Twenty minutes later she knocks on my door.
“That was the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Ever,” I say, pointing to the empty yellow baking liner. “And hello, by the way.”
She laughs. “I’m glad. All part of the service.”
She sits down opposite me, her notepad at the ready. I have so much work for her to do, all the work I’ve been neglecting these last few weeks, in fact. Reports to send, applications to collate, class schedules to update and send to students.
“You can never work with anyone else but me, you know that, right? I couldn’t bear it if you stopped baking me these divine treats.”
“Well, I can’t promise. I might just get a better offer, you know.”
“Don’t even try. Pretend this job is some kind of hostage situation. One hint you’re considering another position and I’ll blow the place up.”
“You’re in a good mood,” she says, when she’s finished cackling.
“I am!”
June gets to her feet, taps the notepad with a flick of her pen. “I’ll go and get this done, shall I?”
“Thank you, June. You’re the best, you really are.” I glance at my watch. “Also, I have to leave early today, as I have to get Mateo from soccer because Luis has a dentist appointment. Just so you know.”
I teach my classes, sit on my meetings, do my job. At lunch I eat a Greek salad at my desk while scouring the internet for Christmas decorations. We’ve had the same ones for years, and I’ve decided it’s time for a refresh. I want to get enough Christmas lights to outshine every other house in the neighborhood. The kids will be beside themselves.
And because this is a great day, the afternoon passes without me seeing Geoff at all. A record, I think. Which just goes to show the planets are aligned in my favor.
Until there’s a knock at my door and, just like that, my happy mood disintegrates.
Because it’s Geoff.
My stomach does a back flip. The complaint. Ryan. I’ve done nothing about it.
“What’s going on?”
There’s something odd about him. Something about the way he stands, overly relaxed.
“Do you have a moment?” He comes in without waiting for an answer. I dread whatever is coming next. It must be about the complaint. Some kind of follow-up maybe.
Then Mila shows up. “Hello, Anna, Geoff. Am I late?”
“What’s going on?” I ask again, but no one answers. Mila closes the door and they settle themselves in the armchairs opposite my desk. Geoff hauls one leg over the other and takes hold of his ankle. I suspect he thinks this is cool and casual, but he’s so out of shape it looks painful. Meanwhile, Mila just taps on her iPad.
No one says anything. “Did I forget a meeting?”
“No, no,” Geoff says. “Sorry to intrude. This won’t take long. Come and sit down.” It’s amazing, really, how perfectly civil he can be, like he didn’t assault me, like he is a normal person and not a violent creep. Like he has nothing to reproach himself for because it was all my fault.
My cellphone buzzes. I reach for it and shut it off without looking to see who it is, then shove it in my bottom drawer.
Because they’re occupying both armchairs, I have to bring my own office chair over. I’m now sitting higher than they are. It’s awkward, seeing them so relaxed, with me perched on the very edge of my seat with my hands in my lap waiting to hear my fate.
“What’s going on?” I ask again, desperate to get this over with, but also dreading what this is. Please don’t let it be about the complaint. Not in front of Mila.
“Okay, so the situation is this.” Geoff uncrosses his legs and leans forward, forearms on knees. “Jack Dawson from the Forrester Foundation got in touch this morning. They have some concerns.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m getting there. The upshot is, before transferring the prize money to you, they would like you to submit more information. The information you were supposed to— ”
“I don’t understand.”
Geoff and Mila share a glance.
“The problem is, Anna, that while you wrote a paper about the solution, they feel you’ve never actually written about how you discovered the solution itself. I understand they’ve been asking but that you haven’t been forthcoming.”
“I haven’t had time.”
He raises a hand. “Sure, sure, but as you know”—he turns to Mila as he says this and I don’t know if he’s talking to her or me—“we, as well as the Forrester Foundation, have attempted a number of times to collect materials from you, unsuccessfully. The department is in a bit of a dilemma. We have put ourselves forward as your sponsors, if you will, as the university and specifically the department that facilitates your work. If the Forrester Foundation is not satisfied, then this puts us in a very bad light.”
“How can they be not satisfied? The proof is there. Who cares how I went about it? I just don’t have the time for this! What does it matter? It’s my proof! It’s perfect as it is!”
“They do care, Anna.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s their policy! It’s in their rules, you know that.”
“But why is it even in their rules?”
“You know why. Officially, anyway, it’s because they consider the experiments, the vision, the inspiration, the creative process as worthy as the proof itself. Having said that, if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say they’re covering their asses. They don’t want, years from now, to be sued because someone else claims they did the work that led to—”
“Someone? Who?”
“A student, a colleague who might have shared some of their thinking process with you.”
Mila politely raises a hand, although not very high. Still, it gets Geoff’s attention. “Yes, Mila?”
“I believe one of the early innovation prizes awarded by the Forrester Foundation later led to accusations of plagiarism. Supplying preliminary work, drafts, notebooks, may be a way out to avoid the situation repeating itself.”
It’s the first time she’s spoken. Then the door opens and June is standing there, looking from me to Geoff to Mila.
“June, please. We’re in the middle of something.”
