Cold and broken
Abby and Holtz settle into a rhythm. Every day when Abby gets to the lab, Holtzmann is already there working. Abby teaches all morning, they have lunch together in the lab, Chinese food for Abby and Pringles for Holtz. Abby tries to force feed Holtz vegetables with chopsticks, the blonde laughing as she playfully dodges carrots and celery alike. They work on their separate projects in the afternoon, orchestrating a (not so) carefully choreographed dance in the lab. Abby avoids being in the same space as Holtz. Holtz seems to show no regard for personal space, sometimes appearing a little too close with a new invention without making a sound. One second Holtz has welding goggles on and a blow torch lit and the next she’s at the fume hood deftly manipulating some small-scale catastrophe. The lab is loud and filled with new sights, smells, and noises. Most of them interesting and exciting but many of them terrifying, Holtzmann in the middle of them all, a never ceasing ball of energy and light.
Abby feels like a satellite, constantly being pulled into low Earth orbit around the engineer. She tries taking a step back but then Holtz is there with a blow torch and a dimpled smile and she’s pulled back in, laughing and happier than she’s been in a long time.
It’s not just the comradery that’s exciting. Abby and Holtz are making strides scientifically. Abby is positive that the PKE meter is theoretically sound and ready for field testing, if they can find somewhere to field test it. Holtz is currently hacking some recording equipment to be able to record electro-voice phenomena. Abby’s put up flyers around the city soliciting reports of ghost activity, dying to test the equipment but in the three months since Holtz’s arrival, they’ve received six calls for “Seymour Butts” and eight “Ivanna Weiner”-s but no legitimate reports.
Abby leaves the lab on Friday before dinner, smiling as she hears the blare of the boombox retreating behind her. They’ve had a particularly successful week. Today, Holtzmann appeared with the newly completed EVP recorder at 4 pm, blue eyes glittering with excitement as her wide open face peered at Abby from behind the computer. Abby couldn’t imagine going back to a time when the lab wasn’t filled with bangs, yells of excitement, and 80’s music.
Abby is yanked out of her reverie by her phone buzzing in her pocket, the number is unknown.
“If this is Ivanna Weiner, you should know that I do not, under any circumstances, want a weiner.”
“Is this Dr. Abigail Yates?”
“Yes, speaking….”
“I’m calling to report a sighting…”
“Listen, I’m gonna stop you right there, I’ve seen the Simpsons, I know where this is going!” Abby interrupts impatiently.
“What!? I’m calling to report a ghost sighting! I know it sounds crazy but I saw your flyer in Chelsea. I work at the Chelsea Hotel and we definitely need your help.”
“OH MY GOD!... Wait, are you messing with me right now? ...Benny, if this is your idea of a fun joke…” Abby stops, undeterred from her skepticism.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS!? I saw a flyer, are you going to help me? Or do I need to call those idiot ghost jumpers?!”
Abby stops in the middle of a crosswalk and scrambles through her oversize canvas tote bag for a pen and paper. “No No! I’ll be there! If you had to rank the apparition between a T1 and a T5 where would you put it? Did it seem like it was stationary? Did you happen to experience an AP-xH shift?”
Abby doesn’t hear the cars honking at her as she jots down the frustrated notes of the woman on the other end of the phone who, much to Abby’s chagrin, cannot rate the apparition. She slams the notebook closed and starts to scramble back to the lab dialing Holtz’s cell phone number as she goes, to no avail.
Fridays are always the beginning of the hardest part of the week for Holtzmann now. She is used to not having friends, doesn’t need them. At Cornell, she threw herself into research and classes. Dr. Gorin was at the lab every day rain or shine, sickness or health. 30 years. I have gone thirty years without giving a shit if I was by myself, why does it suddenly matter to me so much if one person isn’t around for 48 hours? As long as she keeps moving, keeps focused on the next goal, she can always keep the noise inside her head at bay, but medication helped. People make her anxious. Human interactions are so much harder than they seem in the movies. How do people figure this shit out? I am completely unprepared to cope with this sudden onset feelings disorder, right now.
