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The room spins. Topples. Stops to a crack within me—a neat split. “You...” I cannot speak. Cannot find the words. “That—that was—it was formeto decide. You knew how much I was struggling financially. How little research I was able to do this past year. And you didn’t tell me?”
His mouth twists into a downward line. “I am your mentor. It is my job to guide you toward what’s best for you.”
“Youoverstepped,” I say, so forceful, so different from my usual softbuts or reluctantyeses that for a moment he looks taken aback. But he recovers quickly, and his smile is chilling.
“Elise, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have entered graduate school. Ichoseyou. Whatever career you have, you owe it to me, and you should be very careful not to forget it.”
I cannot believe my ears. This time I do take a step back, and another one, and all of a sudden it dawns on me that...
“Jack was right about you.”
“I have no idea who Jack is, nor do I care. Now, please, sit down. Let’s discuss this civilly, and—”
“Youarecontrolling. And manipulative.” I try to swallow past the knot in my throat. “Jack was right. You really did ruin Grethe Turner’s career.”
His eyes narrow to bitter slits. “Ah. That’s who Jack is, then.” He shakes his head twice, like I’ve disappointed him profoundly. “You have been associating with Smith-Turner. The man who jeopardized the very existence ofyourfield.”
“What did you do to Grethe?”
“His mother”—Laurendeau rolls his eyes impatiently—“doesn’t matter. Grethe Turner doesn’t matter and never did. If anything, her behavior should be a warning to you: there is no room for silly, stubborn girls in physics. And why would you believe anything Smith-Turner has told you?” His nostrils flare. “The article he wrote was a malicious hoax that ruined and derailed several careers and made it exponentially harder for theorists to have their work funded. We became the laughingstock of the academic world.”
“That’s true,” I bite out. “But it doesn’t erase whatyoudid to Grethe Turner—”
“Donotmention her to me again.” Laurendeau’s voice is harsherthan I ever remember hearing it. “And show some gratitude to the person who has given you a career.”
I shake my head, feeling close to tears. I won’t cry here, though. “I thought you wanted me to be the best possible physicist.”
“What I want, Elise, is for you to do as I say—”
A knock. The door opens before I can turn around.
“Dr. Laurendeau? I have something for you to sign... Oh, Elsie, haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been?”
I recognize the voice from my grad school days—Devang, the department administrator. I turn and wave at him, feeling numb. My hand doesn’t feel like mine.
“Come in, Devang,” Dr. L. says.
I’m nauseous, dizzy.
For the past six years, I’ve tried to be the Elsie that Dr. L. wanted. Resourceful, hardworking, tireless. Everything I needed—money, insulin, time, rest, mental fucking space—everything I needed I put after my work. I followed his advice before anyone else’s, thinking that he had my best interests in mind, thinking that he deserved an Elsie who strove for brilliance.
And all along, all he wanted was someone he could control.
“Would you rather I come back later?” Devang is asking.
“No,” Dr. L. says, eyes looking into me, lips pinched tight, “Elise was just about to leave.”
I hold his gaze, knowing the first time I was truly honest with him is likely going to be the last time I’ll ever see him.
“Dr. Laurendeau,” I say before turning around, “you should really start calling me Elsie.”
25
DUCTILITY
From: [email protected]
Subject: WHY DON’T YOU PICK UP YOUR PHONE? IT’S BEEN THREE DAYS.
