Temper for You

by Genna Rulon

  In the evenings, we found our way back to his bed, where we would make love like it was the last time before cuddling and talking about everything and nothing…just being together. Despite my best efforts, I was falling for Wes. I saw what very few were permitted to see because he had given me the magic decoder ring, and each night another tiny piece was revealed.

  He continued to question me about my past and what my plans were for the future, but he never pushed me when I redirected the conversation. The only time we fought was when he pressured me for my real name. It was the same conversation each time.

  “Beautiful, what’s your real name?” he’d ask. He hadn’t called me Meg since I told him it wasn’t my name.

  “I can’t tell you that,” I’d reply, time and time again.

  “Why not? What are you afraid I’ll do…track down your family?”

  “No, I trust you not to do something as harebrained as that. I just can’t tell you. I wish I could, really I do. You can ask a thousand times a day and my answer won’t change,” I’d patiently explain.

  Frustrated, he would retreat to his home office for a little while to work, and when he returned, the strife was forgotten. But even these exchanges endeared him to me. They were evidence that he cared and it bothered him to have anything between us.

  Every moment of that month—when past and future were held at bay and there was only now—my life was idyllic. I could almost pretend it would go on forever, this deep sense of happiness and belonging. However, like so many hard-learned lessons, the past intruded to remind me this joy wasn’t my destiny.

  It was a typical Wednesday morning, shortly after returning from Wes’, when I logged into my email to verify the appointment time for a meeting with my graduate advisor. The email awaiting me was one I’d been dreading but was certain would come. Bile climbed my throat, burning my tongue, as I fought the reflexive gag. I needed more time…I was supposed to have more time. Dammit! I wasn’t ready to leave them…I wasn’t ready to leave him.

  My terror mounted by the second until it was hard to breathe or think. Get a grip, I commanded myself. This was not the time to fall apart. I had to confront my fate, regardless of how much I dreaded it. A sip of water helped clear the bitterness from my mouth, and I counted breaths until they became slow and steady. Under control and braced for what was to come, my finger hovered hesitantly over the touchpad before finally opening the message. Immediately, I wished I could unsee its warning.

  There was something diabolically effective about the single word communications, as if the point were so profound no other words were necessary. The word this time: punishment. I realized that Jay and I had been correct—they had been waiting for me to return. I also believed this message was meant as a scare tactic to force me back, a final warning before they took action. Thankfully, I had a little more time.

  Tomorrow was Thanksgiving and my finals would be completed in two weeks, officially marking the end of the semester. I knew in my bones they wouldn’t come for me for several weeks, maybe even a month. I had to plan for the worst and hope for the best. During my meeting today with Dr. Mesina, I would petition for the leave of absence and file the necessary paperwork. After Thanksgiving, I would tell everyone I had to return home after my finals ended to take care of some issues. It was still up in the air if I should leave immediately following the tests or push my luck and stay for Christmas. I had a little time left to decide so I pushed the question from my mind, needing to focus on my current objectives.

  Parking in the lot adjacent to the sociology building was exceptionally easy with no classes in progress, courtesy of the holiday break. I hustled into the building and navigated the corridors until I reached Dr. Mesina’s office door. Her voice beckoned me in and I sat down, making myself comfortable in a plush armchair.

  Dr. Mesina was a stunning woman, and while her age was likely in the low-fifties, she didn’t look a day over forty. She was always stylishly dressed in designer labels and accessorized to perfection. I believed her husband was in commercial real estate, and from the looks of it, business was good. I didn’t value material possessions—as I’d never had many—but her wardrobe and top-dollar haircut were enough to cause a fleeting pang of longing for such luxuries.

  After slipping her reading glasses from her nose, she looked at me with a somber expression. To say I didn’t get the warm fuzzies from that look would be an understatement.

  “Meg, we need to talk. Some information has been brought to my attention in regards to the veracity of the case studies and interview data you’ve used to support your doctoral thesis. It doesn’t look good. Not only is your thesis contingent upon your cited evidentiary documentation, the implication that you falsified or manufactured witness interviews to support your position is grounds for expulsion from the program.

  “We’ve known each other for nearly four years, and despite the evidence provided to me, I find it hard to believe you created false reports just to further your thesis. I’m going to give you a chance to explain, but before you begin, I will tell you what I still tell my children to this day: don’t even think about lying to me. I can handle the truth, but deception or omission will earn severe consequences because a) you lacked the integrity to admit your mistake and b) you are disrespecting me with the assumption that I can’t discern the truth. Remember, I’m older and wiser…there is nothing you could do or think of doing that I haven’t already done, considered, or witnessed. Now, is there anything you want to tell me?”

  Her eyes bored into mine, urging me to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  Cornered, I could either throw away my years of education and refuse to answer, or I could risk sharing the truth with my professional idol. I would like to say it was an easy decision, but my integrity came at a very high cost.

  “I’m presuming the document in question is a witness statement and interview from the Oregon assessment—specifically, witness number seven,” I clarified.