Holtzmann has her music at full blast. With one hand she holds onto the cool metal of her necklace, messing with the gauge on a potential tractor beam with the other absentmindedly.
This Friday seems like it is going to be particularly hard. Holtzmann spends weekends in the lab. She technically has an apartment, but her babies are in the lab and her babies always know what to say. I am Dr. Jillian Holtzmann, I don’t need people, not even Abby Yates. Holtzmann absentmindedly tinkers with the tractor beam, mulling over what she can accomplish this weekend in the lab, trying not to think of how empty it is on weekends without Abby sitting close by doggedly writing and running simulations, coming up with new brilliant ideas for Holtz to test. Why do "ideas" sound so dirty in my head?
Most weekends, the interminable wait for Monday morning starts on Saturday. Monday morning, when Abby will show up smiling, lattes in hand, ready to simultaneously admonish Holtzmann for spending the weekend in the lab and high-five over Holtzmann’s many weekend accomplishments. Apparently we’re starting this week’s anxiety attack early. You're a real pal, body. She slams the reverse tractor beam down on the table, her muscles jolting out of control. Sparks shoot out of the tractor beam and slam into the boombox immersing her suddenly in total silence. “Fuck” she mutters.
As if on cue, her heart starts beating faster, lungs unable to retrieve sufficient oxygen. She can feel all 100,000 newtons per square meter of the atmosphere pressing down on her, her brain immediately filling with the unmanageable noise.
Abby practically runs screaming back to the lab, dodging the New York City evening traffic at every turn. Her breathing is ragged as she emerges into the basement hallway listening intently for synthesizers, hearing none, and hoping that Holtz hasn’t gone home for potentially the first time ever. She slams into the lab, breast heaving with the speed at which she raced here, to see Holtzmann curled up into herself. One hand rubbing her necklace, the other clenched tight. She can barely hear Holtzmann's small voice singing quietly over the sound of her own breathing.
“You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah”
Each word is breathless. The engineer looks so still and small. Abby feels a fire blazing insider her, unleashed after a lifetime of waiting for this cold and broken woman.
Abby stumbles. How is it possible that she sings too? I mean COME ON, world, cut me a break here.
“Hey Holtz??” Abby places a hand casually on the small of the blonde’s back.
Holtz jumps out of her skin, practically scrambling to put as much space between her and Abby as possible, surepticiously rubbing the spot on her back that Abby's hand touched.
“HiHey.I. Didn’tseeyoucomeinHowdy.” She blurts standing up abruptly. “Hi.” She breathes a little more slowly.
“We’ve got a real report of a ghost at the Chelsea Hotel!” Abby blurts, waiting for Holtz to react. “WHYAREYOUSTARINGATME?! PACK THE BAG! GET THE STUFF!”
Holtzmann looks at her wide-eyed – totally still, not believing that Abby’s back, that she doesn’t have to wait until Monday.
“WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT HOLTZMANN!? GET THOSE PUPPY DOG EYES IN GEAR!”
Holtzmann scrambles to get the gear together hoping that forward motion will quell the oncoming anxiety attack.
Abby starts slamming things into the large silver duffel bag Holtzmann used to transport her equipment down from upstate.
Ten minutes later they are in a cab to Chelsea uncomfortably crammed into one side of the backseat with the duffel bag propped on top of their touching thighs. Abby gets carsick in the backseat of cars so she always has to ride bitch even when there is plenty of space.
After a tense cab ride, they arrive at the Chelsea Hotel and are welcomed by a supremely stressed receptionist who shows them to a room.
“The ghost has been reported six times in this room. All of the guests who’ve stayed here recently felt like they were being watched. We checked the walls for peepholes like 6 times but nothing.” The receptionist looks around her scrunching up her nose in disgust at the musty room. “Just give us a ring if you need anything, here’s the key.”
