Beneath the Waves

2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Modern Girl by Bleachers

My alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m. It doesn’t startle me awake. I’ve been restless for hours, replaying last night’s session with Dr. Kassen in my head.

I stare at the ceiling, rubbing my eyes and stretching my arms above my head, pondering whether I really need to get up and go to work. I didn’t sleep much overnight and now find myself exhausted and wishing to stay right here, buried in the warmth of my blankets. I roll myself out of bed and feel around in the dark for the light switch, tripping over the boots I lazily kicked off last night. I flick on the light in the bathroom and check myself in the mirror. Oh, these bags under my eyes are just gorgeous.

I pull my chestnut brown hair back and start running a hot shower. The hot water snaps me awake enough until coffee can finish the job later. I dry off and brush out my hair, letting my soft waves fall past my shoulders. I connect my phone to the speaker on my nightstand and hit shuffle. Soon enough, “Modern Girl” by Bleachers fills the room. I enter my closet to get ready, picking out a pair of black pants, a white scalloped, flowy tank top, and a vibrant royal blue blazer.

The old hardwood floors creak underneath me as I bop around my closet to the music. It’s as if they are audibly groaning at my dancing. One floorboard in particular has been loosening by the year, and I keep reminding myself to fix it, but I never do. It gives the house character, like it's been well lived in. The one lucky thing about living alone is that there’s no one here to see me make an idiot of myself, dancing around the house in the morning. I return to my bathroom vanity and put on a light layer of makeup, just some moisturizer, concealer, and mascara to brighten up my jade green eyes. I tap my foot on the floor to the music, which makes it difficult to apply mascara smoothly.

I live in a three story federal style brick row house in Beacon Hill, a historic neighborhood in Boston. I grew up here. There's still notches in the door frame in the kitchen that my father made to mark my growth. Most of my childhood it was just the two of us. My mother had planned to leave without even talking to Dad. She even had a letter written, but he caught her before she could make an Irish exit from being a wife and mother. He tried to shield me from as much of it as possible, but I remember his face as he read her letter. It was as if something in him died with her words. A few years ago, I found the letter amongst his belongings after he passed. She wrote that she wasn’t living the life she imagined for herself, that she never wanted to be a wife or mother, and that she had tried for a long time to ignore those feelings. She asked him not to follow her, and to my knowledge, he never did.

They met when my father was just establishing himself in his career. They met by chance at a party with mutual friends, and he was smitten straight away. Working to become a partner at his firm kept him incredibly busy, affording my mother, who was a free spirited artist, plenty of the independence and alone time she craved. They traveled, attended parties and galas, and had little structure in their lives beyond their social calendar. Perhaps she thought things would always remain that easy and carefree. And perhaps they would have if it hadn’t been for my arrival. Mom was upfront with Dad that she didn’t want children, an idea he agreed with at the time, though maybe out of love for her. Imagine their surprise when a stomachache ended up being me. Dad’s parents had already passed away, but Mom’s were still alive, and they expected their grandchild to be born in wedlock. It was the proper thing to do; they argued. Dad agreed with them and after a lot of convincing, Mom caved in. It wasn’t something she wanted, but I think she felt outnumbered and trapped. The more her parents got their hooks in him, the more they convinced him to expect my mom to just comply and be a mother. His love for her became blurred by the heavy weight of expectation from those around them. He genuinely believed that once she held me or saw me, she would change her mind and love me.

I think perhaps she genuinely tried to love me, to love us, and our family, but you shouldn’t really have to try to love someone. My parents were probably two people that never should have been married to each other or had a child together. Mom liked life how it was. She enjoyed having independence and living spontaneously. She was always upfront that she didn’t want to settle or become some kind of unrecognizable soccer mom with "Live, Laugh, Love" stenciled on her walls. Dad knew all of that and he still pursued her. I think as much as he may have loved her; he loved the idea of her even more. He loved the version of her he saw, the version of her he hoped she would be.