“Anna, it’s—”
“Can you take a message?”
“But I think it’s important—”
“And whatever it is, I’ll get to it. Can you take a message, please?”
I’m trying to contain my anxiety, but from the look on her face I don’t think I’m doing it very well. She walks away and closes the door.
I turn back to them. “Where were we?” I say. “Ah, yes. Plagiarism. So, what you’re saying—”
“No one is saying anything, Anna. Just that sometimes, work gets copied accidentally…”
“When’s the last time you saw a case of plagiarism in mathematics, Geoff? Accidental or otherwise?” I cross my legs, hold my chin high.
“Well,” he scoffs, “I don’t have the exact cases before me—”
“Izanami Hindle,” Mila pipes up.
Geoff clicks his fingers. “That’s right! From Princeton, right?”
“Stanford. And Jeremiah Pell, who worked with German mathematician Fred Holze on the Poincare—”
“Exactly,” Geoff says, turning to me. “Look. We understand how these things can happen… the pressure…”
I tilt my head at him, my expression naive and pure as a dove at a wedding. “Pressure?”
He turns to Mila. “Don’t we, Mila?”
Her face goes through a number of iterations to show she’s trying to understand how these things might happen, she really is.
“But not to me!” I say brightly. “There’s no pressure on me! I didn’t even make professor, for Christ’s sake!” I laugh, although it comes out strangely high-pitched and deranged. Like that crazy parrot YouTube video Matti was forever showing me last year. “There’s no pressure on me,” I repeat, once I’ve recovered. “Other than to take good, clean minutes
. And that’s pressure, for sure, but I can handle it. I’m good under pressure.”
Geoff waits a beat, then says, in a faux-sweet tone, “But that’s the problem, don’t you see? Anna?”
“No, Geoff, I don’t. How is that the problem?”
He’s on his feet, shouting. “Because you’ve never done anything like this before!”
Then Mila, ever helpful, leans forward and says, “You never even applied for a grant to undertake this research, Anna.”
“Exactly!” Geoff says, turning around to look at her. “Unusual, right?”
I sit back and glare at them. “So, what you’re saying is, I stole it.” I feel my cheeks burn.
They both laugh. “No! Of course we’re not saying that.” Geoff sits back down. “We’re just conveying what the Forrester Foundation said, which is—”
“Yes, all right. You’ve made your point. Repeatedly.” I get up, go to the door. “I’ll get you my notebooks first thing.”
They follow my lead. I’m holding the door open and they leave. The moment they’re out they’re whispering to each other. I slam the door. I can’t help myself.
I sit at my desk and start tidying up. I spray my computer screen and wipe it clean, organize paperclips by color, slide the corner of a tissue between the keys on the keyboard. I really should go home. I open the drawer and get my cell and glance at the staff directory. I can’t believe how foolish I was to leave the necklace here. For all I know Geoff and Mila will be rummaging through my things looking for some scrap of evidence that I really have stolen the proof. Won’t they wonder what it’s doing there? They won’t know its significance, but still, not exactly the world’s best hiding place.
Can they really take the prize away from me? That’s what they’re saying, isn’t it? That I have to prove my own proof? Now there’s a laugh. I shove the necklace in my bag, turn my cell back on, and it pings. Then it pings again. I have seven missed calls all from the soccer club.
Matti.
Thirty-Two
I’m running out the door, punching one arm in my jacket and hoisting my bag over my shoulder. I call Luis but he doesn’t pick up. I leave a message, the phone wedged in the crook of my neck.
“Is Matti with you? Can you call me, please? I was supposed to…” I drop the phone and it clatters on the floor. I pick it up, dropping my bag in the process. I scramble to gather my things together and run to my car.
I drive to the sports field on Bainbridge Road like a mad woman. I can’t stop thinking of my poor child, my baby, my Matti, who must be beside himself by now. I can picture him on the bench, wheezing through his panic attack. He has asthma and stressful situations make it worse. Did I pack his Ventolin? I can’t remember. He must be so upset and the thought is making my stomach roil as I speed through at least one red light and almost run over a cat. I keep redialing Luis but it goes to voicemail every time.
When I get there, I park the car in a non-parking zone and run straight to the coaches’ building. It’s locked.
I look around. I’m so late there’s no one here, no one clearing up after the kids, no lingering parents chatting, nobody. I try Luis again as I pull at my hair.
“Seriously, Luis, can you please call me? I’m getting really worried.”
Maybe he went home with one of the other parents. Except he never does that, it’s part of his anxiety. If Luis or I say we’re coming, he’ll wait. He just won’t get into a car with anyone else, no matter how well he knows them.
I call my home number with my heart thumping in my chest. Carla answers.
“Honey, is Matti home?” I have one hand over my eyes as I pray silently.
“Yeah,” she says, nonchalantly, and the relief that spreads through me makes my whole body wobble, like my bones are made of rubber.
“Oh thank god. Did Dad bring him home? Can I speak to him?”
“Dad’s not here.” I can hear her crunch through an apple. “When are you getting home?”
“So how did Matti get home?”
