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“Yes.”
She screams. And hugs me tight. And after a startled moment, I hug her back. And about ten seconds into that, something breaks through the foggy haze of the past few days: I feel selfishly, beautifully happy. I just chose somethingonmy own,formy own, without first building a sophisticated theoretical model of other people’s advice, preferences, needs. Without the nagging feeling that the only path I could take was the one pre-trodden for me.
This decision is all mine.
“I wanted to tell you in person,” I say when we let go. “And I wanted to thank you for the opportunity.” My smile wobbles a little. I could get emotional, but not yet. First, I have things to say. “And I’d love to set up a meeting, maybe for the next week. I don’t know if I mentioned it to you, but I’ve been working on several algorithmsregarding the behaviors of bidimensional liquid crystals for... well, years now. Lots of incomplete projects I want to finish up. I’d love to tell you more about it. Get your input.” I bite my lower lip. “Maybe it could be part of our collaborative research, too?”
“Yes. Absolutely, I’d love to hear all about it.” She grins. And then, almost abruptly, doesn’t. “I really didn’t think you were going to accept.”
I nod. “I know.” My heart beats a little harder. “But in the end, it was an easy choice. Because I wanted to.”
I leave with a promise to meet her for drinks next week when her friend Bee’s in town. The ride back home is still delicate, but a little less raw. When I tap through my phone in search of a good song, the old notifications of Jack’s unanswered calls stare back at me, unflinching.
He hasn’t tried to contact me since the weekend, and I wonder if he’s angry at me. I wonder if he’s sad. I wonder if he’s disappointed.
Then I remember:I’mangry. And sad. And disappointed. Yes, Jack was right about Laurendeau, but I’m still furious—atbothof them. They lied, withheld information, presumed to know what was best for me, and a new, vengeful version of me revels in the way these two men who hate each other are now tangled up together in the expanse ofmyrage. Anger is not a new emotionper se, not for me, but for the first time in my life, I’m letting myselfexperienceit.
Desirable Elsies were never allowed to acknowledge negative feelings. But the Elsie I’m discovering I am is in the eye of several, and instead of trying to channel, disassemble, toss, forget, bury, transform, choke, erase, disappear those feelings—instead of doinganyof that, she just lets them be.
Breathes them in. Then out. Then in again.
The therapist I once talked with but never went back to, because the copay was too steep even with Dad’s health insurance, would probably call thiswallowing. Unhealthy. Destructive. But I’m not so sure.
I treasure my newfound feelings. Hoard them. Every once in a while I study them, turn them around, squint at them like they’re a ripe piece of fruit, plucked from a mysterious tree that shouldn’t even be growing in my yard. When I pop them in my mouth to swallow them whole, they taste at once bitter and delicious.
For reasons that probably have to do with dopamine and oxytocin and other stupid chemicals in my head, Jack is ubiquitous. A shadow in the Walgreens line while I buy my insulin, the tall man waiting at the bus stop, the deep chuckle on my way to the UMass faculty meeting. Solidly nowhere, vanishingly everywhere. But it’s okay.
For the first time, when faced with a conflict situation with someone I care about, I don’t feel the urge to smooth things over. And it’s ironic, in an Alanis sort of way, that the main reason is Jack’s very voice in my head, asking,What doyouwant, Elsie?
I want to claw at your face, Jack. And then I want to bite into your shoulder while you hold me tight. But I will settle for just being sustainedly, explosively angry.
So I let myself do just that, and it bleeds over to other things, too. I ignore Mom’s panic about my brothers going into debt to out-truck each other. I say no to manning the table for the Physics Society at the Boston Extracurricular Fair. When Cece asks if there’s something wrong (I’ve been distracted, too lost in thoughts of Jack acting like an entitled, irresponsible little shit for fifteen years andthenhaving the gall to see through me and make me laugh like noone before) and offers to watchDelicatessenwith me—“To relax a bit!”—I say, “No, thank you,” then slip into my room with a block of cheese to comfort-read Bellice fan fiction.
It’s a balmy Wednesday afternoon, I just spotted Jack in the crowd (it was a postmodern clothespin sculpture), my heart hurts with fury and something I won’t allow myself to name, and I realize something: the last time I felt this low was after J.J. kicked me out and my entire life crumbled down like a shit cookie. Except that at the time, I walked away convinced that I needed to try harder to be the Elsie others wanted. This time...
What doyouwant, Elsie?
Maybe I’m not stumbling through someone else’s life. Maybe I’m just living mine for the first time.
•••
When I get home, Cece is wearing:
a teddy
an apron
a single knee sock