She let Dad name me, though she criticized his choices. He named me Alice Kelly Murphy. My middle name, Kelly, was the maiden name of his great-grandmother. Mom argued that the name Alice sounded too old-fashioned and stiff. She even likened it to an old yellowed lace tablecloth. I can only imagine her insulting such a personal choice must have upset Dad quite a bit. She suggested some artsy bohemian names like Fiona and Hazel. I’m glad Dad won that one, though I can’t imagine she put up much of a fight.

Dad always told me he chose the name Alice because of a famed Boston suffragette named Alice Carney. He would tell me stories about Carney’s writing in the Boston Suffragette Weekly magazine, and how influential she was to the movement in the area. He always told me how important names are, and how special it is to have a name that really means something. I’ve always hated the idea of being named for someone you’ve never met. What kind of narcissism does a parent have to set a standard so high for their child? ‘Here, we named you for this incredible woman. Hope you’re worthy of it.’ I’ve insisted on being called Ali ever since I was a child, hoping to avoid the weight of expectation and the disappointment if I don’t measure up.

Dad picked up the pieces as best as he could after she left. He essentially became my friend, but he gave me a fun childhood. He never missed my soccer games. He showed up for every school recital. We had Boston Bruins season tickets, which I still have today. But he didn’t know how to be what I needed him to be, and I didn’t even fully understand at the time what I needed from him, either. We went on adventures together and I never wanted for anything material, but we didn’t talk about the important things. I had everything I could want, but nothing I needed. He closed himself off emotionally and locked out everyone, including me. I suppose now I’ve done the same.

I had no one I could talk to, to understand why she left, and why she didn’t want me. Dad was a lawyer and threw himself into his work, taking on bigger and bigger cases. He became well known around Boston as a no nonsense ace of a district attorney. But I was a child without any kind of outlet or support, so I threw myself into taking care of him. I taught myself to cook so we could at least eat together at night. I spent all my free time reading historical books and case studies just so he would at least talk to me about something . A child shouldn’t have to do that. A child should not have to stand near a feast and hope for scraps.

We got by, but I think we were both kicking so hard to stay above water. We were just surviving. In retrospect, I realize that while I needed him to explain it all to me, he couldn’t because he didn’t understand it himself. He was grieving too, and possibly by shielding me from his pain, he thought he was protecting me. Though I think maybe if we had shared our pain with each other, it would have been a little more tolerable to bear.

There was only ever one time that we even got close to talking about her. I was preparing to move away to college, and I was so worried about leaving him alone for the first time. That’s something a teenager really shouldn’t be worried about at such a time of excitement and transition. I asked him about getting out there and maybe dating, finding some kind of company to fill the hole left in his heart, and he showed no interest. I was always proud of him for his achievements, but I worried that he didn’t leave space for anything else in his life. It’s a tragic flaw I seem to have inherited as well. I asked him if he ever regretted marrying my mother, considering all the hurt that came after. He said “Of course not, kiddo. It got me you.” And that was the one and only time we acknowledged her. It wasn’t enough, but it was something.

My four years of undergrad were uneventful. I traveled home as much as I could, and as graduation loomed closer, I applied for the master’s program at Chisholm. I had been away from home long enough and couldn’t bear to be away from Dad and Boston anymore. Dad got sick just as I was finishing my degree. As I had done all my life, I moved heaven and earth to take care of him. But it wasn’t enough. He faded quickly and passed away when I was twenty-four. As his only child, I inherited the money and the house, which has been in his family for over a hundred years.