The receptionist closes the door backing out quickly, leaving Abby and Holtzmann alone.
Holtz is having trouble breathing. There is only one bed in this hotel room, which smells like old Cheetos and feet. Now she’s alone with Abby, potentially a ghost, and a huge uncomfortable must remain secret beginnings of an anxiety attack without her meds. Of course there had to be a ghost in a hotel room, it couldn’t be the snack aisle at a supermarket or the men’s bathroom of a gas station. It just had to be a hotel room.
Abby pulls out the camcorder handing it to Holtz who turns it on and starts to film.
“Chelsea Hotel – October 10th – 7:46 pm.” Abby intones as she pulls out the PKE meter and starts to set up the EVP recorder. The PKE meter twirls lazily.
“Holy crap Holtz! I think it works. You really did it! I mean I knew you were a genius but this is insane.” She looks at Holtzmann wide-eyed.
Holtzmann smiles, feeling the weight in her chest lighten just a tiny bit.
Four hours later
Holtz and Abby are laying on the bed surrounded by empty take out containers
“I told you I was never going to try to beat you at a fried rice eating contest again.” Abby groans. “You look so little but you can eat so much.” Abby rolls over onto her stomach stuffing her face into a pillow mumbling nonsensical syllables into it.
Holtz laughs, hoping that the extreme amount of sodium will start to regulate her once again accelerating heartbeat. That was not even a real laugh Holtzmann, you’re going to have to try a bit harder here.
Holtzmann clutches desperately at her necklace trying to ground herself in the feeling of the screw in her palm. She can feel her overactive adrenal glands pumping. She can practically see it as the norepinephrine and epinephrine come blasting into her blood stream signaling the onslaught of fight-or-flight responses in her heart, lungs, and brain. Deep breaths Holtzmann, just regulate your breathing and go from there.
Abby rolls back onto her side and looks at Holtz who has her eyes closed and is now breathing in slowly through her nose and out through her mouth.
“Hey, you’re looking a little pale there, Holtzy. Everything alright?”
“Mm?” Holtz mumbles not opening her eyes. The vibrations of her vocal cords feel like pricks of ice in her chest. Abby watches her swallow slowly, confused.
How did I break my postdoc? Abby reaches out, placing a hand on Holtzmann’s shoulder. Holtzmann jumps up and off the bed. She places her back against the cool wall and slides down it to the floor, running her fingers through her shock of blonde hair. Abby sits up staring at slight woman curled against the wall.
You need to say something Holtzmann. She probably thinks you think she’s radioactive now. Just open your mouth, you can do it. Just a couple of words, come on, voice don't fail me now. Holtzmann opens her mouth, forces out a sound, closes it again and takes a deep breath.
Think Yates. What could be happening here? You have a basic understanding of biology. You’ve touched Holtzmann before and she didn’t jump out of her skin which indicates that she’s not repulsed by your touch. Abby looks intently at the engineer, cataloging everything. Pallid skin, jerky movements, shallow breathing, tactile sensitivity… Abby remembers back to when she was in grad school, Erin sometimes had anxiety attacks around holidays when she would get ready to head home for the holidays. Abby had done a lot of research at the time to see how best she could help her through them but the symptoms and the approaches were so varied, how could Abby guess what Holtz was feeling, or even if this is an anxiety attack? Think Yates, what would Holtzmann need?
Abby slides down to the floor sitting opposite Holtzmann, her back against the bed.
It starts quietly, Holtzmann, at the bottom of the gaping pit inside herself, can barely hear it as Abby, voice shaking, starts to sing. Holtzmann follows that small, shy, uniquely lovely voice up and out of herself. She’s swimming against a current, muscles quivering, up towards the light. Her chest tightens, burning with the need for oxygen as her head breaks the surface and she takes a first glorious gulp of air, lungs expanding gratefully.
“Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah.”