Sam pushed her plate away.
“She’s really great, Sam. I think you’ll like her a lot, once you get to know her.”
Sam stared, the air between them so thick neither could move. “You told me you didn’t want a relationship with anyone. You…” she swallowed, “you fucking lied to me.”
“No, all I said was I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I meant one with you.”
“So, what? You’re ready to date whoever else crawls into your bed in the middle of the night and…screws you, but not someone who loves you?”
“Don’t be vulgar, Sam. You’re bad at it, and it doesn’t become you.” Natalie sighed heavily and ran her hand through her hair. “I can’t do this with you. I can’t love you the way you want me to. Not right now. Maybe not ever. I’m not ready to be married at twenty. Anika is sweet and charming, and we have fun together. Whatever our relationship is, it’s easy.”
“Okay, so, you get to sow your wild oats, and, what, I’ll just wait until you’re ready to settle down?”
“I don’t expect you to wait for me, Sam. But I’m not ready right now. And I might not ever be. I’m not convinced we’d be good together.”
“Don’t presume you know what’s good for me.” Sam’s voice was low and sounded scary even to her.
They stared at each other in silence until Natalie looked away.
“You know what? I don’t really feel like a sing-a-long tonight. You can ride back to campus with me or else catch a cab to the theater.” She spat the words out, and anger made her hands shake.
“Sam, please don’t. I thought we were going to be friends. Friends talk about stuff like this.”
Sam couldn’t even wade through the mess of her emotions, and her stomach threatened to rebel against the food she’d just swallowed. Reaching into her wallet, she grabbed thirty dollars and dropped them on the table. She desperately wanted to make it to her car before she exploded, and was grateful she didn’t hear Natalie’s footsteps following her as she threw open the door to the restaurant so hard she feared it would rip off its hinges.
She silenced any guilt she felt about leaving Natalie in the middle of New Haven by reminding herself that if Natalie really needed a ride, she could call her new girlfriend and ask for one.
Graduation gowns looked flattering on no one, but Sam thought she looked particularly awkward in hers. She appreciated the pomp surrounding graduation, but the Ph.D. tams were infinitely more fashionable than her undergraduate mortarboard. It was a humid New Haven day, and by ten minutes into the graduation ceremony, she was sweating. She tried to focus while the valedictorian delivered a trite speech dripping with nostalgia; she felt none of it. She had a hard time remembering what she had wanted from college when she first started out, but sitting in her uncomfortable folding chair, dissatisfaction washed over her. Natalie and her girlfriend held hands three rows in front of her.
When the university-wide commencement ended, Sam and her parents walked to the biology department’s ceremony, where graduates of the Molecular Biophysics and Biochemistry department would receive more personal accolades. As they wound their way through campus, Jack and Eva marveled at Yale’s architecture, which they hadn’t seen since they moved Sam into her freshman year dorm and exchanged awkward handshakes with Tracy. Because the biology buildings lacked adequate meeting space, the department’s ceremony was held in the School of Architecture’s expansive atrium. It was a less formal affair—no one wore their robes, although many opted to wear caps.
Seated at a table with her mom and dad, who were on their best behavior toward each other, Sam nibbled on cheese and crackers and listened as various professors lavished a series of certificates and recognitions onto the graduate students. As the tenth student to receive an award was walking back to her seat, Jack leaned over and whispered in Sam’s ear, “Don’t they give any awards to undergraduates?”
“I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve graduated.”
Jack winked at her. “Smart ass.”
A devoted student, Sam struggled to reconcile her disinterest in graduation with her love of learning. It didn’t make sense, but she was reminded of her mother’s admonition not to apply logic to affairs of the heart. She just wasn’t that into graduation. Shrugging at herself, she leaned over to her mother. “After this, I have a couple of errands I want to run before dinner.”
“Anything you need help with?”
“Just a trip to Goodwill. I need to rethink my wardrobe.”