Despite all the pain and loss that has transpired here, I love this home and I cherish the memories we created in it. I don’t even feel like she was ever here. It feels like it was just his and mine. When I was a teenager, he gave me the master suite, which I still use today. I converted one of the other bedrooms into a home office. One is still my childhood nursery, and the other two are guest rooms. A five-bedroom brownstone in Boston is astronomically expensive, especially in Beacon Hill. I could never afford it on my salary or even my salary ten times over. I admit it is quite a large house for just one person, but I’m grateful my father left it to me when he passed away because I can’t imagine anyone else living here. It has original hardwood floors and woodwork, with dark gumwood molding and stained glass paned windows. Many of the homes in the area have been gutted and modernized into sleek and sterile magazine ready homes where every paint color is something bland and ridiculous like honey butter beige or stargazer cream gray. They’re devoid of any life or character. My father retired early and spent the last few years of his life restoring the home, even finishing off the basement and converting it into his own wood shop. I think he poured himself into fixing the house because it was the one thing he could control. He retro-fitted it with all the modern amenities, but left the integrity of the original craftsmanship. Every inch feels warm and cozy, like a worn in flannel blanket. The kind you curl into and just watch the rain wash away your plans.

I love everything about this city. There is no shortage of history to absorb here. The city skyscrapers reside alongside Revolutionary War era landmarks. The juxtaposition is something I find so fascinating. It's as if two entirely different universes exist parallel to each other in time. I could never leave this city, which is why I’m grateful for the opportunity to work at a nearby university. When my father left the law firm at the end of his career, he kept busy between home improvement projects by teaching law classes at Chisholm. He forged connections there that helped me become the youngest historian in my department. I know nepotism got me in the door, but I’d like to think I’ve worked my ass off to prove myself and stay there. I had some pull on my own, having gotten my masters there, but I know Dad pulled some strings and reached out to every colleague possible before he passed to ensure I was taken care of. He also left me a sizable inheritance. Between his own finances and old family money, I don’t have to work if I don’t want to.

But I want to continue to learn and absorb history, and hopefully ignite that same passion in someone else. I was willing to pay my dues. I didn’t expect any handouts or special treatment from Chisholm just because I was Sam Murphy’s kid. Alongside my research projects, I pitch in and teach a few classes each semester. Many of the established professors prefer to teach the upper level advanced courses. Most of the staff in the department are wonderful and welcoming. Others, however, are essentially coasting toward retirement, cashing a paycheck but have mentally checked out. Professor Steve Black, for example, teaches World History, which I find ironic considering his idea of world history is a walk through Epcot. As the lowest in seniority, I’ve been tasked with teaching large lecture courses like American History 101 and 102. I enjoy rolling up my sleeves and getting into the classroom. Our profession will die if we don’t inspire more historians and teachers. I’ve also been using my research to help create the curriculum for a new course being offered next year, the History of Women in Modern America.

I grab my bag and throw on my favorite pair of pointed toe flats and head out the door. I stand on the front stoop, just breathing in the crisp October air. There is a slight autumn chill and the trees are vivid hues of red and orange. I love October, and like Anne Shirley, I’m happy to live in a world in which it exists. I get a childlike joy from crunching the falling leaves under my feet.

Once the weather shifts to winter, I tend to drive to campus, but when it’s nice out, I like to take advantage and walk. My commute to work by foot is a twenty-minute walk when the weather cooperates, thirty minutes when I get distracted and veer off into the local coffee shop. This is most definitely a coffee morning.

The coffee shop, Holy Grounds, is tucked into a narrow red brick building on Commonwealth Avenue, alongside other quintessential artsy boutiques, pubs, and general stores. String lights adorn the outside awning and patio. Inside is a mixture of mismatched tables and chairs. Comfy armchairs create reading nooks in the corners. On the walls are scattered works of local artists. I approach the counter and order the usual. A black coffee for myself and a white chocolate mocha latte for Ben, my best friend and colleague. Ben Turner works down the hall from me at Chisholm University. We are both historians, but specialize in different areas. I focus on American history and Women’s history, but I’ve dedicated much of my recent research to the Titanic disaster, whereas Ben is primarily a military historian. I’ve always had a fascination with the Titanic, both in its opulence and in its tragedy. I never thought my career path would bring me to pouring over ship manifests and blueprints instead of the newspaper with my morning coffee, but it is a curiosity that has brought me to one of the most prestigious universities in the country.