  “It is. There was also a minor discrepancy in a correlating witness statement from field personnel in the Oregon office,” she confirmed.

  “Witness statement number seven isn’t manufactured, it is one-hundred-percent authentic—the problem is in my documentation, Dr. Mesina,” I began but was forced to stop when my throat fisted closed and tears stung my eyes. I cleared my throat and blinked rapidly before trying again. “Dr. Mesina, witness statement and interview number seven are mine. She, the subject, is me. I confess that I withheld this fact, but not because it’s a lie. I didn’t document and appropriately source the report because it is the truth. I didn’t want anyone to know. I’ll admit it is one of the key documents referenced in my thesis, but the arguments presented would stand without the inclusion of the statement.”

  “Then why include it?” she interrupted.

  “Because it is a truth that deserves to be shared. Because it is the best and most comprehensive illustration of my thesis that exists. I didn’t choose the document to support my thesis. I chose the thesis because I lived what was in the document. My passion for sociology and particularly my specialty of study stems from my own experience. I knew I was treading in a gray area by not disclosing that I am a case in point—that my personal story was being used to support my positions. But isn’t that true of most theses? Everyone is a product of their environment and the arguments they make will be shaped by personal experience. We all strive for impartiality, but it is impossible to be completely detached from our own unique points of view. It’s not unheard of for a sociologist or anthropologist to immerse themselves in their field of study to better understand their subject and clarify their arguments and theories. What I did was no different. I know I should have disclosed my direct connection to the citations, but can you understand my position? In my shoes, would you want to expose yourself in that way to your colleagues and in journals? I don’t want to change my field of study, Dr. Mesina. I believe in the research I’m doing and that my findin
gs will be instrumental in developing new programs that are desperately needed. However, if the cost is parading myself before a panel of my peers and publically declaring myself—I don’t think I’m strong enough to do it.”

  She was silent for a long time in contemplation.

  “And the secondary document?”

  “The only alteration of the field statement was the removal of my name. You can contact the office and speak directly to the witness to verify everything I’m telling you.”

  Dr. Mesina steepled her hands and studied me intently.

  “This is a very complex issue, Meg. I need to think about it further and consider the ramifications of allowing you to continue drafting and ultimately defending your thesis as it currently stands. I may choose to consult with others in the department, but I will not breach your confidence and disclose that the statement is yours personally. You’ve bent the rules to the brink of breaking, but technically, I don’t think you have violated any part of the school’s honor code. As such, you will not be expelled, but we will meet after the holidays to discuss how to proceed with your thesis. Agreed?”

  “Umm…” I faltered. “For the most part, yes, I agree, and thank you. However, I was hoping you would support me in taking a leave of absence.”

  If not for the seriousness of the request, her look of shock would have been comical. Clearly, my request was unexpected.

  “For how long?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, squirming uncomfortably.

  “Even without the outstanding issue of your thesis, you have to know I can’t support your petition without just cause. This is one of the premier graduate programs in the country and you have substantial grant assistance that would be held for you. Unless you can provide me with a persuasive reason, I can’t justify preventing another student in need of grant assistance.”

  Nothing was ever easy. No-thing.

  “They’ve found me…my family,” I started to explain but paused at Dr. Mesina’s gasp. All I could do was nod in agreement. “Since you’ve read my witness statement and interview, you understand the implications. I’ve received email messages to my student account from them, warning me to return or face the consequences. I have a few weeks—at most—before they come here in search of me. I should be able to finish my finals, but after that…I have to leave here for a time. I can’t let them find me, especially not here. I have no idea how th—”

  “The FBI. That’s how they found you. When your thesis went before the review board for preliminary assessment, several professors raised concerns about the implications of the university sitting on these statements until you publish. To be frank, I have to agree. I understand you contacted local law enforcement when you first left, but given the relationship to your family, it was ineffectual. Someone from the professorial panel must have tipped off the FBI and provided a copy of your thesis. I didn’t know. It wasn’t until Monday that they contacted me with questions regarding the accuracy of the documents provided. That is how I found out there were discrepancies. I’m so sorry, Meg. You should have been advised, but no one could have imagined you were one of the subjects and therefore at risk.”

  She gazed out the window, lost in thought for so long I began counting ceiling tiles.

  “I’m going to remove the ridiculous hat they make us wear at graduation and don my ‘mom hat’ instead, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m concerned for you, Meg—for several reasons. You are taking a big risk remaining near campus to finish your finals. Furthermore, the likelihood of you ever finishing your studies are infinitesimal if you’re on the run. If you were my child, I would tell you it’s time to stand and fight. You’ve been evading and hiding too long, and even if you are able to slip away from them again, it’s only a matter of time until they catch up to you. The FBI is already curious. I’m certain they would be interested in hearing what you have to say.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I promised. “I’ve been so focused on surviving for the past seven years, it’s difficult to imagine anything other than running.”