Jack slid his arm over the back of Sam’s chair and leaned over to join their conversation. “About time. I was going to wait until dinner tonight for this, but here.” He slipped a greeting card into her lap and kissed her cheek. “Congratulations, sweetie.”
The front of the card was a cat wearing a cap and gown and the words You’re purrrr-fect, Grad! and Sam rolled her eyes. “Way to find a card that epitomizes your humor,” she whispered.
“You may be good at that poetry stuff, but no one beats your old man at puns. Open it.” Inside the card was a check for five hundred dollars. The memo line read: for new clothes. Jack and his uncanny ability to predict Sam’s needs. “It’s graduation day,” he said, and it was clear he wasn’t talking about Yale. “Your mother and I will finish packing up your room for you. Do some shopping and meet us at the restaurant at seven.”
Sam opened her mouth to say “thank you” when her name rang out over the room. She looked up to see Dr. West at the microphone. “Her research on pluripotent stem cells would be impressive for a seasoned scientist with ten years of experience. In addition to her skills in the lab, she is a delight to work with and a thoughtful and considerate colleague. This fall, she’s headed to Stanford’s M.D./Ph.D. program, and we expect great things of her. Each year, the biology department gives a single award to a promising undergraduate, and this year’s award for Undergraduate Excellence in Molecular Biophysics and Biochemistry goes to Samantha Latham.”
The room applauded and Sam stood. It shouldn’t have mattered that she won an award. She knew she was good at what she did, and she wanted not to care about the validation that came from such public recognition. But she couldn’t help herself. She beamed as she walked toward Dr. West, and when he extended his hand to her, she hugged him instead. She felt, rather than heard, his laughter.
“Keep in touch, Sam. After you graduate from Stanford, you’ll need a university lab to work in, and we just happen to have one of those here.”
“Thanks for everything, Dr. West.” They pulled apart and he handed her a certificate.
As she walked back to her parents’ table, the dean approached the microphone to ramble about the increasing importance of studying biology to a room filled with scholars committed to doing just that. Weaving around tables, Sam vaguely listened to his closing remarks until she was distracted by blonde hair and a simple, nondescript black dress. Natalie stood just inside the door of the auditorium. Staring at Sam for what might have been an instant and might have been ten minutes, she wiped a tear from her cheek and left.
Sam made a quick stop-off at her dorm room to deposit her cap and gown, along with her diploma and award. Eva pulled Sam’s car around, having taken the bus from Stowe so she could drive home with her daughter after the festivities. While Jack got to work boxing up the odds and ends that were scattered around the dorm room, Sam gathered the two garbage bags full of clothes she was giving away. “You sure you and Mom are okay finishing up in here?”
Seated on the floor surrounded by oddly-shaped items Sam hadn’t known how to pack, he assembled a box and looked around for packing tape. “Absolutely. Get out of here.”
She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek on her way out the door. She didn’t look over her shoulder as she left her dorm for the last time. She passed her mom on her way out of the courtyard, and they exchanged kisses and keys.
Her first stop
was Goodwill, where she said good-bye to a bag of baggy jeans, worn out boots, oversized sweatshirts, and her backpack. The second bag contained dozens of T-shirts with clever sayings and was much harder to part with.
Her next stop was the salon in New Haven frequented by her stylish freshman-year roommate, the name of the stylist perhaps the only useful thing to come from rooming with Tracy. One hundred dollars later, her black hair that used to fall past the middle of her back was shaped into shoulder-length layers that framed her face, softening the angles of her jaw and warming her green eyes. She swallowed her pride and admitted that she looked better—more mature sure, but also more approachable and at ease in her skin.
At Ann Taylor, she picked up different washes and cuts of jeans, dress pants with pinstripes and without, sweaters and tops that were cotton and cashmere, and tasteful accessories. Unlike her indecisive ex-best friend, when Sam decided it was time to acquire a sense of style, she simply picked one and embraced it thoroughly. The pieces were basic, reflecting simple yet professional taste. Since she had discarded her backpack at Goodwill, she stopped by a boutique and bought a soft brown leather bag that fit her laptop.
