Terminal

It was a rather dated and cluttered lab with soapstone-topped benches. The newest equipment were the computers and a series of desk-sized analyzers. Sean had described the subject of his Ph.D. thesis on several occasions, but Janet still wasn’t a hundred percent certain she understood it all. He was searching for specialized genes called oncogenes that had the capability of encouraging a cell to become cancerous. Sean had explained that the origins of oncogenes seemed to be from normal “cellular control” genes that certain types of viruses called retroviruses had a tendency to capture in order to stimulate viral production in future host cells.

Janet had nodded at appropriate times during these explanations but had always found herself more interested by Sean’s enthusiasm than the subject matter. She also realized that she needed to do some more basic reading in the area of molecular genetics if she was to understand Sean’s particular area of research. Sean had a tendency to assume that she had more knowledge than she had, in a field where advances came at a dizzying pace.

As Janet watched Sean from just inside the door, appreciating the V that his broad shoulders and narrow waist formed, she became curious about what he was currently doing. In sharp contrast to many other visits she’d made over the last two months, he wasn’t preparing one of the analyzers to run. Instead he seemed to be putting objects away and cleaning up.

After watching for several minutes, expecting him to notice her, Janet stepped forward and stood right next to him. At five-six Janet was relatively tall, and since Sean was only five-nine, they could just about look each other in the eye, especially when Janet wore heels.

“What may I ask are you doing?” Janet said suddenly.

Sean jumped. His level of concentration had been so great he’d not sensed her presence.

“Just cleaning up,” he said guiltily.

Janet leaned forward and looked into his startlingly blue eyes. He returned her stare for a moment, then looked away.

“Cleaning up?” Janet asked. Her eyes swept around the now pristine lab bench. “That’s a surprise.” Janet redirected her eyes at his face. “What’s going on here? This is the most immaculate your work area has ever been. Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“No,” Sean said. Then he paused before adding, “Well, yes, there is. I’m taking a two-month research elective.”

“Where?”

“Miami, Florida.”

“You weren’t going to tell me?”

“Of course I was. I planned on telling you tomorrow night.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Sunday.”

Janet’s eyes angrily roamed the room. Absently, her fingers drummed on the countertop. She questioned to herself what she’d done to deserve this kind of treatment. Looking back at Sean, she said: “You were going to wait until the night before to tell me this?”

“It just came up this week. It wasn’t certain until two days ago. I wanted to wait until the right moment.”

“Considering our relationship, the right moment would have been when it came up. Miami? Why now?”

“Remember that patient I told you about? The woman with medulloblastoma.”

“Helen Cabot? The attractive coed?”

“That’s the one,” Sean said. “When I read about her tumor, I discovered . . .” He paused.

“Discovered what?” Janet demanded.

“It wasn’t from my reading,” Sean corrected himself. “One of her attendings said that her father had heard about a treatment that is apparently achieving one hundred percent remission. The protocol is only administered at the Forbes Cancer Center in Miami.”

“So you decided to go. Just like that.”

“Not exactly,” Sean said. “I spoke to Dr. Walsh, who happens to know the director, a man named Randolph Mason. A number of years ago they worked together at the NIH. Dr. Walsh told him about me, and got me invited.”

“This is the wrong time for this,” Janet said. “You know I’ve been disturbed about us.”

Sean shrugged. “I’m sorry. But I have the time now, and this is potentially consequential. My research involves the molecular basis of cancer. If they are experiencing a hundred-percent remission rate for a specific tumor, it has to have implications for all cancers.”

Janet felt weak. Her emotions were raw. Sean’s leaving for two months at this time seemed the worst possible situation as far as her psyche was concerned. Yet his reasons were noble. He wasn’t going to the Club Med or something. How could she get angry or try to deny him. She felt totally confused.

“There is the telephone,” Sean said. “I’m not going to the moon. It’s only a couple of months. And you understand that this could be very important.”

“More important than our relationship?” Janet blurted out. “More important than the rest of our lives.” Almost immediately Janet felt foolish. Such comments sounded so juvenile.

“Now let’s not get into an argument comparing apples and oranges,” Sean said.

Janet sighed deeply, fighting back tears. “Let’s talk about it later,” she managed. “This is hardly the place for an emotional confrontation.”

“I can’t tonight,” Sean said. “It’s Friday and . . .”