study?”

“Oh, I'm an accounting student,” she said with a dismissive wave. “But I'll be working with your team to compile data and make reports. I'll be your stats girl.”

I nodded, not sure what to say next, and shifted in my seat nervously. I wanted to be a better conversationalist. Dad was not one for long conversations if he didn't have to, Caleb and I were typically looking for another type of activity these days, and I was academically focused in school and had no other friends to speak of, or to. Bacteria don't speak, so I chose a line of study that required little communication.

Daisy looked up through her black lashes as a guy that entered quietly walked past us to Professor Hoffmann.

“Mr. Monroe, hello, good to see you,” Professor Hoffmann said as he shook the guy’s hand.

“Good to see you too, Professor,” the deep rumble of his voice made it seem more commanding than he had intoned. A slight twang of a Southern accent detectable in his words.

“Hi, I'm Daisy,” she said, standing and leaning over the table to shake his hand. She was probably showing off her cleavage even more now. I honestly envied her level of confidence. Fighting a smile at her efforts, I decided I liked her.

I also couldn't blame her when I took a closer look at the newcomer. He was a tall, golden skinned, sun bleached blonde, blue eyed, strongly muscled man. He was wearing a light blue button-down shirt and neat khakis, but what looked like cowboy boots peeked out from under the crisp, new khakis. He looked like he had been shucking hay or harvesting corn or whatever cowboys did an hour before this meeting, threw on some brand-new clothes, and then came here. His blonde hair was streaked with lighter, honeyed locks from sun exposure, matching his tanned skin.

He gave a polite smile, but his eyes flickered to her rack. I could excuse him, as Daisy was clearly flaunting her large chest towards him. Even I was distracted by the view. He shook her hand. “Everett Monroe, pleased to meet you,” he said in his rumbly southern accent.

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