The First Conception_Rise of Eris

by Nesly Clerge

  Innocent or guilty of my mother’s demise, they needed to pay.

  CHAPTER 24

  The police had no clue as to who had killed Mama. I felt helpless in this regard. I’d never choose to pursue a degree in criminology, but I could pursue one that would never leave me feeling as helpless as I had when I’d found Mama in the condition she’d been in.

  I decided to keep the apartment. Mr. Hopkins had every right to ask me not to, but he told me as long as I paid the rent, it was mine. Said a good tenant, even an absent one, was good to find. All I had to do, he told me, was give him a month’s notice if I changed my mind. At least one of his reasons for agreeing was out of compassion. I know this because every several seconds as we spoke, he’d pat me on the arm then wipe his eyes and blow his nose. So far, he’s the singular being of the male species I can tolerate without any suppressed animosity.

  I kept Mama’s car and drove it back to Stanford, though it took my attorney, who wasn’t too attached to strict adherence to legal details, to get the title transferred to my name.

  A mechanic friend of Hubby-Buns checked Mama’s car, making sure it was in good condition for the drive back. He put on two new tires to replace the baldest ones, and did all of this for no charge. Said it was a Christmas gift, since we’d gone to the same school. However, I suspected Abigail convinced Hubby-Buns to arrange it. Especially because I didn’t remember the mechanic from school or anywhere else. Why would I? He was years older.

  After I said a tearful see-you-soon to Abigail, I returned to school, determined to attain my goal, and in record time.

  I’ve always known how to apply myself, so persuaded my advisor to approve my escalated curriculum. I completed my undergraduate degree and zipped through to my Ph.D., in as few years as possible, as valedictorian, and at twenty-one, the youngest on stage.

  Months later came the MCAT test required to apply to medical school. I aced the test. Because of my perfect score and credentials, I was accepted. This led to another full scholarship at Stanford.

  How could I help but wonder what Mama would have thought of this. She would have been proud of me, of course. Yet, deep down, I knew she would have also nagged me about dating, or rather, my lack of it. I was asked out. Often. And my answer remained the same. Eventually, the invites ceased, which left me content with my studies and my life.

  As Stobaeus said, “The world is single and it came into being from the center outwards.” It would remain as such for me. I was determined to stay single, as much as I was determined about anything else.

  All the while, the seed of my ultimate goal germinated in the appropriate part of my brain.

  CHAPTER 25

  I began to relax once I entered medical school. I read the books, attended the classes I wanted to attend, and, as always, aced exams. This thoroughly pissed off my roommate. Jealousy personified.

  Jenni had to be one of the most studious people I’d ever come across but still couldn’t keep up with me. She called my approach lazy. I called it logical. Why should I sweat or strain or strive when I didn’t need to? It wasn’t as though I didn’t apply myself as needed. But I also applied myself through hours in the library, reading about women’s history, mathematics, and advances in molecular genetics.

  For amusement, I engaged in long gab-chats with Abigail, the only person I considered a true friend. Abigail didn’t judge me or my brain. She asked how medical school was going and laughed when I told her it was easy. That’s called being loved and appreciated for who you are. And, it was reciprocal.

  Abigail was like my alter-ego, enthralled with being a wife and queen of her home. So far, Hubby-Buns was disproving my assumptions about all men. However, even that could be a matter of time. Still, they’d been happy longer than I’d expected. Abigail said it was great sex that kept them in that state. I resigned myself to taking her word about that.

  Major first-year exams are scheduled for tomorrow, in embryology and pathophysiology. I spent the early part of the evening at the library, and returned to my dorm room just before nine. I’d been looking forward to a quiet remainder of my evening and was disappointed.

  Jenni had squeezed her study group into our small shared space. I gathered my favorite loungewear and toiletries as the group discussed disease states and gametes and the like. Their conversation ceased as I made my way to the bathroom for a shower. Stopped yet again when I was done in the bathroom and crossed to my side of the room. Their eyes stayed fixed on me when I curled up in bed, put headphones on, opened and began to read a book that had nothing to do with the upcoming exams.

  It wasn’t my intention to disrupt them with my silent lack of involvement with their cramming but that was the result. They questioned each other for another hour then disbanded for the night. Who can cram when someone who gets all A’s is taking it easy no more than two yards away?

  Jenni slammed her books shut, picked them up and banged them down on the corner of her desk. Walked to the side of my bed, fists on hips. “You annoy the hell out of me.”

  I removed my headphones. “What now?”

  “You go to labs, but skip most of the lectures. I’m stuffing my brain with data, and you’re acting like these exams are no big deal.”

  “You need to mind your own business.” I recalled Abigail’s tearful frustration in history class, sighed and closed my book. “Would you like me to help you study?”

  Apparently not.

  Jenni huffed at me, mumbled crude words and rude suggestions under her breath, and then stayed up most of the night ingesting more facts.

  She woke a puffy-eyed mess in the morning. I was well rested.

  I turned in my embryology exam after twenty minutes. My instructor looked at me askance then said I was dismissed. Curious as to how Jenni did, I occupied a seat in the hallway and waited, watched the clock, watched the classroom door. No one exited until the hour was over.

