by Sonja Yoerg
“Why the ambush?” His tone was light.
“I’m getting a lot of flak. You know, because of you.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.” He reached a hand toward me, but thought better of it.
“They’re your friends mostly. Can’t you talk to them?”
“Those fellows. Might work better if I beat the crap out of them. Or if you did.”
I studied Ryan’s face in the dim light. “You serious?”
He shrugged, looked away.
“I don’t want to beat up anyone.”
“I know. So there’s not much we can do.” He scuffed his feet. “Except stop.”
I swallowed hard. “Stop?”
“Yeah.” He finally looked at me.
Up until that moment, the worst I had felt was frustration and anger at not being able to be with Ryan without getting shit from our mates—plus being in a muddle over exactly what I was feeling. Now I felt shame. It took Ryan’s doubt to bring it forward. Once that happened, shame threw its dank cloak over me, over both of us. The weight and the stink of it never left me.
I retreated from Ryan and everything he meant to me, or could come to mean—I had a sense of that, even then. The shame overwhelmed everything. I didn’t know where to put it, so I lived with it or, rather, under it. After a while, it was simply part of who I was, a part I kept far away from other people. On the outside, I was a man who liked rugby and women, who got married and had a son and got divorced and remarried, as many men do. On the outside, I had nothing to be ashamed of.
Except that’s not how powerful emotions work. The shame affected me no matter how deeply I thought I had buried it. It made me shy away from conflict or confrontation of any kind. I was quick to admit wrong, to apologize, or take the high road, walk away. I was already stained inside; what difference would it make? I wasn’t worth standing up for. I was fundamentally screwed up. I was dirty.
If I’ve done good things in my life, it has been for others, a kind of penance that also brings me happiness at times. I did things for Beatrice, my ex-wife, supporting her and giving her a son, and now I do things for my son. (Don’t get me wrong. I love Antonio more than anything, but I never would’ve given myself the gift of fatherhood, and I don’t think I’m much of a success.)
If you are stained and dirty, it’s fiendishly hard to care about yourself. That’s why I smoke, more than anyone knows. That’s why I work so hard, travel so much. (I do love sports, I won’t pretend I don’t, but the travel is handy for avoidance, isn’t it?) That’s why I have, albeit rarely, slept with men I did not know and probably would not like if I did. That’s why I failed Beatrice and will likely fail Jackie.
Yes, it’s fatalistic. I’m not strong enough to maintain a pristine exterior. The stains show through.
CHAPTER 19
Jackie keeps the usual Monday lab meeting as short as possible. Vince texted her a few minutes ago, saying he needed to speak with her, and for now the data issue has priority. It is obvious to Jackie from the low-lying awkwardness in the room that everyone now knows about the problem, but she isn’t going to say a word until she has more information. She isn’t in the mood to cope with all the concerns and questions, either, given how she has not been able to sleep and then didn’t wake until almost nine. So far the day has been a frantic game of catch-up, and she is losing.
“Okay, gang. Everything we didn’t get to today we’ll cover next week. If it’s urgent, shoot me an email or catch me after Wednesday. Thanks for understanding.” She makes a point of looking around the table to assure her students that although she is coming unglued, it is slowly, and they all might survive it. When Jackie’s gaze falls on Nasira, she is already getting up from the table. Fine.
Jackie collects her laptop and paperwork and beelines into her office. A bagged lunch waits on her desk. She can’t even recall what she chose in her mad dash through campus this morning, but she has to eat. And have more coffee. She’ll pick some up after she meets with Vince. As she unwraps what is apparently a turkey sandwich, she recalls her phone call with Miles last night. He called as she was getting into bed, and he wasn’t happy to learn Antonio had left.
“He didn’t text you the friend’s info?”
“As I already said, no.”
“And have you searched his room yet?”
“No. And I don’t plan to.” She exhaled and tried to remember how hard it is for Miles to be away when there is a crisis with his son. He’s working; it isn’t his fault. “If Antonio wants drugs, he will find them. It’s terrible to know that guy who came to the house might’ve been a dealer, but honestly, there isn’t much we can do if Antonio can’t control this.”
“We can’t just throw up our hands.”
That stung. “I’m doing my best, Miles, I really am. And I’m open to suggestions. Always.”
Silence on the other end. Jackie was expecting an apology, or at least some recognition of her efforts. But Miles was thinking about his son, not her; again, she could hardly blame him. Miles signed off, saying he was going to call Antonio’s friends to ask if they’d seen him. After the phone call she spent hours trying to fall asleep, but her mind would not calm. She was beset with snippets of crazed scenarios involving data and infidelity and overdose and failed speeches and jealousy involving every significant person in her life. When she finally succumbed to exhaustion, she fell asleep with her head under a layer of pillows and bedclothes and slept through her alarm.
Now, as Jackie chews her sandwich, a wave of sadness washes over her. Having married late, her expectations were realistic—or so she thought. The space inside her marriage had felt comfortable and smooth, but lately she can barely turn around without bumping into something, or someone, impinging on what should be hers and Miles’s alone. There is nothing lonelier than being alone inside a marriage.
