life.
"You're the strong one,"
Lily reminded her. "You can handle it."
But before she could respond to
this familial curse, Daisy's cell phone rang. It made a chirping sound,
and the bird on the ramp flew away. She took out her phone and said,
"Hello?"
"Daisy Hubbard?"
"Yes?"
"This is Detective Makowski
from the LAPD. We spoke yesterday."
Her spine straightened. "I
have news about your sister. Hello?" "I'm still here," Daisy
told him, while little wisps of snow metastasized into the barn.
8.
"Is there anything I can do
for you?" Truett asked Daisy the following morning. "Anything
at all?"
"I don't think so. But
thanks."
The lab was empty. Everybody else
was downstairs in the lecture hall, listening to Claude Bagget's seminar on viral vectors. Last night another
foot of snow had fallen over Boston, winter clinging to spring like a bad
joke. The events of the past few days had left Daisy feeling hollow inside,
and she desperately wanted to fill in the void. Maybe the truth could
fill up this empty space. She buttoned her overcoat, put on her soft knit
cap and drew on her gloves. "Truett," she said, "I care about
you a lot…"
He put a finger to her lips.
"I don't want you to feel in any way responsible for the end of my marriage,
Daisy." He took her hand-his hands were surprisingly small for such
a big personality-and stood there with a hangdog expression. Truett
couldn't help himself; he had more culture than Yoplait. In his double-breasted
blazers, silk ties and expensive Italian shoes, he exuded class and
style. He'd transformed himself from a southern farm boy into an elite
intellectual, whereas she still splashed around in the great sea of
the American middle class. "We make a good team, Daisy. I wouldn't
want to break that up."
She smiled at him gratefully.
"It feels like I'm deserting you right when you need me the
most."
"Fiona can handle it until
you come back. You need to focus on your sister. Just be careful,
okay?"
"Good-bye, Truett."
"And do me a favor," he
said. "Stop calling me Truett.
Gives me the creeps."
"What should I call you,
then?"
"Marlon."
She shook her head. "I'm afraid
that would make me giggle."
"All right, fine. I don't wish
to quarrel with a respected scientist." He kissed her on the cheek
and said, "Be safe."
CAPTURED ROTATION
1.
Daisy caught herself staring at
the flight attendant's elegant French knot and wondered why she didn't have
the flair some women had with their hair. As a scientist, she'd always
been hopelessly pragmatic when it came to her looks, and she seldom wore
jewelry, never used perfume or nail polish. Now she pressed her unpowdered forehead against the cold glass. They were
hurtling through the atmosphere, cruising along at six hundred miles
per hour under an illusion of stillness. The moon floated in the night
sky as if it were tethered to the ground by an invisible line. Daisy
gazed at the landmass below. They were flying over scattered American
cities-cities she'd never been to, cities whose identities evaded
her now, constellations of light blossoming out of the darkness. Clusters
of wattage, billions of bulbs.
She caught sight of her troubled
reflection in the window and tested her forehead for a fever. It felt
like a migraine had moved in and unpacked its bags. She'd; taken the
night flight from Boston to Los Angeles and was on her third glass of sour-tasting
Chablis, the Boeing 747's turbo engines droning steadily in the background.
She tried to process what the detective had told her over the phone: Your sister stopped paying the rent and
disappeared from her apartment without a trace. Her current whereabouts
are unknown.
The plane began to shake with turbulence,
and the fasten seat belt sign blinked on. She hadn't reviewed! the emergency
instructions yet-a ritual she performed' before each flight-so she
picked up the laminated sheet and started reading. The printed instructions
reminded her that the seat cushions doubled as flotation devices,
the
"You're the strong one,"
Lily reminded her. "You can handle it."
But before she could respond to
this familial curse, Daisy's cell phone rang. It made a chirping sound,
and the bird on the ramp flew away. She took out her phone and said,
"Hello?"
"Daisy Hubbard?"
"Yes?"
"This is Detective Makowski
from the LAPD. We spoke yesterday."
Her spine straightened. "I
have news about your sister. Hello?" "I'm still here," Daisy
told him, while little wisps of snow metastasized into the barn.
8.
"Is there anything I can do
for you?" Truett asked Daisy the following morning. "Anything
at all?"
"I don't think so. But
thanks."
The lab was empty. Everybody else
was downstairs in the lecture hall, listening to Claude Bagget's seminar on viral vectors. Last night another
foot of snow had fallen over Boston, winter clinging to spring like a bad
joke. The events of the past few days had left Daisy feeling hollow inside,
and she desperately wanted to fill in the void. Maybe the truth could
fill up this empty space. She buttoned her overcoat, put on her soft knit
cap and drew on her gloves. "Truett," she said, "I care about
you a lot…"
He put a finger to her lips.
"I don't want you to feel in any way responsible for the end of my marriage,
Daisy." He took her hand-his hands were surprisingly small for such
a big personality-and stood there with a hangdog expression. Truett
couldn't help himself; he had more culture than Yoplait. In his double-breasted
blazers, silk ties and expensive Italian shoes, he exuded class and
style. He'd transformed himself from a southern farm boy into an elite
intellectual, whereas she still splashed around in the great sea of
the American middle class. "We make a good team, Daisy. I wouldn't
want to break that up."
She smiled at him gratefully.
"It feels like I'm deserting you right when you need me the
most."
"Fiona can handle it until
you come back. You need to focus on your sister. Just be careful,
okay?"
"Good-bye, Truett."
"And do me a favor," he
said. "Stop calling me Truett.
Gives me the creeps."
"What should I call you,
then?"
"Marlon."
She shook her head. "I'm afraid
that would make me giggle."
"All right, fine. I don't wish
to quarrel with a respected scientist." He kissed her on the cheek
and said, "Be safe."
CAPTURED ROTATION
1.
Daisy caught herself staring at
the flight attendant's elegant French knot and wondered why she didn't have
the flair some women had with their hair. As a scientist, she'd always
been hopelessly pragmatic when it came to her looks, and she seldom wore
jewelry, never used perfume or nail polish. Now she pressed her unpowdered forehead against the cold glass. They were
hurtling through the atmosphere, cruising along at six hundred miles
per hour under an illusion of stillness. The moon floated in the night
sky as if it were tethered to the ground by an invisible line. Daisy
gazed at the landmass below. They were flying over scattered American
cities-cities she'd never been to, cities whose identities evaded
her now, constellations of light blossoming out of the darkness. Clusters
of wattage, billions of bulbs.
She caught sight of her troubled
reflection in the window and tested her forehead for a fever. It felt
like a migraine had moved in and unpacked its bags. She'd; taken the
night flight from Boston to Los Angeles and was on her third glass of sour-tasting
Chablis, the Boeing 747's turbo engines droning steadily in the background.
She tried to process what the detective had told her over the phone: Your sister stopped paying the rent and
disappeared from her apartment without a trace. Her current whereabouts
are unknown.
The plane began to shake with turbulence,
and the fasten seat belt sign blinked on. She hadn't reviewed! the emergency
instructions yet-a ritual she performed' before each flight-so she
picked up the laminated sheet and started reading. The printed instructions
reminded her that the seat cushions doubled as flotation devices,
the
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