Phillip

Some trees are taller, but the buildings on  UChicago campus aren't that different from the way they were during my college days. Neither is the inside of Professor Mallard's lab. Not that I've actually been to this lab or even this floor, but the scratched-up walls, damaged countertops, and ancient lab equipment are stuck in the last decade.

"How many people share this space?" I count the benches that seem like they belong to different people.

"All the bioengineering grad students." Professor Mallard's answer sounds like I'm the dentist pulling his teeth and not a potential benefactor.

"Did you and Mom use it as well?"

"No." He jerks his chin up and walks away. If he moves any farther, I'll have to start shouting to maintain our conversation. Is he trying to be formal with me, or does he think my wealth is contagious and he wants nothing to do with it? "Your Mom was an undergrad. I was leading her biology 101 class, no lab work." He crosses his hands on his lower back and rolls back and forth on his heels. "But I did spend some of my time here in those days."

I got through higher levels of bio, thanks to Nata. A wave of tenderness washes over me at the thought of Nata. Me showing her my renovated apartment, and her hasty retreat from my bedroom at my request to visit hers brings the corner of my mouth up. 'You show me yours because I've shown you mine?' I shouldn't have said that, but joking around her and seeing her reactions makes them worth every time. I like making her smile. Her glares. The way her chest betrays her emotions with shallow breaths.

The combination of a smart and confident woman who knows her work and what she wants, with a too-honest and too-open girl I spent so much time with at college checks some of the boxes I never knew I had. I push the thoughts of Nata away. I'm here to find out about my mother.

I pretend to inspect the ancient rotovap and close the distance between the professor and me. "Was Mom a good student?"

"Grace wasn't going to pursue a career in sciences if that's what you're asking. That's one thing she was sure of." The tiny smile on his lips and glazed gaze make me want to push harder, crawl inside his head, and see the images of her he has there.

"Why do you say that?" Impatience seeps through my voice.

He paces up and down the short space between the two rows. "She changed her major three times. Grace taking biology was your father's influence. He was trying to persuade her to give science a chance."

I narrow my eyes. That's news. "You knew my dad?"

"No, we've never met." Mallard shakes his head and increases the speed of his pacing, making me dizzy. "Grace and Tom were childhood friends." That's the same information Dad told me. Mom and he didn't have one grand meet cute. They went to the same school and were neighbors throughout their childhood.

The professor moves papers on one of the benches, straightening already neat piles of paperwork. "She said he was sort of a big brother figure for her." This tracks as well. I don't dare speak, hoping for more glimpses into Mom's life to tumble off his lips. He shrugs. "At least that's what she told me. She listened to him. Sometimes too much."

"Too much?" My breath hitches. Why would he say that?

"Grace." He sighs, and that almost imperceptible smile is back to his lips. "She was charming. A people-person. She liked everyone. Everyone liked her." The smile widens on his lips as he falls deeper into his memories. My desire to be inside his head triples. "It was hard not to like your mother," he continues. "She was one of those sunshine people who brightened the room. Who everyone gravitates to." He rubs the side of his face. "I always thought she belonged in the center of the room. She told stories so well."

I inch closer to him. "Is that what she wanted to do?"

"I don't think she knew what she wanted to do." He lifts his eyes to meet mine. "Truly, I'm sure she didn't." His gaze wanders away, but not onto something real around us, but into that maze of recollections that I have no access to. "We had a conversation about where we saw ourselves in five years. Grace had both a million ideas and none." He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and resumes the rocking motion from earlier. "She loved music. She was wondering if pursuing music history was a good idea or anthropology. She was always interested in music and human behavior. Grace was a walking encyclopedia of trivia related to opera and music theater. She bought those student tickets that allowed her to stand by the door behind the seats—the cheapest way to see the opera season. She was considering psychology as well. The last time we spoke, that was what she was leaning to." He pauses and looks back at me. "What did she end up pursuing?"

"She never graduated."

"No?" He furrows his eyebrows. "Why not?"

I move my arms wide enough to almost touch the upper cabinets on both sides of the walkway. "She had me."

The familiar trickle of regret resumes dripping. In the back of my mind, there has always been this, 'what if she didn't have me?' thought. Maybe she wouldn't have had the hernia. Wouldn't have had to have her surgery. Wouldn't have died.

When I was a teen, my therapist told me it was a far-fetched theory that any doctor I talk to would disprove. Now, as an adult with my rational brain, I understand it, yet sometimes that doubt creeps back in.

What if me being born was the reason she died? I grab the countertop next to me and tighten my fingers around the stained crumbling Formica. "Dad was growing his company. He worked so much and traveled constantly. I was it for mom. Her parents were not supportive of her having a kid at twenty-one, so they were not in the picture." I've only met them twice. Once at her funeral and once at theirs.

"I can see that." Professor Mallard approaches me. As if he could read my guilt in my mind, he squeezes my shoulder in an encouraging, there-there-my-boy gesture. "She used to say that they wanted her to be an independent professional woman. Having a kid that young and dropping out of college"—he sighs and shakes his head—"they wouldn't have been too supportive."

How does he know that? The level of detail the professor has about my mom is not astonishing, but an inkling of suspicion starts in my gut. "Did Mom talk to you about my grandparents, or was it part of some assignment?"

Mallard drops his hand from my shoulder. "Not an assignment." He interlaces them behind his back. "Your mom and me, we were ... friends."

"So you knew her outside of these walls?"

The professor rubs his chin. "It's a long story."

"I'd love to hear it." I inch closer to him.

"Mr. Van der Heuvel," he says. My name comes out like a punch that intends to throw me off balance.

I've played these games before. "Phillip." I smile to force him into putting down his ammunition. I'm not a threat. I make sure my smile reaches my eyes and use my friendliest voice. I need to keep him talking. "Please, call me Phillip."

