~*~
But it didn’t work out like that. Erva cried while her hair was processed with the new color, during decisions about her new sheets, and the color of the walls. Thank God, Bill and Ben got used to it within a day’s time. She knew she couldn’t say anything to either one of them about going back in time. But she did tell them that she’d met someone, someone she’d fallen for. She’d fallen so hard she’d thought about fairy tales, and happily ever after, but especially of love. It hadn’t worked out, was all she could say at the end of her story. Ben and Bill gave her a knowing look and let her cry, let her carry on as if it were the end of the world.
Eventually, she turned on her Mac and sat down behind the screen. After a breath, she found the words came so easy. They weren’t about Will, not yet. That’s probably why it was so effortless. But the words uncovered the mask she’d worn for so many years. She wrote of having a break down, of sorts. How she’d lived a life where she struggled and hustled to ensure she was good enough. How she’d taken over her supervisor’s classes without complaint, yet silently resented the hell out of anyone attached to the university, because it reminded her of submitting and feeling hopeless.
She’d lived an odd dichotomy, realizing she’d been in a hailstorm of bullets in Afghanistan, tucked close to Green Berets who tried everything they could to protect her. But she hadn’t protected herself from the threat of never allowing herself happiness, the happiness of feeling worthy.
One reason why she loved history was finding perfect examples of courage—as in the Latin meaning of the word, “to speak from the heart.” Granted, her Will hadn’t said what he wanted to in Parliament, but actions sometimes convey what the heart wants more than anything else. The man had blown apart a slaving station in Africa as one of his first acts of courage, and as Erva knew, it wasn’t his last. And he’d thought her worthy of love. Him. A beautiful specimen of courage. It humbled her, but made her realize she was worthy, she was lovable.
On Friday, a large box with fat lettering “Fragile” all over it came to her apartment while Ben and Bill’s crew worked in a fury. It was from the Cresting Estate and a complete mystery to her. Erva waited until the crew left, not wanting any dust on what looked like a valuable container. After gingerly opening the box, she read how the Cresting Estate had been Will’s English manor. Her stomach hollowed, and she had to hold the parcel away from her body as tears splashed down and threatened the precious cargo. Since Erva was the leading scholar regarding General Lord William Hill, the current owner thought she should have a batch of letters recently discovered. They were from Emma to Will. Erva’s heart shattered when discovering Emma had written to Will posthumously, wishing she’d gotten to know her half-brother better.
Her phone rang, interrupting her before she could finish reading the letters.
She cleared her throat before answering, checking the caller ID, which registered somewhere in Virginia.
“Hello?”
Silence for a long time, before Erva heard her mother dramatically take a deep breath. God, she didn’t have time for this. But why was her mom down in Virginia? She currently lived in California. Or had she moved again, since she prided herself as being a vagabond on the hunt for eligible rich bachelors?
“Hello, sweetie. It’s so nice to hear your voice.”
Erva thought for a moment of what she could say. She was never sure when her mother would say such things anyway, usually prefacing her need for more money by fake saccharinity.
“I—sweetie, you still there?”
“Yeah, Mom, I’m in the middle of something—”
“Oh, I—uh, well, I don’t want to take any of your precious time,” Judith snapped.
Then Erva heard a soothing voice in the background say something to the effect that it would have been polite to have asked whether it was convenient to talk or not. Erva’s mom muttered something while covering up the phone.
Suddenly she was back on. “Sorry, sweetie. Sorry for my tone.”
Now this was new. An apology. And Erva had no clue what to do. Again.
“Erva, I was wondering if I could take a moment of your time. I need to say a few things. At the most, it might take about five minutes.”
Erva again heard a male voice coolly say, “good,” to her mother.
“Mom, what’s going on? Who’s talking in the background?”
“She wants to know who’s talking in the background. Do I tell her?”
Erva heard the voice say, “Yes, Judith, tell her. Remember honesty.”
“Oh, well, Erva, I’m calling you from a rehab place in Virginia and the man in the background is my therapist. I—ah, well, it’s the weirdest thing. I met this tall, auburn-haired gal, told her I wanted her hair color, and the next thing I know I’m here.”