  “I will support your leave of absence for a period of one year, should you decide to go. However, if you decide to stay, I have a proposition for you. Other than the immediate danger, my primary concern is your well-being. What you have lived through and subsequently endured after escaping has shaped you, as it would anyone. In many ways, you are probably stronger and more resilient than ninety percent of the population. But there are scars too, I’m sure. The fact that you are willing to jeopardize years of hard work and your entire scholastic career to prevent the truth from being revealed…that is not healthy. You can’t thrive if you are closed off from the rest of the world, hiding who you truly are.”

  It was my turn to stare out the window, swallowing the pain her words inflicted, primarily because of the truth they held. I was beginning to understand how stilted my perception was, largely as a result of my confession to Wes and his concern for me.

  “Here is the deal,” she continued when I offered no response. “If you begin seeing a therapist immediately, speak with the FBI, and remain at Hensley, I will pledge my support in every way possible. I’ll personally defend the continuation of your thesis as it was submitted and assist you in implementing your paradigm in cooperation with the FBI and possibly the CIA, as I believe your work has global applications that would interest both organizations. I’ll stand by your side and deploy all of my professional and personal resources to make your goals a reality. I believe in your work, Meg. You are brilliant and insightful, yet it’s your intuition and ability to empathize based on your experiences that will make your model a success.”

  Overwhelming gratitude engulfed me.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes. If you leave, you’ll never stop running. If you stay, you’ll have a chance to live,” she said, reducing my disastrous life and difficult decision to a very simple either/or statement.

  Unbidden, Wes’ face flashed through my mind. If I stayed, I would have more time with him. If I ran, there would be no more treasured moments with Sam, Ev, Griffin, and Hunter. If I remained, I could pursue my career goals with the support of Dr. Mesina. If I left, I could probably kiss all of my hard work goodbye. If I fought, I might be able to help the ones I left behind and countless others. If I disappeared, I would be helping no one but myself.

  “Okay. Yes! I’m going to stay. I’m going to stand and fight, like you said. I’m going to fight for myself and the others, and I’m going to prevent anyone else from suffering,” I declared, scared but more alive than I had ever felt outside of Wes’ arms.

  “Good! I’m proud of you, Meg.”

  Reaching into her desk drawer, she pulled out a business card and handed it to me.

  “Dr. Cynthia Veritus is the therapist I want you to see. Call and make an appointment ASAP. She’s a professor here in the psychology department, but she also has a private practice. I’ll call her too, to let her know she should be expecting your call and make sure she knows she’s donating her time…she owes me a favor.”

  I looked down at the card and blinked.

  “Um, Dr. Mesina, there’s just one problem.”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “I know Thia…socially. I’ve played poker with her,” I added to make sure my level of familiarity was crystal clear.

  In a day full of surprises, I should have anticipated her answer.

  “Even better! Call her when you get home. Now scoot. I have to get home and make sure my husband remembered to pull the turkey out of the freezer last night. Otherwise, he’s the one who’s going out to scour the island for thirty pounds of turkey that’s not frozen.”

  "A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous." -Ingrid Bergman

  Meg

  Filled with a new hope for my future, I exited the sociology building and walked to my car. Eager to share my news with Wes but knowing what I needed to do
first, I hurried back to Sam’s to phone Thia, a call I was less than eager to make. I liked Thia—a lot, actually. She came over for dinner once and soon after joined the guys for a monthly poker tournament. Occasionally, the rest of us girls would participate, but the guys were vicious competitors with no mercy, even for their women. The best player of the bunch, however, was Thia—the woman was cutthroat once the chips were on the table. It was this social relationship that made me hesitant to see Thia professionally. Sam still visited her as needed for ‘maintenance,’ but their professional relationship preceded their friendship. Regardless, if my chance at personal happiness and scholastic success was contingent upon spilling my guts at her office, nothing would stop me.

  The house was empty when I arrived, providing much-needed privacy for my call. Ripping the bandage off as quickly as possible, I grabbed the portable phone and plopped on the couch. Expecting to leave a message, I was startled when she answered on the first ring.

  “Meg, I’m so glad you called. You can’t imagine how long I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you. Frankly, my patience was running out. I told Sam if she didn’t make it happen sooner rather than later, I would be forced to initiate guerilla tactics. Had I known Dr. Mesina was the key to success, you’d have been straightened out months ago.”

  “Umm, hi, Thia,” I said stupidly, at a loss for words. Was I so transparent that she’d identified my need for help over a few shared meals? Furthermore, was my need for intervention so substantial that my friends would plot behind my back? I was unsettled and embarrassed.

  “Get out of your head, Meg. We all care about you, and to answer the question you’ve yet to ask directly—yes, it was obvious you need someone to talk to. You’re not wearing a neon sign that screams ‘dysfunctional,’ but the frequency with which you evade all conversations focused on you is concerning. You’re also a terrible liar, and when pushed for personal details, you lie…poorly. It’s part of the reason why you’re crap at poker….you can’t bluff worth a damn.”