The Valeditztorian

by Alli Curran

  As I’m uttering the words, I sense this is probably a bad question.

  “The match,” says Thomas.

  “The match? Right now, you’re wondering where you’re going to match for residency? That’s not very romantic.”

  “Emma, you misjudge me,” he says.

  “Really? How so?” I ask.

  “I’m leaving New York,” he says. “I hate this city.”

  To better see his expression, I prop myself up on one elbow. Thomas is always complaining about New York.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Maybe to the University of Michigan. While you were gone, I took a trip out to Ann Arbor.”

  “How was it?”

  “It’s great out there. Everything’s green. Lots of parks, good fishing.”

  “Sounds nice,” I say.

  “Yeah, it is,” he says. “I’m hoping you’ll like it, too.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  Since Thomas is a total commitment-phobe, the statement baffles me.

  “You could also match there.”

  “I could match there?”

  “Right.”

  “What exactly are you saying, Thomas?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you saying that I should move to Michigan and live with you while we finish residency? That we should get married? Or do you mean that I should get my own apartment in Ann Arbor, and we could hang out sometimes…and have sex?”

  “I don’t know. It’s too early to say.”

  “Well, if you end up matching in Michigan, what are we going to do about next year?”

  “In what respect?” he asks.

  “If you move to Michigan, are we going to keep dating—just the two of us—or will we start seeing other people? Ann Arbor is pretty far away, and I’ve got another whole year of school left to finish.”

  “I’m not sure,” he says. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Ah. There’s the Thomas I know and love. As usual, the man is unwilling to offer more than a smidgen of romance or the faintest hint of commitment. Despite the fact that we just had the most amazing sex, the idea of him moving away to Michigan sounds great. For certain, putting a large geographic distance permanently between us is the easy way out of the relationship, but hey—I’ll grab any life preserver that gets thrown my way.

  “So will you think about it?” he asks.

  “Think about what?” I say.

  Thomas shakes his head at me.

  “Do you have early Alzheimer’s or something? I want you to consider moving out to Michigan with me.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”

  Hopefully I’ll think about saying “no.”

  Chapter Nine

  Mentors and Memories

  Early Monday morning I make two work-related stops. First I swing by Joan Riley’s lab on the fourth floor of Memorial Sloane Kettering. As I enter the lab, the woman is facing away from me, staring into a microscope, vigorously scribbling in a notebook. The tint of her long, wavy auburn hair reminds me of Connecticut foliage in the fall.

  “Hi, there,” I shout from the doorway.

  Quickly spinning around, Joan nearly falls off the stool.

  “Oh, sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she gasps, clutching her chest. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Emma Silberlight. I’m not sure whether Alvin Koh contacted you from Salvador, but I’ve got several….”

  “Oh, yes, Emma,” she cuts me off. “Sorry…so sorry. Alvin did tell me that you’d be coming. Have you brought the fungus?”

  “Yes. It’s right here in my backpack.”

  “Well…I’m not getting any younger. Let’s have a look.”

  Joan zips across the lab to my side, just like that speedy road runner from Looney Tunes.

  Reaching into my backpack, she pulls out the twigs and closely examines each one, intermittently scratching at her cheeks with her short fingernails. In contrast to her lustrous hair, her facial skin is dry and cracked, presumably from a bad case of eczema.

  “So this is the famous fungus that Alvin won’t stop yammering about,” Joan says. “You’ve done a good job keeping the samples watered, Emma. They haven’t dried out at all, which is impressive, considering you made such a long trip.”

  She gives me a warm smile, which I return.

  “Thanks.”

  “Would you believe I just received Alvin’s Fed-Ex package this morning?” she says, gesturing toward a large cardboard box sitting on the counter top. “We’re going to set up a duplicate experiment here.”

  “Dr. Riley….”

  “Joan, call me Joan. I hate it when people call me ‘doctor.’ The title is such a burden.”

  “Okay, Dr. umm…Joan. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “Did Alvin mention that Grace Pae discovered the fungus?”

  “No, he didn’t mention it. But I remember Grace from a previous rotation. She seemed like a very nice young woman.”

  “Well, Grace was the one who first noticed the fungus, and she realized it might be important. She brought it to Alvin’s attention.”

  “Good for her,” Joan nods. “I always had the feeling that Grace would do well in research. At the very least, she’ll get a publication out of the study. If her findings hold up in humans, then she’s really done some good in the world.”

  “Umm, Joan, do you think Grace will be credited with discovering GrR?”

  Joan stares at me, narrowing her eyelids, hopefully comprehending what I’m trying to convey.

  “What exactly are you asking me, Emma?”

  Before I can answer her with words, my cheeks give me away. As though reading my mind, Joan flashes a knowing smirk.

  “Don’t worry,” she says, “Grace will get the credit she deserves.”

  Running a key noisily through the tape on the Fed-Ex box, she adds, “I know that Alvin can sometimes be a….” and then she stops. “Would you believe I used to be his mentor?”

  Joan sighs and starts emptying the box of its contents.