“Rehab? Why are you in rehab? Are you addicted to something?” Erva felt a pang of guilt for not knowing and not taking care of her mother.
“I—well, no. Turns out, I was faking trying to be an alcoholic. You know me, I don’t really like the taste of it. But I wanted to go to rehab, and after talking with my therapist and the admin guys, they’ve allowed me to stay here.”
“What? What the hell is going on, Mom?”
“She’s getting belligerent,” Judith said to her therapist, but clearly wanted Erva to hear too since she didn’t cover the receiver.
“Judith, I don’t hear belligerence in your daughter’s tone. I hear concern. And maybe frustration. Maybe you could tell her why you want to be here to help clear things up for her?”
Whoever her mother’s therapist was Erva wanted to kiss at that moment, especially when she heard her mother give in to the man’s suggestions.
“Oh, all right. But it’s so embarrassing. So much for my pride, huh?” Judith then spoke more clearly into the phone. “Erva, I wanted to go to rehab because I wanted to...I wanted the attention. But when I got here, well, it got hard. I don’t drink, but I do have problems. Then my therapist tells me I can stay here, but I have to get treatment for my Narcissistic Personality Disorder. He has me even read the label from the book. So I have to agree that I am a Narcissist, the clinical kind, and I have to go through the hoops of the Twelve Steps. So I’m calling to make amends with you. I’m calling to let you know I have this Narcissist thing, and that makes me—”
“No, Judith,” Erva heard over the line. “Remember, the language. Try not to say ‘makes me’ but rather ‘I feel.’ Also, Judith, you don’t have to jump through any hoops. You are free to go whenever you choose.”
Erva decided she would find whoever her mother’s therapist was, and she wouldn’t hypothetically give him the world’s largest kiss and hug. She would do it. This man was putting down strong boundaries, and it was amazing to hear someone do that to her mother. Not even her own father had been capable of being firm with Judith. And now Erva was getting a lesson on how to do it too. It gave her even more hope as she heard her mother grumble but give in.
“Minerva, are you still there?”
“Yeah, Mom. I’m here.”
“You heard my therapist?”
“Yes. He sounds wonderful.”
Judith laughed. “Of course, you’d think that.” The tone was once more bitter and biting.
Erva shook her head, feeling her mother stab at her heart again. She was so tired of being snapped at and blamed for Judith’s behavior. Although Judith wasn’t currently blaming her, Erva knew it would soon come. She was so tired of all of it. And she didn’t have to deal with it anymore. “Mom, I gotta go.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“Erva,” Judith said in a panic. “I’m so sorry. I lied to you. I lied about so much.”
Erva held her hand over her heart, wanting to hang up on her mother, but this new approach kept her off her balance. She didn’t know what to expect. So she stayed on the line.
“I—I don’t know whether I am a Narcissist, because I hate that word, but I know I
did the things that it listed in the book. I did bad things to you after your father died. Hell, I did them when he was alive too, but it got a lot worse after he died. I lied to you all the time. I screamed at you. I was so jealous of you. I told you your father had cheated on me when I knew he never had. I hated how you went to him when you were hurt, but also I didn’t blame you.”
God, this was more painful than Erva thought she could bear.
Judith continued though. “I was too busy getting my hair styled or out shopping. I hated how your father was more your mother than I was. And I took my hatred out on you and your father. I was cold to him while he was alive. I’ll never get that time back, because he’s dead. And I hated myself for being so mean to him while he was alive. But then I turned all that hatred toward you. Again.”
Tear after tear kept falling from Erva’s eyes. She couldn’t stop it.
“I forced you to play the piano and sing,” Judith said. “I know I forced you by manipulating you, telling you you’d never get married if you didn’t. I knew I was being cruel, but I didn’t stop. It just kept getting worse over the years. I kept saying crazier and crazier things, telling you men would never love you, but always I wondered if I would ever find love again. Worse than that, I didn’t understand how your father could have loved me. I still don’t understand that. I was awful. Look, I know I’m pretty. I still am. You get that from me, except for your blonde hair. And I hated that you got your father’s coloring and my good looks. I know I can pass for forty, when I’m closer to...closer to another age.”