On the way to dinner, she made a final stop at a Walgreens, where she picked up a sentimental card about how important mothers are and a brightly colored thank-you card with a talking tree on the cover.
When she walked into the French restaurant she had always wanted to go to with Natalie, she saw Jack and Eva waving at her from a table with a bottle of wine and bread. She smiled, and meant it. To hell with nostalgia, missed opportunities, and regret. She vowed to have a lovely dinner with the two people she loved most in the world.
“Love the haircut, nerd,” Jack said after she sat down. Thankfully, he refrained from ruffling her hair like he used to do when she was five, although he was clearly tempted. Evidently, this new hairstyle came with multiple advantages, discouraging her father from treating her like a middle schooler included.
“Oh, honey. You look beautiful,” Eva said, her eyes glistening as she stroked her cheek.
Throughout dinner, they beamed with pride at her, and Jack said about five times, “Our little girl grew up.” Eva held her hand, and Sam was torn between feeling very adult and wholly infantilized.
During dessert, she handed a card to each of them. Eva’s read:
Dear Mom,
I might not have returned all your phone calls, but it means the world to me that you checked in on me every week. I might not have made it home as often as I could have, but I’m exceedingly fond of the holiday traditions the two of us have created. I might not have sufficiently expressed my gratitude for the support and love you’ve given me during college, but that’s because words will always fall short in that department. I know you’re proud of me; I want you to know that I’m proud of you. Know it in your bones, Mom. I love you.
Thanks for everything,
Sam
Jack’s was, unsurprisingly, less sentimental.
Dear Dad,
I really appreciate the funds you gave me for my little shopping spree. I guess we all have to grow up some time. If it works for you, maybe I can spend a week in DC before I leave for Stanford. Thanks for my college education!
Love,
Sam
After dinner, Sam hugged her father good-bye and asked Eva if she could drive home. It felt fitting to her that, while Eva had driven her to Yale freshman year, she would drive Eva home from it after graduation.
FIRST YEAR MED SCHOOL, STANFORD:
FALL 2007
It was hour four of a five-hour gross anatomy lab, and Sam would have given a non-vital organ for a chair. Her nose twitched with the chemicals preserving the cadaver on the dissection table in front of her. In a few minutes, her lab group would need to teach another group about the osteology of the head and neck, and they weren’t ready. There were some kind of abnormal variations in the vertebrae, and her group disagreed over whether to teach the other group the anatomy as it would be in a textbook patient, or point out the abnormalities of the cadaver in front of them.
It would help them determine how important these abnormalities were if they had been told the cause of death of their patient, but none of the students were ever given this information. Sam wondered what this would mean for other groups as well—would they teach her normal anatomy, or take time to point out any differences between their particular patient and a textbook one?
Peer education seemed a bit unreliable. It was a good thing she had read gross anatomy study guides all summer and memorized so much before school even began.
Their instructor called “time,” and sparks of panic emanated from the other five people in Sam’s group. One of them said in an urgent whisper, “What should we do, Sam?”
Not quite sure how she ended up their leader, Sam nonetheless snapped into action. “I would start by—”
“Head and Neck: you’re up.” At the sound of their instructor’s voice, her peers all turned vaguely pleading eyes on her.
Clearing her throat, she began their presentation by explaining the abnormalities, taking time to compare what the neck should have looked like with the body in front of her. She must have made the right choice, given the instructor’s murmur of approval. Once she finished teaching the neck, she took a couple steps backward and let the five other members of her group explain the head.
Any fears she had that she’d be viewed as a know-it-all or a spotlight-stealer evaporated when the lab ended and each person in her group thanked her for saving their collective asses.
