Love, Theoretically

Jack calls me two days later during my office hours, but I’m busy explaining to a UMass senior that if she truly must paste an entire paragraph from Wikipedia into her essay, she should at least take out the embedded hyperlinks. He tries again on Friday night, when I’m grading the thermo papers that came in late, and one last time on Saturday morning, while I’m in bed staring at the popcorn ceiling, thinking about him anyway.

I never consider picking up. Not once. Not even when I cannot sleep. Not even after being sullen tempered, distracted, inefficient for the entire week because I cannot stop replaying my fight with him, slicing it into pieces, retracing what I said, what he said, what our positions are, what algorithms could be used to solve the mess we’re in and the things I feel. Not even when Cece comments on the newly whole credenza, making me miss him in an angry, visceral way.

I need answers. On Monday morning my alarm goes off at five thirty, but I’m already awake, just as I’ve been for the rest of the night. I dress quickly, without looking at myself in the mirror, and leave as quietly as I can, stopping only to give a suspicious Hedgie a handful of food pellets. It’s early enough that the bus to Northeastern is semi-deserted—the driver, me, and a girl in scrubs. Her foot taps to music I cannot hear, and focusing on it makes the thought of what I’m about to do almost bearable.

Dr. L. isn’t in his office yet. He arrives about twenty minutes later and finds me leaning beside his nameplate—a first in six years. I study his hands as he unlocks the door, wondering how to bring up Grethe Turner.

I heard from someone that—

I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding—

I know these are serious accusations, but—

Please, you wouldn’t—

“What is it that you wanted to tell me, Elise?” The green chair feels prickly under my thighs. Dr. L.’s tone is, as usual, encouraging. Supportive. “You mentioned something about a job opportunity in your email. Where would that be?”

I had . . . not quite forgotten about George’s offer, but the topic seems trivial, inconsequential compared to my need to know what really happened between Laurendeau and Jack’s mother. Still, it’s why I originally scheduled this meeting. Since I have no idea how to bring up the topic I want to, I clear my throat and start with what’s easy.

“At MIT.”

“Ah. I see.” His thin lips stretch into a satisfied smile. “The department realized they made a mistake. I’m pleased to hear that—”

“No. I . . . That’s not it. Georgina Sepulveda wants me to become her postdoctoral fellow. The position pays well, comes with health insurance, and George has a line of liquid crystal research.”

His eyes widen, then instantly narrow. “Georgina Sepulveda stole your job, and you’re thinking of working for her.”

“She didn’t steal my job.” Irritation bubbles inside me, but I quash it down. “She deserved it. And I can learn a lot from her. Honestly, it feels like a perfect match, and I’m leaning toward accepting.” Dr. L. says nothing and just stares at me. The satisfied smile is gone now, and I nearly shiver. “What do you think?”

He’s quiet for a few more moments. Then he leans back in his chair, lips thin, and asks, “What is it that you are here for, Elise? My blessing to accept this position?”

I take a deep breath. Another. Honesty, I tell myself like a mantra. Honesty. I can be true to myself. People who care will stay, even when I’m not the Elsie they want. “Yes. I understand your reticence, and I respect your wisdom, but—”

“If you really understand, you will stop considering it at once.”

My brain stumbles and goes blank for a minute. “I . . . What?”

“Setting aside the humiliation of working for someone who beat you to a job, I have researched Georgina Sepulveda. Not only is she an experimentalist, but she also frequently collaborates with Jonathan Smith-Turner.”

I’m not sure what feels the most like a punch: Dr. L.’s cutting tone, or the shock of hearing him say Jack’s name. “This has nothing to do with him. George is an established scientist in her own right, and—”

“Enough, Elise.” He lifts his hand, as though I’m a well-trained pet who’ll fall silent at a simple gesture. Suddenly he looks tired, as though exhausted by an unruly child’s tantrum. “You will not accept this position.”

I frown. For a long moment, I have no idea what to do. Because on one side, there’s the simple semantic knowledge of what Laurendeau’s Elsie should do: Agree. Apologize. Chalk her stubbornness up to meningitis, leave after some teary genuflections, and continue her life as it has been for the past six years. On the other, there’s the Elsie I want to be.

And the things she chooses to say. “Dr. Laurendeau. I will accept the position if it’s what I think is best.” My voice comes out surprisingly firm. “And while I understand your reservations and appreciate your guidance, I will ultimately decide—”

“You silly, stubborn girl.”

His tone, at once harsh and condescending, is like an ice bucket pouring over my head. “You have no right to talk to me this way.”

Dr. L. stands slowly, as he often does during our conversations. For the first time in six years, I stand, too. “As your academic advisor, I can talk to you however I choose.” He leans forward. I have to lock my knees to not step back. “If you are adamant that you wish to work under an experimentalist,” he continues coldly, “perhaps we may review some of the physicists who approached me about you in the past, but—”

“What did you say?”

“I am open to reviewing other offers, but Dr. Sepulveda’s is not—”

“Other . . . offers? You said there were no other offers.”

“There were some. From experimental physicists. Absolutely unacceptable. However, they would still be better than working with—”

“But you never told me.”

“Because they did not bear contemplating.”

The room spins. Topples. Stops to a crack within me—a neat split. “You . . .” I cannot speak. Cannot find the words. “That—that was—it was for me to decide. You knew how much I was struggling financially. How little research I was able to do this past year. And you didn’t tell me?”

His mouth twists into a downward line. “I am your mentor. It is my job to guide you toward what’s best for you.”

“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.”