“You overstepped,” I say, so forceful, so different from my usual soft buts or reluctant yeses that for a moment he looks taken aback. But he recovers quickly, and his smile is chilling.
“Elise, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have entered graduate school. I chose you. Whatever career you have, you owe it to me, and you should be very careful not to forget it.”
I cannot believe my ears. This time I do take a step back, and another one, and all of a sudden it dawns on me that . . .
“Jack was right about you.”
“I have no idea who Jack is, nor do I care. Now, please, sit down. Let’s discuss this civilly, and—”
“You are controlling. And manipulative.” I try to swallow past the knot in my throat. “Jack was right. You really did ruin Grethe Turner’s career.”
His eyes narrow to bitter slits. “Ah. That’s who Jack is, then.” He shakes his head twice, like I’ve disappointed him profoundly. “You have been associating with Smith-Turner. The man who jeopardized the very existence of your field.”
“What did you do to Grethe?”
“His mother”—Laurendeau rolls his eyes impatiently—“doesn’t matter. Grethe Turner doesn’t matter and never did. If anything, her behavior should be a warning to you: there is no room for silly, stubborn girls in physics. And why would you believe anything Smith-Turner has told you?” His nostrils flare. “The article he wrote was a malicious hoax that ruined and derailed several careers and made it exponentially harder for theorists to have their work funded. We became the laughingstock of the academic world.”
“That’s true,” I bite out. “But it doesn’t erase what you did to Grethe Turner—”
“Do not mention her to me again.” Laurendeau’s voice is harsher than I ever remember hearing it. “And show some gratitude to the person who has given you a career.”
I shake my head, feeling close to tears. I won’t cry here, though. “I thought you wanted me to be the best possible physicist.”
“What I want, Elise, is for you to do as I say—”
A knock. The door opens before I can turn around.
“Dr. Laurendeau? I have something for you to sign . . . Oh, Elsie, haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been?”
I recognize the voice from my grad school days—Devang, the department administrator. I turn and wave at him, feeling numb. My hand doesn’t feel like mine.
“Come in, Devang,” Dr. L. says.
I’m nauseous, dizzy.
For the past six years, I’ve tried to be the Elsie that Dr. L. wanted. Resourceful, hardworking, tireless. Everything I needed—money, insulin, time, rest, mental fucking space—everything I needed I put after my work. I followed his advice before anyone else’s, thinking that he had my best interests in mind, thinking that he deserved an Elsie who strove for brilliance.
And all along, all he wanted was someone he could control.
“Would you rather I come back later?” Devang is asking.
“No,” Dr. L. says, eyes looking into me, lips pinched tight, “Elise was just about to leave.”
I hold his gaze, knowing the first time I was truly honest with him is likely going to be the last time I’ll ever see him.
“Dr. Laurendeau,” I say before turning around, “you should really start calling me Elsie.”
25
DUCTILITY
From: [email protected]
Subject: WHY DON’T YOU PICK UP YOUR PHONE? IT’S BEEN THREE DAYS.
[this message has no body]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Death in the family can’t come to class hey mrs. hannaway what do you mean, who died? pretty sure you can’t ask me that, it’s a HIPAA violation
From: [email protected] Subject: Re: Not who you think I am
Dr. Hannaway,
I apologize! I mixed you up with Dr. Hannaday, who teaches my Shakespeare After Dark: Intercoursing the Bard class. He’s actually a man in his seventies with bushy sideburns and chronic nostril boogers, so . . . Oops & lol. Thank you very much for answering my questions anyway! I ran with your idea of looking at how Breaking Dawn by Stephenie Meyer is loosely based on A Midsummer Night’s Dream and actually got an A+! I attached the paper in case you’re interested (It’s titled: Twilight vs. Shakespeare: May the horniest triumph). Also I looked you up on the BU database, and you teach Intro to Thermodynamics? I’m thinking of signing up for your class next year! I have a STEM requirement, and you’ve been so nice. If anyone can help me understand stuff like gravity or long division, that’s you.
Cam
From: [email protected]
Subject: Formal complaint
Dear Elsie,
I wanted to thank you again for our conversation re: your former advisor. The pattern of behavior you have highlighted is highly concerning, and an investigation on the matter has started. For now, I want to reassure you that part of my commitment as the new Chair of the Physics Department here at Northeastern is to counteract the secretive, toxic, unregulated academic environment that made it possible for Dr. Laurendeau to isolate you through the years.
I will keep you updated,
Best,
Bernard Greenberg, Ph.D.
My decision is already made by Tuesday night, but it’s not until Friday morning that I get on the subway and head toward Cambridge. I walk through Harvard Square, coat open in the middle of a delightfully sunny sixty-degree February day that’s probably paid for by several yards of coral bleaching somewhere in the Red Sea. I feel much like I have for the rest of the week: raw, delicate, a little bumbling. As though I’m gingerly trying on someone else’s life.
It’s my first time in the building, but I find the office easily. When I knock, a voice yells from inside, “I’m not here! Don’t come in! Go away!”
I laugh and open the door anyway.
“Oh my God, Elsie! Come in—I thought you were one of my colleagues. Or students. Or family members. Basically, anyone else.” George seems overjoyed to see me. Her office resembles her: a little messy, but cozy and comfortable. She begins to move a stack of printouts from the chair, but I shake my head.
“No need. I don’t really have time to stay. I wanted to talk to you in person. About the job.”
“Oh.” Her expression briefly shifts into a wince. Then reverts back to a small, reassuring smile. “You didn’t have to come all the way over here for that. I totally understand that working for an experimentalist might not be your ideal career. And I have no doubt that you’ll find a tenure-track position soon. And like I said, I think you and I should still—”
“Actually.” I clear my throat. “I came here to accept.”
She blinks. Many times. “To . . . accept?”
I take a deep breath, smile, and nod. “Yes.”
“To accept . . . the job?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“To be clear: you’re taking the job.”
“Yes.”
She screams. And hugs me tight. And after a startled moment, I hug her back. And about ten seconds into that, something breaks through the foggy haze of the past few days: I feel selfishly, beautifully happy. I just chose something on my own, for my own, without first building a sophisticated theoretical model of other people’s advice, preferences, needs. Without the nagging feeling that the only path I could take was the one pre-trodden for me.
This decision is all mine.
“I wanted to tell you in person,” I say when we let go. “And I wanted to thank you for the opportunity.” My smile wobbles a little. I could get emotional, but not yet. First, I have things to say. “And I’d love to set up a meeting, maybe for the next week. I don’t know if I mentioned it to you, but I’ve been working on several algorithms regarding the behaviors of bidimensional liquid crystals for . . . well, years now. Lots of incomplete projects I want to finish up. I’d love to tell you more about it. Get your input.” I bite my lower lip. “Maybe it could be part of our collaborative research, too?”
“Yes. Absolutely, I’d love to hear all about it.” She grins. And then, almost abruptly, doesn’t. “I really didn’t think you were going to accept.”
I nod. “I know.” My heart beats a little harder. “But in the end, it was an easy choice. Because I wanted to.”
I leave with a promise to meet her for drinks next week when her friend Bee’s in town. The ride back home is still delicate, but a little less raw. When I tap through my phone in search of a good song, the old notifications of Jack’s unanswered calls stare back at me, unflinching.
He hasn’t tried to contact me since the weekend, and I wonder if he’s angry at me. I wonder if he’s sad. I wonder if he’s disappointed.