  Jenni was one of the last people out. She glanced my way, sniffed, stuck her nose in the air and departed.

  It was the same for the pathophysiology exam.

  Jenni isn’t speaking to me.

  CHAPTER 26

  Dean Broward sat at his polished desk, wire-frame glasses perched too near the end of his nose, making certain I couldn’t miss his scowl. He waited for me to speak.

  “Sir, this memo you sent … I don’t understand why I’m under investigation.”

  “You’ve been accused of cheating.”

  I strained to stay composed. “By whom?”

  He waved my question away. “Your professors confirmed that you attend labs but miss their lectures.”

  Hmm … Where had I heard that before? “I assure you, sir, I don’t cheat. Nor do I need to.”

  “Yours is a challenging curriculum.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How, then, do you explain receiving perfect scores?”

  “I believe I know who complained.”

  “Miss Barnes, that’s the least of your concerns.”

  “Sir, I know there are some who are jealous of my accomplishments and abilities. If they spent more time minding what’s theirs to mind, perhaps they’d do better.”

  “I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

  “What evidence do you have that indicates I may have cheated?”

  He shook his head. “The evidence is obvious.”

  “No, sir. It isn’t. It’s supposition driven by envy. I retain information better than many. And I hardly think I should be penalized or judged because of it.”

  Dean Broward glared at me, and as he did this, my mind flashed back to the first time Mama and I met the principal in Coeur d’Alene. “Test me.”

  “What?”

  “Test me, sir. Test me in every subject we’ve covered, as well as those we haven’t, any included in the first two years. I’ll pass those exams as well. I’ve read all the books, and as I just said, I retain information. Let me prove that my grades are a result of my aptitude.”

  He stu
died me for a moment then sighed. “All right, Miss Barnes, you’ve made your case.”

  “Does this mean you believe me?”

  “You’d have to be a fool to suggest the opportunity to prove yourself in such a manner.” He pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, picked up his pen and aimed it at me. “However, from this moment on, you are to attend every scheduled class. I will verify that you follow through.”

  “Yes, sir. I will. Thank you, sir.”

  “You could lose your scholarship over this.”

  “I won’t miss another class.”

  “Medicine isn’t solely about what’s in published tomes. We must be willing to apply what we learn. Sometimes what we have to learn is the spirit of collaboration. This means interacting with others, engaging in mutual pursuits to discover answers. It’s a part of gaining experience so that, as physicians or specialists, we’re more well-rounded. Unless, that is, you intend to spend your life in the solitary pursuit of research.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “You’re dismissed. Go.” He waved his hand. “Go retain something.”

  I wondered how disappointed Jenni would be when she discovered I was still her roommate and going nowhere but up.

  CHAPTER 27

  His monotone voice sounded more like a lazy insect only slightly interested in arriving at his destination. “Osteoblasts create new bone and repair old ones through the extraction of calcium from blood, as well as present a bone matrix. Osteocytes maintain and repair bone substance and strength. Osteoclasts dissolve and reassemble old bone matrix material into the blood.”

  Sort of like, What goes around comes around, I mused as the professor rambled. It was a huge yawn for me to sit through that lecture about information I’ve known since I was nine. Who hired this guy or gave him tenure?

  The only thing that kept me from nodding off was to sketch the cells in my notebook, all the while noting their geometry and fractal-like qualities. Simultaneously, I amused myself by recalling someone’s likening these three bone cell types to Hindu deities.

  There was Brahma, the Creator, which matched to osteoblasts. Vishnu, the Preserver, had been likened to osteocytes, or, rather, the other way around. That left Shiva, the Destroyer, to align with osteoclasts.

  I watched the clock as the ancient professor droned on. Finally, my last class of the semester was over. Spring break had officially started. I elected to spend it at the apartment in Coeur d’Alene, which I’d decided to keep for an undetermined time. Easier to stay there, despite how emotionally wrenching it was, rather than listen to Abigail and Hubby-Buns do the deed each and every night. And morning. And on his lunch breaks.

  The last time I’d visited Coeur d’Alene, it was with enough money in my account to redecorate, with Abigail’s help, as decor was not an area of expertise for me. In a gesture of generosity and compassion, and prior to my visit, Mr. Hopkins had painted the previously off-white walls a shade of pale apricot.

  An area rug now covers the place on the floor where Mama died. As though that makes a difference. The memory is seared into my brain. But Abigail insisted, and her point was a valid one. Although, I never step on that part of the rug or allow anyone else to.

  Silly, perhaps. Or not.

  With great anticipation, I headed north, eager to spend time with Abigail. She was equally excited about seeing me, especially as she had some kind of surprise for me.

  Back in her car, after we’d finished eating an early dinner out my first full day there, I said, “Okay, enough. What’s this big surprise?”

  Abigail grinned and cranked the engine of her Toyota. “You’ll see.”

  “You know how I feel about surprises. Few have ever been favorable.”