It’s still early enough in the morning that campus isn’t bustling with people yet. It’s an easy walk over to Abbott Hall, the history building. It’s situated in a corner of campus across from Whitmer Hall, the English building, with a grassy quad between them. Ben and I usually opt to sit in the quad for lunch instead of the staff break room inside. It’s a change of scenery and fresh air. Neither of us care for the water cooler gossip that some of the professors partake in. I swear, sometimes they’re worse than the students with childish antics and talking shit.

I put my back against the door of Abbott Hall to swing it open, juggling both coffees, but taking great care not to spill them or burn myself. When I walk into the main lobby, our department intern Rebecca is sorting and dispersing mail.

“Good Morning Miss Murphy! You’re here early. It saves me a trip to your office!” she says excitedly as she hands me a bundle of envelopes and magazines. Rebecca pushes her glasses back up her nose and nervously tucks her straight blonde hair back behind her ears.

“Rebecca, we go through this every morning. You can call me Ali. Drop the Miss Murphy business. You’re an intern, not a servant,” I remind her. I know some professors and historians in the building make her nervous, when they’re even acknowledging her at all. They send her on coffee runs and odd jobs not included in her internship program. Professor Black even sent her on a shopping trip to find a birthday present for his teenage daughter. She does it with a smile because she knows their letters of recommendation will carry a lot of weight in her future endeavors. I don’t use her beyond the occasional run to the library or making copies of exams for me.

I smile warmly at her as I hit the elevator button to the fourth floor. I pause as I step in. “Hey Rebecca, have a good day, alright?”

Rebecca shyly smiles. “You too, Ali.”

As I step off on the fourth floor, Ben is standing there, leaning up against the wall with his head buried in his phone. He glances up when he hears the doors open and looks at me, and then immediately down to two coffees in my hands, one outstretched toward him.

“Al, you’re an angel, truly,” he says gratefully as he takes his coffee from me and playfully taps his heart. Ben usually arrives on campus just minutes before me, but his morning routine never leaves him enough time for coffee, so I end up grabbing it for both of us.

“What would you ever do without me?” I smile brightly as I take a sip of my coffee.

“Fuck if I know,” he laughs as we walk down the hall together to our offices. “You catch the Bruins game last night?”

“Yeah, Ullmark was a beast, stood on his head most of the night.” I ramble on for a good five minutes about the Bruins game up in Buffalo.

“Are you going to the game tonight?”

“No, they’re in Toronto tonight.” I remind him of their road trip. “I don’t think they play at home again till Tuesday.” I really hope they win tonight. I fucking hate the Leafs.

At thirty-two, Ben is almost four years older than me. It's a fact he likes to point out often. He often acts like an older brother and tries to take care of me, which is not something I’m used to, especially considering he’s the one I think that needs to be taken care of. Ben is over six feet tall and muscular. It’s obvious he grew up on a beach and spent his childhood surfing. His blonde hair is swept to the side, letting his piercing blue eyes steal the show.

We met when we started here at Chisholm last fall. We both started on the same day. It was my first job as a historian and he had just transferred from a university out in California. Neither of us knew anyone, and being the two youngest members of the department, we felt a heavy weight of expectation and judgment from more senior staff. We spent the entire exhausting day painstakingly trying to prove ourselves to our colleagues and justify the positions we now held.

By the end of the day, we collapsed on opposite ends of the sofa in his office, passing a flask back and forth while exchanging stories of our lives. I told him about growing up as an only child in Boston and how it was just my dad and I for the longest time until he passed. He told me about growing up with three brothers in Newport Beach. I wondered to myself how the California boy with sun kissed skin and a jawline that even 90s Brad Pitt would envy would handle a harsh New England winter.

He told me he moved from California after a breakup with his longtime boyfriend, Ryan. We bonded over our mutual relationship issues. He’s at least been in one in the last few years. I close myself off from relationships. In my head, you can’t hurt me or leave me if I don’t let you get close enough.