"Phillip. I—"

"Professor Mallard, could I steal you for a moment?" One of the students who was working at a bench in the corner holds a slide in her hands and points to the microscope next to us.

"Yes, yes, Dasha." He gives me an apologetic smile. "Give me five minutes here. You can look around." He gestures to the part of the lab we haven't covered yet. "Talk to the students." He takes the slide from the woman's hands and turns on the microscope. "Let's see what we have here," he tells her.

So close. He was going to tell me something I'd like to hear, I'm certain. I heard it in his tone. I move away from the professor and finish my tour of the lab. Although Professor Mallard didn't offer me anything groundbreaking about Mom and she hasn't even been using this lab, I feel closer to her. My imagination is given new food after years surviving on the same regurgitated crumbs Dad provided year over year.

The blond woman whose back is to me is tall enough to be Mom. Even though I know Mom has never been in this lab, I transpose the photos and videos of Mom onto the woman and let out the feeling of missing her.

We are not supposed to miss what we never had. I was five when she died. So young that I can't even trust myself to know if any of the excerpts of my time with her that float in my head are true memories. They can as well be things I imagined based on the information Dad told me and the photos of us together I've seen. Still, I grab onto them no matter how much deeper they plunge the knife that is always in my heart. Feeling something is better than the stillness of emptiness, of the lack of something I've always wanted but never had.

I walk the rest of the benches, noting the equipment that needs replacing, the outdated computers, the lack of things a lab of this level would require to produce modern-day competitive results at competitive speeds. I take out my phone and create a list of things for Dustin to coordinate with our supplier. Some of the machines we can donate, but we don't produce every piece of equipment the lab needs.

A message from Nata is waiting unread.

Nata: Good news for us. I started my period.

I text her back.

Me: Does it mean what I think it means?

Nata: If you think it means I had to buy a tampon from the restroom for the first time in my life or that the cramps are as bad as I remember them, then yes.

Me: I can have some pain pills delivered. Or what's your preferred way to deal with cramps?

Nata: I haven't had them for years. I think of everything. How did I not think of having this stuff on me? I'll be more prepared next time.

Me: If I do my part right in San Francisco, you won't need to worry about cramps for many months.

Nata: You know getting pregnant on the first try is pretty impossible. There are no guarantees even if we do it according to all the recommendations.

Me: I'm pretty good at the doing it part. Winky emoji.

Nata: Your reputation precedes you. Smiling devil head.

Does she mean she knows I'm going to make sex good for her or that she thinks I'm words and no game?

Me: Can't wait to show what I can do.

Nata: Don't get your...hopes... up.

I can't contain a grin at reading her reply. Maybe my reputation isn't stellar, but I care for the people I . . . care about. She'll see. I search the web for what a good period care package would be and text Dustin some ideas on how to put together one he needs to deliver to Nata: period pain pills, a portable heating pad, an emergency period survival kit, a water bottle, a pack of energy bars I've seen on her counter, a bag of ground coffee she likes so much at my place. I smile to myself and add a request for a dozen red roses. On the nose, but I know she can take my joking.

"Probably looks like a dump to you," Professor Mallard's voice interrupts the image of surprise on Nata's face at getting my package when she gets home.

I put my phone away and raise my eyebrows at him to show he has my full attention. "Where do you get your funding from?"

"Most comes from grants. Part of the reason I joined the team is to revitalize the program. We need new grants. New donors. The students need to experience different career paths. There's lots of work to be done." Professor Mallard heads to the door. "Your internship opportunity will make a difference in many students' lives. Let's head back. It's almost time for the interviews."

"After you," I say. We walk along wide hallways with students sitting along the walls, chatting in groups, and typing away on laptops. He stops next to a door with his name on a placard next to it.

Time to ensure he and I spend lots more time together. "We can't offer the internships to every candidate we interview, but how about additional funding for the lab?"

"That's very generous of you. You don't have to." The students lined up next to his door in the hallway wave at nod to the Professor in greeting. "We'll call you in shortly," he addresses them.

Mallard unlocks the door into this office and stands aside to let me in.

He shakes his head as he strolls in behind me. "Actually...I'm not going to say no to this. We need and want anything you can spare."

My hook has done its job. I grin internally but maintain a professional facade. Time to close the trap and receive my reward: more time with him that I can question him about Mom.

"What do you think of a Grace Van der Heuvel fund?" I ask. "You can use part of the funds for the lab and part for...scholarships?"

"Gracie would've loved that." Mallard's face falls, and his eyes glisten. Mine probably do as well.

The years Dad and I spent multiplying the money will serve some good. My mother's imaginary smile blankets me. The wound in my chest hurts less. My lawyers will have more work to do, but for the first time in a long time, I'm not sagging under yet another project to run I don't care about. Wings unfold behind me. Even though there's something I want from Mallard, this is beyond my personal interest. This is something I want to do. A young scholar fund with grants, scholarships, donations of equipment. So many ways to help advance projects and careers.

"I'm glad you think so." I turn my back to him to hide the glee I can't contain and peruse the photos on his shelf of Mallard with 'Grandad' etched in the wooden frame of him holding three kids of various ages on his lap, laughing.

"I know so." He steps behind me, his hand on the crook of my neck. "She would have been so proud of you." His voice is muted by sadness. "I'm sure your dad told you that before."

"Yeah, he did." But Dad would be proud of me even no matter what. Hearing the sentiment from Mallard makes me believe the saying for the first time. His words coupled with his touch settle the unease the thoughts of Mom created in my head. "Let's meet with those candidates of yours," I tell him.

Mallard opens the door to the hallway. "Come on in," he shouts into the hallway.