“Your friend brought him.”
“What friend?”
“Um… June, I think that’s her name.”
“June?”
I’ve grown dizzy with relief and black dots dance in front of my eyes. I sit down on the bench, press the heel of my hand between my eyes.
“You want to speak to her?”
I sit up. “She’s there?”
“She’s upstairs with Matti. He was pretty upset, Mom.”
“I know, honey. How is he now?”
“They’re reading a book,” she says.
“What book?”
“I don’t know. Hang on.”
I hear her run up the stairs and call out, “What are you reading? Mom wants to know.”
I’ve returned to my car and I sit down in the driver seat, phone against my ear, feeling my breath return to normal.
“Phantom Tollbooth,” she says finally.
“Oh, right! Well, that’s good.” Phantom Tollbooth is a good choice. One of his favorites, and the copy he has belonged to Luis when he was growing up. Which doesn’t mean that much to Matti, actually. Still, a perfect pick when he’s upset. “So he’s all right?”
“He’s hiccupping but he’s okay. I think he likes June.”
I just can’t believe what I’m hearing. Matti never goes with strangers, ever. I don’t know whether I should scold him or hug him when I get back. And the fact that he’s not freaking out, let alone calmly reading a book… “Can you put June on please?”
“Okay, one sec.”
Seconds later, June comes on. “Hi, we’re all good here, did you get my messages?”
“Messages? No, I mean yes but I didn’t listen, I was trying to reach Luis.”
“I left a couple of messages, to let you know what was going on—hang on.” She speaks away from the phone. “Yes, Matti? Oh sure, of course.” She comes back on. “I’m being summoned back to reading. We were up to the part where Milo and Tock get arrested. It’s a bit of a cliffhanger.”
“He’s already read it ten times, you know.”
“I meant for me,” she says, and I laugh. It’s such a relief that tears start to roll down my cheeks and for a moment I can’t speak. I wipe them with my sleeve.
“You’re the best, June, you really are. I’m five minutes away. Can you wait till I get there?”
“Of course! I’ll see you later.”
I walk silently up the stairs to Matti’s bedroom. Through the open door I see him sitting on the edge of his bed, right next to June, his head resting on her shoulder. He’s holding an almost empty glass of milk on his lap and sucking on the corner of a plastic toy while she reads to him. When he looks up to me, his eyes are heavy and watery.
“Hey, sweetie.” I kneel in front of him. “I’m sorry I was late.”
“You didn’t—hiccup—come for me.”
“I’m sorry, Matti. I really am.”
“You forgot me.”
“No! I didn’t forget you! I had to work, that’s all. You all right, sweetie?”
He nods and gives a shuddering breath.
“Good.” I turn to June and mouth, Thank you. She smiles.
“Matti, June and I will talk downstairs and I’ll make you a hot chocolate, okay?”
June gets up and he tugs at her, and for a moment I think he won’t let her go. She hands him the book and thanks him for his company.
“Can June stay?” he says to me.
“June has to go home soon, okay? Say thank you.”
“Thank you,” he says to June, and I hug him tight and kiss his head until he wriggles himself free.
Downstairs June sits at the kitchen table while I make a hot chocolate for Matti. She tells me how the soccer club had tried to call me on my cell but I wasn’t picking up, so they called the department and got through to her, and as I was so tense in that meeting that I almost shouted at her to go away, she thought she was doing me a favor.
“Look, June, I’m
very grateful. I really am, but next time probably best not to go and pick up my children without telling me first. I almost had a heart attack.”
“I left you two messages and a text,” she says, a tad defensively. I tilt my head at her. “One day…” I begin, then I stop.
“One day what?”
One day, you will have children of your own and you will think back on this moment and you’ll understand how terrified you made me.
“One day, I’ll find a way to thank you properly,” I say instead.
I take Matti’s hot chocolate up to him and when I return, June wants to know what the meeting was about.
“You all seemed so intense,” she says.
I don’t want to tell her. Not because I don’t trust her, but why invite more questions about the whole thing, anyway?
“Before I get to that,” I say, knowing I probably never will, “remember Ryan?”
“How could I forget? He was the reason you went AWOL the other night.”
Oh right. I blamed my drinking binge on Ryan. Maybe I should start taking notes.
“Well…” I drop my head in my hands. “He’s filed a complaint against me.”
“What for?”
“Sexual harassment.”
She laughs. A loud cackle. Then she realizes I’m serious and her eyes grow wide. I tell her about the other meeting I had with Geoff, the fact that he saw me disappear with Ryan that day. That I think Geoff could even be a witness for all I know. I almost add that he hates me enough to do it.
“I just can’t believe it,” she says.
“I know, especially considering he was the one who sent me the photo smack in the middle of my lecture. The creep.”
“Well, that’s good, right? You can give that to whoever investigates the case. It’s not going to make him look good.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “You’re right. The number was private, but he wouldn’t deny he was the one who took the photo, would he? Or maybe he would. Maybe he’ll claim he never took that photo. When I scrolled through his phone that day, I’m sure it wasn’t there.”
Unfaithful: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 20