  “Let’s see here. Ah, yes. These are the plates with the melanoma cells. They’re going straight into the biohazard fridge. And what’s this?” she asks, holding up a clear vial.

  “That’s GrR. I recognize it from Alvin’s lab.”

  “Right you are, Emma. Do me a favor and put these vials into the smaller fridge, the one against the wall over there.”

  “No problem.”

  When we’ve finished unpacking, Joan continues, “I know Alvin can be difficult, but trust me on this one—he’s an honest researcher.”

  “If you say so.”

  She would know better than me.

  Joan then turns toward the doorway, drawing our meeting to a close.

  “I’m taking the fungus upstairs now,” she says, pointing toward the stairwell. “Thanks again for delivering everything in good condition.”

  “No problem,” I say. “Will you keep me posted on your findings?”

  “Certainly.”

  Joan scratches her head vigorously, waves goodbye, and dashes out the door. Watching her back disappear, two words come to mind: Meep, meep! I nearly start laughing.

  In the wake of my encounter with Joan Riley, I proceed across the street to Walter Jackson’s lab at the main hospital.

  “Emma!” Walter beams when I arrive at his office. “Home safe and sound!”

  Taking a big step in my direction, Walter suddenly stops short, as though thinking about hugging me and changing his mind at the last second. He ends up tripping, nearly crashing into the side of his desk.

  “It’s great to see you,” I say, rushing to his side and hugging him anyway.

  “Likewise!” his voice booms, as he returns my hug in a reserved, awkward sort of way.

  Tall and broad as a professional football player, with a wise, salt-and-pepper beard, Walter intimidates many of my classmates; but to me he’s just a big teddy bear�
��fat, friendly, and ridiculously smart—similar to my dad.

  “Why don’t you sit down Emma,” says Walter, “and we can spend a few minutes catching up.”

  As Walter leans back in his large, leather chair, I settle into the smaller wooden one stationed across from his desk.

  “So how was your trip home?” he asks, scratching the hair on his chin.

  “Oh, it was fine,” I say.

  “Fine?”

  “Yeah. It was good.”

  “Good?”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not really.”

  “Emma, you’re sounding just like my teenage daughter.”

  “How so?”

  “Whenever I ask her about school, she always says ‘it was fine’ or ‘it was good.’ Getting details out of her is like pulling teeth.”

  “I really don’t have much to report about the flight. I mean, the food was okay, and I didn’t throw up on anyone.”

  Ignoring my last comment, Walter takes a deep breath and says, “I wasn’t worried about the flight.”

  “Then why’d you ask?”

  “Because I’d like to learn more about why you decided to leave Brazil early. When you cut your trip short, I was quite surprised and also a bit worried. I asked Luciano over the phone whether something had happened, but he was very evasive. So, Emma…is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” he inquires, raising his eyebrows.

  The man deserves credit for asking the question, but I’m torn on sharing the answer. While I’m desperate to divulge everything, just to hear his opinion, I’ve promised to keep quiet. Walter still has many contacts in Brotas, and I’m afraid that revealing the truth might inadvertently hurt Paula.

  “I got homesick?” I ask the floor.

  It’s not a complete lie.

  “Homesick?” he repeats disbelievingly. “Really?”

  “No, there’s more to it than that, but I can’t talk about it.”

  “You know, Emma, Luciano said something similar when I asked him the same question,” says Walter, pursing his lips. “If he did anything, well…inappropriate to you, I really need to know about it. I simply cannot send him more medical students if he’s going to put them at risk in some way.”

  I look straight into Walter’s worried eyes.

  “Luciano didn’t do anything bad to me…at least not directly. But I still wouldn’t send him any more students.”

  Walter nods his head gravely.

  “If that’s your recommendation, I won’t. On a lighter note, I’ve been meaning to congratulate you on the work you did in Brotas. Both Luciano and Alvin said you did a great job.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, feeling the blood rise in my neck.

  “Which raises another question. Now that you’re home and the school year is drawing to a close, what would you like to do next? Working with Joan Riley, at least until the beginning of fourth year, is a possibility.”

  “Will Joan be studying mice?” I ask.

  Walter chuckles. He knows how I feel about rodents.

  “Indeed. I think she’s going to attempt to duplicate Alvin’s results over the next few weeks, albeit on a smaller scale.”

  I wrinkle my nose.

  “No, thank you.”

  “I thought you might say that,” says Walter. “Of course you’re welcome to return to the ID lab, but if that’s your choice, I’ll need some time to place you. While I’m working on it, you could take a short vacation.”

  For a moment I’m speechless. This is the first time I’ve heard Walter utter the word “vacation.” I had no idea it was part of his lexicon.

  “Uh, Walter,” I ask awkwardly, “did you just tell me to take a vacation?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  Walter shakes his head and smiles.

  “No, Emma. You’ve done nothing wrong. But I’m sure that whatever happened in Brazil was a big deal. Perhaps you could use a little time to recuperate…and get back to normal life?”

  “Normal life?”

  I try not to laugh. Since when has my life been normal? I’m not even sure what the word means. But hey, vacation is vacation.