“Getting off track, Judith,” the calm voice said in the background.
“Oh,” Erva’s mother panted. “I’m sorry, Erva. I got off track.”
Simultaneously, it was one of the most painful moments of Erva’s life and one of the most satisfying. Reliving the past through her mother’s point of view was always difficult, Erva knew, but going through it with her mother’s new found honesty was...God, there were no words. As much as it broke Erva’s heart, it also mended it.
“Erva, sweetie, you still there?”
“Yeah,” was all Erva could muster.
“I got off track in so many ways, Erva. I kept trying to find something about myself that was good, and when you’d show up with your perfect grades, perfect hair, even your perfect little teeth it just...a mother shouldn’t have ever done the things I did. Said the things I said. I should have taught you how to love yourself. Instead, I think all I taught you was to hate yourself.” Then Judith’s voice drifted farther from the phone. “Did I tell you, Dr. Pete, that my daughter has been in army intelligence and she has a PhD? Can you believe a child who came from me can do all of that? She’s brilliant and beautiful, and she has no clue about either of those traits.”
Erva’s heart gushed and then quickly stitched itself back together again at the words her mother had just said.
“Then perhaps it’s time to tell her, Judith,” the voice recommended.
Erva’s mother sighed. “Erva, sweetie, you still there?”
“Yeah, Mom, I’m here.”
A few seconds tripped by before Judith said, “I’m damned proud of you.”
Then Erva cried. All over again.
Of course, that was when a loud knock erupted through Erva’s apartment. Surprising her for the millionth time during the phone conversation, Judith let her get off the phone without a guilt trip. Except she did say quickly that she could have visitors in two weeks, and if Erva wanted to come down, she could. The therapist said something about being honest and that the trip would also be another therapy session about making amends and apologizing for past deeds. With another loud knock, Erva got off the phone. She didn’t wipe her face, thinking it was Ben coming back to paint another wall, when she opened the door.
“Dean Whittaker,” Erva whispered as she looked up at her intimidating dean. His gray hair was slicked over with some kind of hair product that Erva wasn’t too sure companies made any more—Dippity Do or something from a few generations before her own. He was a couple inches past six feet, and although his time served in the Navy had been decades ago, one could always tell a military man from his erect posture.
“May I come in, Minerva?” It was then that he looked her over as she wiped her face. “Or is this a bad time?” His voice was always gruff, but had softened when he noticed her wet cheeks.
She opened her door wider and ruefully laughed. “If you don’t mind my emotional outburst. Sorry. I—”
He walked through her threshold as he extracted a white handkerchief from his gray blazer’s interior pocket. It was a courteous enough sign to stave away her tears, instead it reminded her of Will, of when he’d given her his kerchief for her knee, and she found her eyes welling with too much moisture yet again.
“Or should I say emotional outbursts, since I can’t seem to stop crying lately. I’m sorry.”
He turned around and looked at her light blue, faux-leather couch and ersatz zebra-print rug, the little golden flairs that mixed with the blues, whites, and black throughout the room. “This looks exactly the way I thought it would.” He smiled at her. “I can only assume the tears are because you have some sense of loyalty towards Dr. Peabody, or maybe you feel guilty about what happened?”
“Something happened?”
His green eyes narrowed. “You haven’t heard? I assumed you called in sick because you heard.”
“Heard what, sir?”
He inhaled and then gestured toward her new couch. “Maybe it’s best if we have a seat.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sorry, my manners. I should have—”
“There is no need to apologize.”
She nervously motioned toward the couch too and sat opposite him. As far away as she could. Not that the dean made her uncomfortable, but everything seemed to make her feel, well, odd. She was still so raw from Will, from her mom, and now Dr. Whittaker just showed up on her doorstep? What the hell?
Not making Erva feel much better, Dean Whittaker gave her a small smile that seemed both nervous and disarming. She didn’t know what to make of it, so she sat mute.
“You know, I’ve been following your career from the time you interviewed, young lady. When I read in your CV that you’d been in the Army, I, of course, took notice. But the fact that your research was about the American Revolution, something I’ve always wanted to research more myself, I thought you’d be quite a catch for the university.”