Vince Leeds appears in her doorway.
Jackie waves him in. “Hi, Vince. Please close the door.”
He’s more jittery than usual, pulling on his cuffs repeatedly as soon as he’s seated. He doesn’t have a laptop or any paperwork with him. “I have a little information for you. I figured any information is better than none.”
“True. And I appreciate it.” Jackie pushes her sandwich away, no longer hungry.
Vince runs a finger across his lips. “Okay. So your lab has a shared log-in, which means we can’t see who accessed the files, but I did have a quick look at the IP addresses.”
“Each computer has its own, right?”
“Sort of. We know the addresses of your lab computers because we installed them in our network. Which is why I can say for certain that whoever accessed your files on December first didn’t use those machines.”
“That’s helpful, I guess.” Jackie reminds herself to be patient. Vince’s text implied real news, and this isn’t it.
He nods. “I also looked at the histories for IP addresses that had frequent log-ins, like the one from your home network.”
“You can see that?”
Vince smiles a little. “You use Outlook, so the IP address is in every email you send.”
“That’s a little creepy.”
“And the reason Gmail is better from a security point of view.” He scratches the back of his hand. “Anyway, you did log in that day.”
Jackie closes her eyes. It would’ve been nice to have been excluded.
Vince continues. “And there was one other log-in from an address I didn’t recognize, which means next to nothing. If one of your grad students accesses the files from the same Starbucks every single night, I can’t tell because their Wi-Fi recycles a bunch of addresses. Same with hotels and libraries.”
“So all we know for certain is that the formulas weren’t changed from my lab.”
“Yes.”
“Which only leaves the rest of the world.”
“Specifically, the parts with connectivity.” Vince offers her a tentative smile. “I know this must be stressful, Jackie, but we’ll stra
ighten it out.”
Jackie wishes she had his confidence. Every time she hears this assurance, even out of her own mouth, it feels less true. She is left wondering why Vince didn’t share this fairly innocuous information with her over email or in a text.
Vince leans forward in his chair. “Do you want me to come to the meeting with Dr. Chen? I can make time.”
“Dr. Chen?” Even in her frazzled state, Jackie would not forget a meeting with the department chair.
Vince blinks at her. “Have you checked your email this morning?”
“Not since I first got in. What’s going on?” But she knows. It has to be about the data issues. Who the hell told Chen?
“It’s better if you read them yourself, I think.” Vince pauses. “I can leave, if you’d rather.”
“No, it’s fine.” Her hands are clammy as she clicks open her email. There are a dozen unread messages, including one from Amy Chen and, directly below it, one from Deirdre Calhoun, director of Autism America. Jackie’s throat constricts as she opens Calhoun’s email.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Cc: [email protected]
Re: Study mismanagement
Dear Dr. Strelitz,
On December 6, you informed me via phone that you could not provide an interim report for the four-year study funded by our organization due to discrepancies in the data. You assured me at the time that discovering the source of the problem was your highest priority; however, in the intervening eleven days I have not had an update from you.
I remind you that providing interim reports to the board is a requirement specified in your contract with us. We are extremely concerned that study mismanagement may have affected not only the results you were poised to report, but also previous research. As a consequence, the board is requesting a complete audit of data collected under your supervision during the last three years. Until the audit report is presented to the board, we will not be able to consider the grant proposal you submitted on August 28, 2018. Current research may continue until we have a clearer picture of what has transpired. Your Institutional Review Board should be notified immediately so they can assess whether recruitment of new subjects is advisable.
These developments are highly regrettable. We trust you understand that we must act to protect the integrity of our foundation and the trust instilled in us by our donors.
Yours,
Deirdre Calhoun
Autism America Foundation
Jackie’s mouth is dry. She clicks opens the email from the department chair, which was forwarded from Calhoun’s.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Cc: [email protected]
Re: Study mismanagement
Jackie,
Please call Martha for the first available time to see me, and bring Vince if he can make it.
Amy
Jackie checks the time of Amy Chen’s email: 10:37 a.m. It’s now 12:23. Shit.
Vince clears his throat. “You okay?”
“Definitely not.”
“If you ask me, it’s an overreaction.”
Jackie lets out a long breath. “It might be.” Vince is regarding her with pity. Her nose stings with tears. She reaches for her water bottle, takes a drink. “Chen won’t help me, you know, although I shouldn’t say that to you.” Vince nods like he already knows all about Chen. Of course he does. The IT people know pretty much everything. “Chen will do what she has to in order to look good.”
“I know,” Vince says. He places his hands on his knees, pushes to his feet. “Let me know when the meeting is. I’ll be there.”
Jackie picks up her phone, desperate to get the meeting scheduled and over with. Then Vince’s pledge registers, and she sets the phone down and looks him in the eye. “Thanks, Vince. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
He reddens, opens the door, and speaks over his shoulder. “Anytime, Jackie.”
The lecture hall at the Women’s Faculty Building is standing room only. Jackie is at the podium. A student AV aide adjusts the microphone on her jacket. Underneath it, Jackie’s shirt is damp, but it’s better to be too warm in a dark jacket than to risk visible stains on the shirt.