After sharing way too much whiskey, we both joked that we now felt trauma bonded. We’ve been inseparable ever since. We do almost everything together, from shopping and dining to traveling.

As we sip our coffees, I listen to the recap of Ben’s date from last night. I live vicariously through his social life. Ben met Andrew on a dating app and they’ve gone out a couple times.

“Yeah, so we went to this new sushi place.” I crinkle my nose in disgust. Ben notices and smirks. “It was good! You need to give things a try, Ali.”

I roll my eyes. “When do I get to meet him?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again.” Ben shakes his head. “Andrew was a nice guy, but I don’t see it going anywhere.”

And there he is, right on schedule. I like to joke that he’s “three-date Ben.” He always has a date, but nothing ever lasts past the third one. He’s had no one with any staying power since Ryan, and that was a while ago now. At least he’s getting out there. It’s more than I can say for myself. Although that’s not for lack of effort on Ben’s part, he’s tried setting me up with just about every straight male friend he has.

After tossing our empty coffees into the garbage near the elevator, we head down the hall toward our respective offices. I have a Titanic sized rabbit hole to jump down and he’s been knee deep in World War I weapons and tactics. I swear I’ll go crazy if I have to hear him droll on about the invention of mustard gas and its impact on modern warfare any longer.

My office is the smallest on the floor, which goes without question when being the lowest of seniority. But I actually quite like it. It’s like my personal cave, my little hideaway. It gets wicked cold in here sometimes, so I often have to kick the heater in the corner to wake it up. There’s two windows behind my desk that overlook the courtyard outside. The window ledges have a few framed photos displayed, one of Dad and me when I graduated college, one of us in the park when I was a child, and one of Ben and me at the Cape over the summer. Across from my desk is a sofa and table for when I need a change of scenery with my research or when a student is in my office. Teaching the large lecture courses means I typically have students who are taking the course as an easy elective. But I’m also one of the more approachable members of staff, so I signed up to be an advisor. I think my demeanor and age make it easier for students to accept guidance from me rather than an old man covered in tweed and elbow patches. The sofa is also where Ben likes to spread out, pretending that I’m his personal therapist. That seems like the blind leading the blind, if you ask me. Although I will say I’m much better at giving advice to others than handling my own business.

Above the sofa, I have one of my favorite possessions displayed. It’s a framed original copy of the Boston Suffragette Weekly, a women’s rights pamphlet that circulated in the years prior to the ratification of the nineteenth amendment. A group of women in Boston published poems and essays to stoke the flame of the movement for the right to vote. This issue, published in 1911, has cover art that I’ve always found quite beautiful. It shows a woman at the head of a table of men, her arms outstretched as if she is leading the discussion. Underneath her is the phrase: We just want a seat at the table. The author, Alice Carney, wrote a beautifully moving essay on the expectations put upon women and how they contradict the potential women have. Her words are often the most powerful and impassioned, and I look toward them when I need comfort or inspiration. It’s a reminder to myself anytime I feel small or unseen that I have a power within me to be brave, that my voice is louder than I realize.

My father gave me the pamphlet when I was a child. He told me he named me after Alice Carney because he wanted me to have similar ideals of self worth and bravery to grow up with. It hung in my childhood bedroom for years, before making its home in my office.

The most fascinating thing about Alice Carney is the fact that no one knows who she is. There is no census record of her existing in Boston during the time of publication. Most historians believe she was an alias used by one, or multiple, suffragettes to publish their strong, and at the time controversial, opinions. It’s become a focus of mine, a pet project essentially, to uncover who the real Alice Carney was. I don’t know if my motives are purely as a historian, or if some part of me thinks unmasking her will help me understand myself better, having been named after her.

Ben stands in the doorway of my office, leaning up against the door frame with his arms crossed, as I toss my bag onto the armchair and hang up my coat. His eyes scan the room, noticing the stack of books and articles strewn about the table. I think he’s deducing that my pet project of finding Alice Carney has slowly become my focus.