Erva smiled, thinking of his own CV, how he’d been in the Navy during Vietnam, serving in multiple tours over there, and of his Civil War research. He was also the only other military historian on Harvard’s staff.
She wasn’t too sure what to say and wanted to broach the topic of Dr. Peabody, but didn’t know how. So she, embarrassingly, started blabbering. “Thank you. I came to the university because I knew of Dr. Peabody’s area of expertise, the political and social aspects of the American Revolution. I thought she would be a perfect supervisor to help me with my dissertation.”
He nodded. “I can understand that. But you are a military historian, while she is...not. I had thought at the time I read your CV that the campus was in need of another military historian.”
Erva’s heart sank at his words, “at the time.” Was he saying that the university didn’t need her now?
He cleared his throat and looked toward her black-lacquered coffee table that looked a bit rock and roll and a bit Out of Africa. “I need to tell you—no, let me start from the beginning.” He glanced at her with a noticeable wince. “I might sound like an eavesdropping old man, but I need to tell you everything. About four months ago I overheard you talking to Dr. Peabody about your dissertation. I heard her tell you that you needed to edit it, that it was now too big. Honestly, I had wondered what had happened to your dissertation, since I thought you were to present it a couple years ago. I know things can happen during the last years of one’s dissertation. My own took three more years than I expected. But it was then that I
realized I hadn’t heard anything about yours. Thus, I had the temp secretary, one of the best I’ve ever had, give me a copy of what you’d tried to give Dr. Peabody.”
He scooted a little closer then. “Minerva, your dissertation is perfect, as-is.”
Erva held her hands over her heart.
Dean Whittaker looked down then. “Of course, everyone could stand to have a few more rounds of edits, but your research is sound and clear and abundant. I’ve already made plans to usurp Dr. Peabody’s role and have called upon other professors to hear your Defense. As I was setting this up, that red-headed temp secretary, showed me an article by Dr. Peabody in a Military Journal. As soon as I read it, I knew it was your work, not hers. Then I realized how greatly Dr. Peabody was abusing her position as your supervisor. Or I thought I did, until I caught you teaching her classes.”
He was quiet for a long time, his face growing sterner and sterner with every ticking second. Finally, he turned to her, fierce anger in his eyes. “Do I have this correct, Minerva? That you not only are teaching all of Dr. Peabody’s classes, but she had purposefully tried to keep you from defending your dissertation, as well as plagiarizing your work?”
Erva looked down at her hands, folded uncomfortably on her lap. “I didn’t know about the plagiarism until just a couple days ago. And I thought—I hoped she was trying to help me write the best dissertation I could. But...” she couldn’t finish. It would be too humiliating.
“But?”
She looked up at her dean and realized he was here to fire her. By putting up with Dr. Peabody’s shit for so long, she looked like an idiot. A pushover idiot, someone who would let another person cheat from her work. A patsy of the worst kind. So why not tell him the humiliating truth? She didn’t have anything to lose any more.
As her heart crushed into itself and ground into tiny little fragments the size of sand, she said, “I felt she wasn’t doing me any favors, wasn’t really helping me.”
“Then why on earth did you put up with it?” he huffed.
She could tell him about her mother, how living with a woman who threatened her love daily had messed her up. But who was she kidding? She was an adult. Maybe she should have figured out all this emotional garbage a long time ago, but she hadn’t and as a consequence it would suck away her chance at teaching at Harvard. Although she’d realized with Will she wasn’t sure she wanted to be a professor, still, it was always nice to have more doors open than shut.
Erva shrugged. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“You tell me, missy, that’s what you do,” he yelled. “That’s my job. I’m there to protect you.”
Erva caved in, her body curving in on itself. The tears flowed immediately.
“Oh, oh, I’m sorry, Minerva. I shouldn’t have called you missy. I—I have a daughter your age, and I know that drives her nuts. I—”
But Erva’s laugh interrupted what he was going to say. She wiped at her forever tears. “I don’t mind the missy part. Made me think of my dad.” She sniffed. “I—I forgot that I could ask for help. But also, aren’t I supposed to stand up for myself? Do it all on my own?”