“You’re all set.” The student smiles at her. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” A little luck would be a godsend. In the restroom a few minutes ago, Jackie applied concealer to hide the bags under her eyes, but nevertheless she looks like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. Perhaps the audience will assume she is habitually overworked rather than embattled, emotionally frayed, and sleep deprived. All stress appears the same.
The meeting with Chen went as she thought it would. Jackie, with Vince’s help, briefed her on what they knew so far. Chen suggested she keep the foundation in the loop rather than wait until all the answers had been obtained.
“If you’d done that, you might have avoided the audit,” Chen said. “And if you’d told me about it, I’d have advised exactly that.”
Jackie apologized, but Vince jumped in to say Jackie didn’t know it was anything more than an isolated error until Thursday night. “Given that today is Monday, Dr. Strelitz is hardly dragging her feet.”
Chen leveled a stare at him that made Jackie cringe, but Vince was not cowed. He’s got cojones, Jackie thought.
Chen then addressed Jackie. “Just get it cleaned up—and fast. We don’t need money rushing out the door.” She dismissed them in a tone befitting a headmistress. Jackie might have been offended at being treated this way by a colleague, but she was too preoccupied with the prospect of the audit and the possibility of widespread data corruption. Her sensibilities would have to take a back seat, at least until she had a nervous breakdown.
Ironically, as Jackie waits to begin her talk, she is calmer than anytime recently, not counting her sessions on the river. Her speech is ready, she’s confident in her ability to deliver it well, and the audience seems friendly and eager. A forty-minute performance followed by questions, her favorite part. As long as no one asks her about the integrity of her data, where her stepson might be, or whether it was really she who had been driving by Dr. Crispin’s house again and again, she can handle it. Game on.
Jackie sits with her ankles crossed and her hands folded neatly in her lap while the organizer thumps the microphone, issues a detailed if overly flattering introduction, and welcomes Jackie to the podium. Jackie clicks on her first slide, and the part of her brain that contains the drama of the last months goes quietly to sleep in a corner. She sails through the talk, covering all the points she planned and sprinkling them with anecdotes and a couple of lines that are meant to draw laughs, which they do. She finishes to applause and broad smiles, feeling satisfied for the first time in too long.
The organizer invites questions. Although Jackie has answered variations on all of them in previous talks, the exercise isn’t rote for her. Education is central to what she does.
“I thought about my dog during your description of the theory of mind experiments, and I’m sure he would pass. This has been proven in animals, right?”
“Do you ever think it might be better for parents not to have an early diagnosis?”
“My two-year-old grandson is definitely on the spectrum, but his parents are in denial. How do I get through to them?”
“Do children ever recover from autism?”
This last question always gives her pause because it is both technical and potentially emotional. What parent wouldn’t hold out hope for a change in diagnosis? “If you’ve learned anything from me today, I hope it’s that the science of autism is rapidly evolving. Every day we are finding out more, which sometimes means finding out that we were wrong. About ten percent of children diagnosed with autism eventually ‘lose’ the diagnosis, meaning they no longer meet the criteria. Some then receive a different diagnosis, often ADHD because many of the symptoms overlap. Do children who lose the autism diagn
osis ‘recover’? It’s hard to say. One of the special challenges in my research is that early diagnoses are the ones most likely to change. I’m trying to find the best reliable predictors. We want to be as certain as we can as early as possible, but it’s tricky.”
The woman who asked the question nods and smiles.
As the organizer scans the crowd for the next question, Jackie’s gaze snags on a man sitting behind the woman who asked the last question. He’s familiar, but it takes her a moment to place him. When she does, her heart skips and her face warms. Jeffrey Toshack. Jeff. Her college boyfriend.
“Dr. Strelitz?”
The organizer smiles at her with the patience of a kindergarten teacher. Jackie has missed a question.
“I’m sorry. Could you please repeat that?”
Jackie avoids looking at Jeff until the Q&A comes to an end. The organizer effuses over her performance; Jackie thanks her for the invitation to speak and for the compliment, takes a long drink of water, and stashes her laptop away. A few attendees gather at the podium, the ones too shy to ask questions in front of the audience. Off to the side is Jeff, weight on one hip, hands in his pockets. The same catastrophically good looks in the vein of Hugh Jackman, looks with longevity. Jeff’s jaw is squarer now, and he’s grown a trim beard, which suits him. He isn’t as skinny as he was at twenty-two, a little padding now on his athletic frame, but his quiet smile slays her still. What is he doing here? She hasn’t seen him since they broke up, and the last time she heard about him from a mutual friend, he was living in Portland.
She lifts a finger to let him know she’ll be a minute. She answers questions, hands out her card to a woman whose daughter has expressed interest in a study, and offers a referral of Autism America’s list of doctors to a man concerned about his three-year-old. When the last person shakes her hand and turns to go, Jeff steps forward. Jackie isn’t sure of the protocol. Should she hug the man she dumped sixteen years ago or shake his hand? He solves the dilemma, taking her gently by the shoulders and kissing her cheek. He smells the same—of woods, citrus, salt. Like California, where they were supposed to join their lives.