  “Umm, okay then,” I reply. “But I’ll be returning soon?”

  “Most definitely. I’ll e-mail some instructions at the end of the week. In the meantime, Emma, I want you to go home, rest, and take good care of yourself for a few days. Alright?”

  “Okay,” I shrug.

  “And Emma, if you think of anything else you’d like to discuss, just let me know,” says Walter, smiling sadly.

  “I will.”

  Walking home, I consider my luck at finding Walter in this corner of the universe. The man is an absolute gem. Who else in the world has my best interests at heart? Not my so-called boyfriend. Not even my own family. Which reminds me…since returning to New York, I’ve been meaning to call my parents. Though I’m terrified to try patching things up with my mother, there’s no time like the present to pursue hopeless aspirations, right?

  Back in my apartment, I pick up the phone and start dialing the dreaded digits: 2-0-3...then I pause, remembering our last phone conversation.

  “Helen told me you’re planning a big party for Dad’s fiftieth birthday,” I said.

  “That’s right,” my mom replied. “We hired a band to play at the house.”

  “Really? Which one?”

  “Eight to the Bar.”

  “Ooh. I just heard them play in the city. They’re a great new swing band.”

  “I know. A friend recommended them.”

  “What about the dancing? Won’t it be hard for people to dance in the yard?” I asked.

  “We’re not going to make them dance on the grass, Emma. A rental company is setting up a temporary dance floor for the evening.”

  “That sounds great.”

  “It should be a nice party,” said my mom.

  “Are you going to invite a lot of people?”

  “Probably.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?” she said.

  “Since it’s a special occasion for Dad, do you think I could come?”

  “Emma, we’ve been down this road so many times.”

  “But, Mom, it’s been….”

  “I know exactly how long it’s been, and I still haven’t changed my mind. I’m just not comfortable having you at the house.”

  As I recall this conversation, my hands start shaking so violently that I barely manage to punch in the next three numbers, 2-7-2. Suddenly changing my mind, I slam down the receiver. Since our phone calls always end badly, I can’t bring myself to finish dialing. At least not yet. Before attempting the impossible, I need to come up with a plan that has a greater than zero percent chance of success—which could take some time, though hopefully not an eternity.

  Chapter Ten

  Misery and Happiness

  The next few days of my unexpected vacation are spent frolicking around my favorite playground for grownups: New York City. Hours are wasted strolling up and down Madison Avenue, staring through shop windows at exorbitantly expensive art work, jewelry and clothing. Eight dollars are spent on a single truffle consisting of gourmet dark chocolate and Bailey’s Irish Cream, a deliciously sinful confection designed to siphon money and inspire guilty pleasure. Salty hot dogs and pretzels are gobbled up from weenie man in large quantities. Excessive calories are optimistically (unrealistically?) expended on jogging expeditions in Central Park. Rollerblading is strictly avoided, given a previous collision with another skater resulting in a broken clavicle (mine). With the dogwood and cherry trees just sprouting new leaves, the park is an island of natural beauty, a harbinger of the coming season.

  Vitality pulses from every crevice and creature in the city: the cracks in the sidewalks on the Upper East Side; plasticized, Fifth Avenue matrons clicking high-heeled shoes while walking frilly poodles; skaters jamming in the park; childr
en racing through the urban playgrounds. Energy flows through the city like a life force, and I try to absorb it all.

  Midweek Thomas and I decide to spend an evening together on the town. Though I’m not particularly fond of Jackson Hole, Thomas loves their enormous hamburgers, and I’m happy to indulge him. As usual, before heading out, Thomas bemoans his lack of financial support, and I offer to foot the bill; yet from a monetary standpoint, I’m no better off than he is. The dinner situation epitomizes an essential inequality in our relationship. Namely, I’m a giver, and Thomas is a taker. More specifically, while he’s happy to take my money and love, aside from the mind-blowing sex, he gives very little in return.

  A few months ago, for example, Thomas left me hanging prior to a movie date. I suppose that even if he had shown up, Breaking the Waves still would’ve been completely depressing.

  Following some excellent makeup sex the very next day, I said, “Explain to me why you stood me up yesterday.”

  “I’m just not good at relationships,” Thomas replied.

  “Why not?” I asked, resting my head on his well-defined deltoid.

  “You’ve heard all of this already.”

  “Tell me again, then.”

  “Because my father was a schmuck. The man was always out drinking when I was kid.”

  “Okay…so he wasn’t a great role model. Do you think he loved your mom?”

  “Depends on your definition of love. I’d say they loved fighting with each another. When my dad happened to be home, they never stopped yelling. I actually kept ear plugs in my room, just in case.”

  “Did he hit her?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What about you?”

  “He used a belt on me and my brother.”

  Ever so gently, I kissed his neck, saying, “I’m sorry he hurt you. How did you cope with it all?

  “I’m not sure that I did,” he replied. “As a kid, I practically lived at the neighbor’s house. When I got older, I went out and played a lot of pool.”

  “Is that where you were last night—playing pool?”

  “Actually, yeah,” he said.

  “Were you hustling again?”