Med school certainly seemed different from Jack’s many descriptions of it, but as she walked out of lab that day, Sam smiled. She had this. It was exhausting work—mentally and physically—but nothing she couldn’t handle.
“So what are you doing this weekend?”
“Oh, um. I don’t know. I don’t really have any plans,” Sam said, shuffling her feet a little.
“We should have dinner then.”
She wasn’t sure how to take this invitation from the tall Sicilian woman in her med school cohort. They’d spoken a couple of times about classes and the strange Silicon Valley culture that permeated Stanford. It seemed like every undergraduate at Stanford—and most of the grad students too—cared less about their education and more about getting in on the ground floor of the next big start-up.
Seated in their embryology classroom as her peers gathered their things and hurried for the door at the end of class, Sam pondered the tall beauty standing in front of her. Long legs that went on forever, curvy hips, dark hair that fell tantalizingly into her light brown eyes, chiseled cheekbones that could have looked harsh, if Constance weren’t almost always smiling. Although Sam had dated an older woman before, that summer in the lab at Yale, she had never been with someone taller than her.
It didn’t matter if the invitation constituted a date or not; she stood, shouldered her bag, and said, “What did you have in mind?”
“Ugh, nothing in Palo Alto. There’s this tapas place called Andalu around the corner from my place in San Francisco. Everyone raves about their sangria, which deserves the praise, but it’s their martinis that will change your world.”
“Fittingly, martinis are my drink,” Sam said. She’d never had one, but it seemed an appropriate response.
They were the only two students left in the deserted classroom, and Constance tucked Sam’s hair behind her ear. “Can’t wait to see what else we have in common.”
Sam’s stomach fluttered; it sure as hell felt like she was being hit on, a wholly new and welcome experience for her. “Meet you there at eight on Saturday?”
“Don’t be late.” Constance’s smile felt like clouds parting, and Sam couldn’t help but stare as she walked away.
After trying on four different combinations of outfits, Sam settled on charcoal pants and a cream-colored silk shirt. It wasn�
��t flashy, but it was certainly an improvement over her former attire. Constance probably wouldn’t have given her a second look if had she attended med school in her previous clothes; women certainly noticed her more now that she put some effort into her appearance.
Andalu had a dozen tables, and most seated only two people. Low-hanging pendant lights gave each table a soft glow and lush jazz music warmed the space. A huge mural with splashes of primary colors dominated the wall behind the bar, which ran the length of the right side of the restaurant. The waitstaff was hip, young, and gorgeous. Sam arrived first and somehow felt it had been planned that way. A beautiful blonde woman seated her and poured two glasses of water.
When Constance entered seven minutes later, she drew the gaze of men and women alike. Her black cocktail dress fell to just above her knees and swished appealingly around her endless legs as she strode over to the table Sam occupied. She leaned over and lightly kissed Sam’s cheek by way of greeting. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Long enough to glance at the menu. It looks great.” It looked like the same menu Sam had studied online earlier that day so she’d know what to order and how to pronounce anything exotic.
The waitress came by, and they both said “a dirty martini” at the same time. After discreetly checking Constance out and giving Sam shifty eyes, the waitress departed and Sam felt like the luckiest woman in the whole place.
If Constance noticed, she hid it well. “I was thinking we could share some small plates. I’m partial to the ahi tacos, crispy mac and cheese, and arugula salad.”
Sam smiled; those were the dishes that stood out to her too. “Add the sliders, and I’m good.”
“Done.”
Sam put down her menu and crossed her legs. “How are you liking Stanford so far?”
“Ugh,” Constance said, and at first Sam thought she meant med school. “Do we have to talk shop? There’s such anxiety and myopic hysteria in med school, and I prefer not to participate in that culture.” She paused. “Besides, how could I compete with the only person in our cohort who’s already published her research? So, how about instead: how do you like the Bay Area? Do you binge on all the street festivals and go hiking every weekend and just stare at the beautiful people every day?”
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