  “You’ll appreciate this one. Put yourself in my capable hands. I know what’s needed to get you out of this blue funk.”

  “I’m not in a blue funk.”

  “Trust me, you are.”

  “I suppose if anyone has a right to be in a funk—not that I agree with you—it’s me.”

  “Yeah, but you’ve taken up residence there, and it’s time to move on.”

  I let Abigail blather on about more domestic matters than I cared to hear, and didn’t even question when she got onto the highway and traveled west. That is, until she kept going.

  “Where are you taking us?”

  “Spokane.”

  “I’d have been happy to go to the beach. What’s in Spokane?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Please stop saying that and just tell me.”

  Abigail let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m taking you to a WAM meeting. And before you ask, the letters stand for Women’s Advancement Movement.”

  I looked at her askance. “Are you saying I need to advance in some way?”

  “Oh, honey, in every way. But we’ll start with this.”

  “What do you know about this group?”

  “The name says it all—advancement for women. What else do we need to know?”

  I didn’t ask any more questions. I knew Abigail wouldn’t or couldn’t answer them to my satisfaction. She was bent on surprising me. Let her have her fun. After all, it was a meeting. And that meant it had a beginning and an end.

  It was the middle that concerned me.

  CHAPTER 28

  We parked along the street in a mostly commercial area. Then walked back to a two-story Victorian house in pristine condition, its landscaped yard completed by a white picket fence. Up the steps we went, onto the veranda appointed with ferns and white wicker furniture. In the foyer were two women seated at a table draped with a tablecloth.

  Abigail dropped an envelope into a basket positioned in front of the first woman, and said, “That’s a contribution from both of us.” She smiled at me. “My treat.”

  We moved to the next woman who handed us blank name labels and pens. We wrote our names on the adhesive labels and applied them to our blouses before entering a large room with chairs arranged in rows. A podium was centered in the bay segment at the end of the room, which I took to have been, once upon a time, a formal parlor. I followed Abigail to vacant chairs in the front row and waited.

  As had Abigail, I’d assumed that a women’s advancement movement was established by women devoted to crashing through glass ceilings in professional fields protected vigorously by men. My assumption was only partially correct.

  At the scheduled starting time, a woman went to the podium, introduced herself as Emily Saunders, and called the meeting to order. As she spoke, her piercing blue eyes, set against ivory skin and jet-black hair that had to be dyed that shade, made eye contact with the twenty or so women in attendance. She made a few announcements then turned the podium over to women who wished to give their testimonials.

  I sat riveted as several women told their stories, all the while fighting back tears. I didn’t know whether I was grateful to Abigail or ready to wring her neck.

  After four women spoke, Emily called a refreshment break. Abigail went to the restroom. I corralled Emily by the cookies.

  She glanced quickly at my name tag. “What do you think so far, Katherine?”

  “I have questions.”

  “Please, ask away.”

  “When did you start this group?”

  “It’s a movement.”

  “Same question.”

  “I didn’t start it. Our founder is Patricia Hill, and our inception happened six years ago.”

  I looked around at the women in the room. “Is she here tonight?”

  “Oh no. We’re a satellite, so she wouldn’t be here for our meetings. Headquarters is elsewhere. However, she strives to make annual appearances at each state’s main satellite group, which is becoming more difficult now that we’re expanding.”

  “Did Patricia start these meetings because she was abused? Or was her motivation compassion for women who had been?”

  “It’s probably best if you wait to hear her tell her story, but you may appreciate knowing
she started with herself and three women.”

  “And relies on donations, I see.”

  “We always attach more value to something we pay for, hence the donations. But Patricia is wealthy and contributed substantially to initially fund our operations. She still contributes a great deal.”

  “How nice for her.”

  Emily stared at me in silence for several moments then said, “How her wealth came to her is part of her story. She’s quite candid about it. She’s quite candid, period.” She took a bite of a sugar cookie, licked the crumbs from her lips and added, “At the very first meeting, one of those three women was still healing from chemical burns received during a domestic confrontation. Another young woman—a teen, really—was someone Patricia found living in a cardboard box behind a dumpster in an alley. She’d run away from home after being sexually abused by an uncle. No one believed her. No one protected her. His assaults didn’t cease, so she ran, preferring to be homeless rather than helpless.”

  I didn’t say anything, but Emily couldn’t help but notice my breaths had quickened and that I’d looked away.

  “After one year, Patricia had three hundred members. That number has catapulted to over three million members, with, roughly, ten to twenty groups in each state. She’s started to expand into several countries, as well, though her goal is to have at least ten groups in every country. Ambitious, for sure, but a worthy pursuit.”

  Emily tilted her head and kept her unblinking eyes fixed on me. “Members are from every social, economic, and political background. I admit, though, not every member was personally abused. Some are related to or friends with women who have been. They join to help others. However, despite how long I’ve been involved, despite my own experiences that motivated me to get involved, I still find it stunning to realize how many women have been abused in the various forms. Do you also find it stunning, Katherine?”

  I nodded.

  “The thing about abused women is that they often feel alone, isolated, as though no one will understand their pain, fear, and humiliation.”