He tips his head toward all the paperwork. “Oh boy. Another Carney day, huh?” His voice sounds playful on the surface, but I sense a tone of concern underneath. He has chastised me before for being so focused on this project. He thinks it has caused me to develop tunnel vision.

I lean over the desk to turn on my diffuser so my office doesn’t smell like old wet books like the rest of Abbott Hall. “I just feel like there’s something obvious I’m not seeing. I feel so close.”

“Close to what?”

“I don’t know. Just something .” His eyes narrow on me, shifting into a doubtful, concerned expression. “What? What's that face for?”

Ben shrugs his shoulders. “I just worry about you, Al.”

I turn to look out the window into the quad, my back facing Ben as I answer. “Why?”

“I worry that you’re hiding in your work.” Ben’s voice sounds nervous, as if he’s afraid to broach the subject with me.

“From what?” I turn around and casually sit down at my desk. I’m trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, as if his concern and worry are entirely misplaced.

“Truth?”

I nod. “Truth.”

Ben exhales. “I think you’re lonely. And I think you’re unhappy.” I lean forward in my chair, ready to defend myself, before Ben continues. “I don’t think you’re depressed or anything like that, or that you feel unfulfilled. But I think you feel like you want more, and you’re afraid to have it. You’re afraid to admit you want something, or that you lack something, because you think it makes you look weak, like you can’t handle things on your own. And you’re afraid that if you had that something more, it would just leave you. So why bother trying? Why bother wanting it at all? And I think you detach from those feelings by hiding in these rabbit holes. If you can solve the world’s mysteries and problems, it will distract you from your own. You think you thrive on being alone, when all you really do is survive.”

“Hmm.” I quickly nod as I assess his diagnosis.

“Did I say too much?” Ben’s face fills with worry, as if he said something too honest and crossed a line with me.

I lean back in my chair. “No, I’m just wondering why I pay Dr. Kassen so much money to analyze me when you hit me pretty good for free.”

Relief seeps into Ben’s face as he realizes that I’m amused, not angry. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Ali. I just want the best for you.”

“I know, Ben. We’re good, I promise. I’ve gotta get to work. The quad at one good for lunch?”

“Perfect. It’s my turn to grab it today. I’ll catch you in a bit.” Ben leaves and heads down toward his office.

Luckily, I don’t have any classes to teach today, so I can just dive straight into research, though I do need to get some grading done at some point. I usually stop and grade papers or tests when I’ve hit a mental roadblock with my research. It feels as though only minutes have gone by when suddenly there’s a knock at my door. I look down at my watch and realize that it's almost twelve forty-five and four hours have passed by. I look up and see Rebecca peering nervously into my office, fumbling with something in her hands.

My eyes drop back down to the article I’ve been reading, not wanting to lose my place. “What is it, Rebecca?”

“Hi, uh, Miss…. sorry. Ali,” she corrects herself before continuing. “I have a note from Dr. Conrad for you.”

Okay, well, that has my attention. I look back up at her, confused. Did I hear her correctly?

“What? Dr. Conrad?”

Like theoretical physicist Dr. Conrad? Ben’s godfather, Dr. Conrad?

“Yes. His secretary came to the front desk and told me to give you this.” She hands me a sealed envelope. I can see the curiosity in her face just eating at her. She seems just as dumbfounded as I am. “She was very adamant that I give it directly to you.”

I cautiously take the envelope, examining it with suspicion. “Uh, thanks Rebecca.” I am beyond confused why he has sent me anything. I’m dying to know what’s inside, but I wait for the eager intern to depart first. I don’t know what this is or why it was sent to me, but the nature of its arrival makes me think it’s quite important and should be kept confidential.

Rebecca leaves the office and the door latches shut. I wait until I hear her footsteps walking down the hall before opening the envelope. I pull out a piece of carefully folded paper. I can see Dr. Conrad’s office stationary and his handwriting.

Come to my office tonight at 8.

Bring Ben.

Destroy this.

Tell no one.

What the fuck?