Chapter 10 Reproductive Health #2
“You deserve better than a costume.” His voice held a smile. “We should revisit this. It would not be strange for a fiancé to buy his beloved clothes, do you not think?”
“Do not buy me clothes, Andreas.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll have to reimburse you, and you have expensive taste. It’s a slippery slope from one nice sweater to a closet full of cashmere.”
With supreme confidence, he said, “You will be able to afford my taste and more once you inherit. And I am not going to listen to you on this. Expect clothes.”
“Andreas!” I said, half laughing, half warning.
I heard a new voice on the other end, someone saying his name. Andreas’s line fell quiet for a minute.
Then he returned and said, “I have to go. I am fifteen minutes late for a match.”
“What?!” I stood from the bed. “Then why did you call me?”
“I only need five minutes with this guy,” he said, dry as the Atacama Desert. “We will talk again soon, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, smiling like a doofus as he hung up.
Sitting back down on the edge of his bed, I hugged my knees and let my feelings simmer without trying to name them. I didn’t have the right vocabulary anyway.
Eventually, I got up. I made breakfast for both Tara and me.
She drove me to work. I spent several hours in the lab, catching myself staring into space and grinning.
And when I returned to my desk, every time I glanced at my phone, I again smiled like a dope, replaying the words, the tone, the laughter of our call.
I hadn’t ruined anything. We were more in sync than before.
* * *
The first Friday—and first snow day—in December, and I was still at work at 6:45 PM, listening to Dr. Nieminen enumerate my own accomplishments like he’d been the catalyst for all my success.
Not even the anticipation of knowing that, at this precise moment, Andreas Kristiansen was likely past security in Heathrow and would soon be on a flight home from London, could save my mood.
The tick of the conference room’s analog clock sounded disproportionately loud for some reason.
Perhaps because it was the countdown to my freedom.
I’d been sitting in this chair for forty-three minutes, and the two most meaningful things I’d managed to accomplish—really, the only two things—were not falling asleep and not losing my temper.
“Your time logs are thorough,” Nieminen said, flipping a page.
He wore a navy quarter-zip and, as always, looked like he’d just come from a corporate retreat where the team-building activity was silently judge your subordinates.
He had a stack of papers at his elbow, the top one marked in his fine blue pen: “Jarlston, S. – November.”
Nieminen flipped through two more pages and gave a tight nod. “You’re quite productive for someone who’s lost their funding and was saved by a new PI in the middle of the semester.”
“Thanks,” I said, though it didn’t feel like a compliment. The way he’d said the words, he’d put the emphasis on “lost their funding” and “saved” as though to remind me that my place here had more to do with his generosity than my ability.
Or maybe you’re just reading menace into his words where none exists because you simply do not like the man.
It was a possibility. Nothing he’d said was false, even if I didn’t like the words.
Stop assuming the worst of Dr. Nieminen!
I’d tried. I’d really, really tried. Honestly, he’d done nothing tangible I could object to since taking over my funding.
Yes, over the last two weeks since Thanksgiving break, he would frequently and randomly check in on me during the day, something Dr. Hauser never did.
And he would lean over my shoulder to peer at my computer screen while I showed him evidence of my progress.
In our smaller department meeting last week, he’d said “we” instead of naming me specifically when giving credit for the fast turnaround of the poster presentation, a la, We were able to confirm all the citations before the break.
I was a junior member on his team. Thus, he could technically say “we” and take public credit for all my work if he wanted.
That was how academia worked. Dr. Hauser never did that, she’d always given the specific person credit for their contributions, naming them in public.
Sadly, Dr. Hauser seemed to be the exception.
Presently, biting my tongue, I tuned him out as he continued reciting out loud all the tasks I’d completed in November, and let my mind drift to more pleasant thoughts. Namely, my reunion with Andreas and the ever-expanding collection of gifts he’d mailed to the apartment since leaving New York.
The collection was, in a word, absurd.
Every night for the last ten days, I’d come home to one or more surprise parcels.
After the tea and cookies, the next package contained a pair of Italian-made pajamas, a lady version of his gentlemanly suit of sleepwear.
