Caeli Widger - Mother of Invention

She suddenly felt desperate to learn something—anything—about so-called “AG.” Anything that might make her feel less isolated. Less guilt-racked. On an impulse, she went to the website, from which she requested a sample kit. It arrived in the mail, instructing her to press the enclosed tape on the skin of her arm, yank it off, and then place it back in the mail, using the packaging and postage provided.

She sent off the sample, but never heard anything back or got the “instant stipend.” A few weeks later, the AG Volunteers website disappeared, a 401 error page in its place. She found an 800 number for Config Labs, but when she tried calling it, a recorded voice with a British accent informed her it was no longer in service.

2021

Tessa’s flight from San Jose to Boston was overbooked, and she sat in first class for a half hour past the scheduled takeoff while irritable passengers negotiated seats and flight attendants called for volunteers to give theirs up. She caught up on a few messages; reviewed a proposal from a potential manufacturer for the Mammarina, the prosthetic breast Seahorse was developing; sent a text to Peter— sitting on overheated tarmac, love you— and then tried to read on her tablet. But she could not concentrate; the plane air was too warm and the legs of passengers standing beside her, in an unmoving line toward the back of the plane, were just inches from her face.

“Lap of luxury in here, isn’t it?” said the man in the window seat beside her. He looked midthirties and had an intense, vigilant air that Tessa had noticed when they’d boarded. He’d kept his sunglasses on even after he’d settled in his seat, silver aviators that he now removed and snapped into a case. Without them, his appearance softened.

“Flying is pure function nowadays,” said Tessa. “I keep my expectations low.”

“Smart woman,” he said. “I’m Wayne.”

“Tessa.”

“Nice to meet you, Tessa. What takes you to Boston?” Wayne was almost handsome, with reddish-brown hair, slightly receded, and a boyish face, though she saw crinkles at his eyes and a weariness behind them.

“A quick business trip,” said Tessa. “You?”

“Combination of things,” he said. She noticed faded scars above both jawlines—perhaps from old acne?—and that his skin was overtanned, slightly weathered, as if he worked in the sun.

“What type of things?” Normally she did not open the door to chatting on planes; she worked when she flew.

“Work-related. All equally dull. I refuse to bore you. Are you in Silicon Valley?”

“I am. In biotech.”

“Interesting. I’m looking forward to being made obsolete by a robot.”

Tessa laughed. “It’ll be awhile. A couple of years at least.”

“Silicon Valley’s a weird place, isn’t it? All that brainpower and ambition, but hidden underneath a kind of…” Wayne paused, searching for the words. “Laid-back skin.”

“Well said. Do you live in the area?”

“Negative. California’s not for me. Can’t speak the language.”

“I understand,” said Tessa.

“I’m in grad school, out at MIT.”

“Impressive,” said Tessa. The phrase out at MIT sounded strange, as if he might be playing a joke on her. He also looked old for graduate school, but she reminded herself not to be ageist, that people might decide to get advanced degrees at any time.

“Nah. I think I filled some diversity quota. I’m old. I’m from Montana. Not a classic MIT combo.”

“Montana’s gorgeous,” said Tessa. “I skied up near Whitefish once.”

“I’m from the plains. The ugly part. Anyhow. I’m sure you’ve got plans for passing these next six hours. I’ll leave you alone. I just make it a point to be neighborly on flights. Try to counter the misery of the experience just a tick.” He pulled an in-flight magazine out of his seat pocket and opened it, as if demonstrating his willingness to leave her alone.

“I appreciate that,” said Tessa, though she felt surprisingly willing to talk to him. There was something compelling about him, a lack of inhibition that bordered on brashness. It was refreshing; typically, no one bothered to look up from their screens on a plane. She couldn’t remember the last time a man, other than Peter or Luke, struck up a conversation with her for purely social reasons. Over the cabin loudspeaker, a voice instructed them to prepare for takeoff. The cabin filled with the noise of the plane’s gathering speed. Tessa pulled a blackout eye mask from her purse and put it on. She was always mildly anxious during takeoff and landing, a weakness that perplexed her, and found the darkness soothing.

As the plane leveled off, she left the mask on, weariness overtaking her. She’d been up extra early to spend time with the Cohort and ensure they were comfortable with her brief absence from the Center. They were all in good spirits, especially since they’d been authorized by the docs to start the NauseAway supplement, which drastically reduced their morning sickness. Gwen still complained of discomfort, but less, and Tessa had come to understand that it was her need for self-assertion that led Gwen to behave disagreeably. That it was partially an act. Being a contrarian was simply part of her identity, and she was obviously determined to not let pregnancy take it away. Underneath it was a flinty stability. Luke had trouble understanding this, no matter how many ways Tessa attempted to explain it. He refused to see her as anything other than a bitch, as a disruption to the cooperative mood of the Seahorse Trial. Tessa, on the other hand, had come to admire Gwen.

Still wearing her eye mask, she found herself wondering how her seatmate, Wayne the grad student, was passing his time on the flight. She pushed the mask up just a little to afford a view of Wayne’s hands, skating over the screen of a tablet. His fingers were ruddy but well formed, with clean, square nails. On his left hand he wore a bulky ring; she could make out an animal on it, a horse or a cow. Very Montana-ish.

On Wayne’s screen, Tessa saw a photo of a young woman with dark, curly hair past her shoulders. She watched as Wayne enlarged the image, then quickly reduced it again. He zoomed in and out a few times, too fast for Tessa to register the details of the woman’s face, by which Wayne was apparently transfixed.

His girlfriend, Tessa thought. Sweet, that Wayne was so arrested by her photo. Perhaps she was the reason he’d been in California, and they’d just parted ways. Perhaps he was missing her so intensely that he could do nothing but stare at her image.

Tessa tried to remember when she was preoccupied with Peter this way. She recalled their earliest days together, when Peter was living in a crammed Victorian in the Mission District of San Francisco. How once she’d needed to get up the creaking stairs and into his arms so urgently that she’d parked her car on the sidewalk, knowing she’d return to a three-hundred-dollar ticket.

She removed her mask and blinked into alertness; she did not want to think of Peter, not now. It led her straight to the g-word. She pulled out her tablet and opened her notes for the Weldon speech. Beside her, Wayne had also gotten to work, apparently. The curly-haired woman on his screen had been replaced by words and images of indeterminate content, a clutter of charts and graphs; Tessa slid her eyes over them but couldn’t make out details.

Tessa didn’t have much to review for her talk at Weldon. At this point, talking about Seahorse came as naturally as breathing. She’d presented the topic to dozens of groups. She loved public speaking, especially on a topic about which she felt passionately, and was at home in front of a crowd, rarely experiencing anxiety.