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I have that same problem, think the same thing.” He scooted a tad closer and patted her twice on her good shoulder. “You know, there’s an odd problem in our society where we are told we aren’t actually successful unless we go the path alone. But that’s not at all the truth. When we send our soldiers out to war, we don’t ask only one. We ask battalions of men, maybe a platoon, or a small brick to fight. But we never send them in alone. We know the power in numbers, and it’s odd that our society, hell, Hollywood glorifies the lone soldier. We know that the man who fights alone is usually a psychopath or suicidal. We are stronger when we are together. And I firmly stand with you, Minerva. Not just because I want another military historian to work with, and, Lord, I do, but because I believe in you.
“I’m not saying it won’t be tough on you, because soon you’ll be called to testify against Dr. Peabody in an academic hearing, but I’ll try to help every step of the way. I’m here to help. Further, it’s when we learn to ask for help, when we learn how to trust others that we become successful. Well, at least at being humans.”
She smiled. “That’s very wise.”
He grinned back at her. “And so much easier said than done.”
She nodded.
He patted her again. “I fired Dr. Peabody. I’ve also let that Military Journal know who the real author of that article was. And you will be defending your dissertation on Monday.”
Her mouth hung ajar.
“I know that’s not much time, but I have a feeling you’ve been presenting your dissertation for years.”
“I—oh,” was all she could manage.
He grinned again. “No pressure, but I do need you to make a good presentation, because you’ll be filling Dr. Peabody’s shoes from now on. Only, I need you to get yourself a TA. Maybe two, because they will be filling your shoes, and,” his smile waned into something serious yet filled with pride, “those are mighty big shoes they’re filling.”
“Really?”
He nodded with a smile. “But the only way I’m going to allow you to work for me is if you come to me from now on. If you need help, I want you to come to me. Oh, and that juvenile man who accidentally threw his water on you is suspended for a week. I couldn’t get him into much more trouble than that, I’m sorry to say. But if he does anything else, you will come to me, right?”
The waterworks flew out of her eyes after that. Again. She lurched forward and gave Dr. Whittaker a bear hug. “Thank you.”
He pulled away, looking rather shocked. “Of course. I, er, I should leave.”
He unfolded himself from the couch, as Erva noted not to make her dean uncomfortable with future displays of affection. While he walked toward the door, he stopped at her computer and pointed at it. “Working on anything?”
She quietly laughed, while wiping at her eyes again. “Yeah, just started.”
He turned back to her, his gray brows lifting. “Mind if I ask what?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s kind of an Eat, Pray, Love meets history.”
It was his turn to have his jaw swing wide.
“Sounds...too touchy-feely?”
He shook his head. “I love it! God, Harvard Press has been reeling in the past years from the recent publishing crisis and wanted to start a new line...This is perfect for...I’m getting ahead of myself. I know I wouldn’t be a good enough advisor for a project like this, but let’s talk to Dr. Meriwether. She might make an excellent editor for you, help you flesh out this idea of yours. I can always try to help with the history, but, Minerva, you’ve got this.”
She couldn’t help but smile through her tears once more. “Thank you.” She wanted to tell him how grateful she was to have someone she could rely on, to turn to if things got bad. But she wasn’t sure she could convey how appreciative she was. Besides, she wasn’t too sure if he’d listen, since a hug made him want to leave. But she knew soon she would probably give him another giant hug and maybe a card to tell him how much it meant to have someone who would protect her when she needed it the most. Then again, she might dedicate the book to him. To him and Will.
Now she was getting ahead of herself.
She let Dean Whittaker out, after he said something about liking her hair and had asked if she truly had been at the hospital. When showing him her stitches, he seemed impressed and even happier to leave. As soon as he was gone, she rushed back to her computer, hopeful to remember Will again. But instead of writing something professional about him, her hands insisted on writing about his wide shoulders, the way his chest felt under her hands, his heart beating against her palm. She knew she couldn’t keep any of that in the book, but she couldn’t help but write it. Then she wrote how much she missed him. That thanks to him she knew she had the strength to go on, but her heart never would.
> She fell asleep on her couch, beside her laptop, staring at what she’d written, and knowing how much she had fallen in love and how bittersweet that was.
Enemy of Mine Page 40