The next day brought a tiny, perfectly wrapped box of perfume that smelled absolutely divine—like fresh gardenias at first, but then with a dark, velvety scent after, one I couldn’t quite place, like sweet cedar but better.
I’d considered bringing it into the lab and running an analysis on its chemical composition.
After that, a stationery set so beautiful I couldn’t imagine ever using it, along with an actual fountain pen that wrote smoother than any pen had the right to and felt magnificent in my hand.
Next, a beautiful new scarf in the exact shade of my eyes, with a note that read, “To keep you warm while I’m away.
” And I’d gasped upon opening an antique copy of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species.
He also sent an entire suite of skincare items that even Diya would’ve approved of.
To my surprise, some of the gifts originated from close by.
A kombucha brewed locally that I quickly became addicted to.
(I didn’t even know I liked kombucha.) Pickled vegetables from the Bronx that I started putting on everything because they were so spicy and tasty.
A crusty sourdough loaf from Queens that Tara and I polished off in two days.
He’d even sent a yummy charcuterie spread last Saturday night with olives, almonds, fancy cheeses, cured meats, and a bottle of Italian red.
I felt so spoiled. The only people who had ever given me gifts like this were my parents and grandparents.
And then came the clothes, always with a note requesting I send a photo of me wearing the item. “To ensure they fit,” he’d explained in his note. “If they don’t, I can send a new size.”
More than once, usually after unwrapping that evening’s box and marveling at how much I loved whatever was inside, I would wonder why Andreas was sending me gifts at all.
He’d explained them away on the phone as expected since the world thought we were engaged, but that excuse didn’t fully explain his constant and effusive lavishing.
Every item was thoughtful, personal, and indulgent, clearly chosen specifically for me.
If he’d simply wished to put on a show, then he could’ve sent the same item every day.
Or jewelry. Or flowers. Why go to such trouble?
Not quite understanding the impulse, I began leaving work on time and stopping by shops on my way home.
Visiting four different vintage resellers and two antique shops, I found myself searching for something Andreas might like, trying to find the right thing, only to walk away empty-handed, except for a tiepin shaped like a rook that I worried he’d think was tacky.
It wasn’t until the night before last, standing in the back of a dusty used bookstore on East 12th, that I found it: a complete, signed set of Bobby Fischer’s chess writings, the spines brittle but the dust jackets intact.
I’d nearly fainted when I opened the first volume and saw the signature, because I suspected what it would mean to Andreas.
Based on his library, he obviously loved books, and I’d snooped around his collection enough to know he didn’t have signed versions of these.
Using grandma’s account to pay for the—ahem—extremely expensive set didn’t even faze me.
It seemed like something she would want me to do, like an expense she’d heartily approve of.
I’d wrapped it in tissue, hidden it under my bed, and planned to present it as casually as possible so as not to seem too eager.
Apparently, I was more concerned with the appearance of chill than reality. But what could I do? I’d never given a man I was interested in a gift before. This was new territory for me.
“. . . and the rest looks good,” Nieminen said, yanking me from my thoughts as he loudly set down his pen.
I blinked the room back into focus and found him giving me a faint smile.
“There are only a few weeks left in the term. Your project proposal is strong. Let’s just make sure you keep hitting your time benchmarks, okay? ”
“Will do,” I said. I began packing my laptop away, a move he either didn’t notice or chose to ignore. I had half a mind to ask if he needed anything else, but I was worried he’d find something.
Instead, as I slowly stood and zipped my bag, I waited for him to say, “Thanks for coming in,” or “Enjoy your weekend,” or, God willing, “You can leave now.” He didn’t move, simply kept watching me.
Since I’d finished packing my things and he still hadn’t spoken, I decided to take that as implicit permission to skedaddle.
I’d just placed my backpack on my shoulder and reached for the door when he said, “Oh, yeah—”
“Yeah?” I turned to face whatever Dr. Nieminen’s “one more thing” was.
Dr. Nieminen, standing now on the other side of the table, reached into his bag and pulled out a thin blue folder. He slid it across the table to me. “I got us two tickets for the show tonight,” he said. “If we hurry, we can get a quick bite to eat before curtain.”