Chapter Thirty-One Priorities
Adelina
Six Years Ago
Cambridge, Massachusetts
I was in the thick of it, surrounded by mountains of textbooks and stacks of loose papers.
Midnight was approaching, but the library always extended their hours when the end of the semester rolled around.
For many students, it was both a safe haven and a place of astronomical stress.
I had just polished off my third (or maybe my fourth?) energy drink of the evening, but I didn’t care that it was bad for my health.
Heart failure be damned. Nothing was more important than killing it this week.
If my calculations were correct, I was sitting pretty at the top of my class.
So long as I cleared this exam in the ninetieth percentile, I would once again secure my position on the Dean’s List. Sure, I was running on fumes, but I had to prove that I was the best. It’s like Mom always used to tell me: Success only comes to those who work hard.
By the time I finished my fifth practice module, I was starting to go cross-eyed from having stared at my laptop screen too long.
A terrible pressure pounded against the inside of my skull.
A normal person might have taken it as a sign to pack up and get some well-deserved sleep, but the cloying sensation deep within my gut told me that it wasn’t an option.
I needed to do more work, study harder, be better than all the rest.
This was my last year at MIT. Several of my classmates already had internships lined up (courtesy of parents or other relatives), and while I had been tapped by a couple of recruiters for some decently big names, I knew I could do better.
The only way I was going to secure my future was by outperforming everyone else.
Nobody ever remembers or notices a slacker, which was why I had to be the one on top.
A shining example. I needed to turn myself into someone companies would fight each other for.
I was either perfect, or nothing.
My phone buzzed on the table, the vibrations rattling me awake. A text message? At this time of night? With a yawn, I checked the screen to find a message from Dad.
Dad: Make sure you’re eating well.
Dad: Take a break every now and then!
Adelina: I will, thx.
My phone started to buzz in earnest. He was calling me now. I leaned back in my chair with a sigh. Seriously? I had so much work to do.
“Hi,” I answered.
“What are you doing up so late?” Dad asked with a chuckle. “You need your beauty rest.”
I dragged a hand over my face. “I know.”
“Are you at the library by yourself?”
“Yeah. My roommate has some friends over. I couldn’t concentrate.”
“That’s not safe, Adelina. You should have someone walk with you.”
“I’m fine, Dad.”
“Isn’t there a campus program where you can have security escort you back?”
The pressure behind my eyes was getting worse. “I’m fine, Dad. How are things at the food bank?”
Dad worked full-time at the Vancouver Food Drive Society as its main coordinator.
If there was one thing he really knew how to do, it was stretch a dollar.
Donations were always in flux, with people’s generosity surging around the holiday season, but the rest of the year was when the food drive struggled.
Dad was the one to reach out to the local municipality about additional funding, or to strike up deals with local farmers to buy fresh produce at a reduced rate.
It wasn’t a flashy job by any means, but it was honest work that he genuinely seemed to love.
To him, there was nothing more fulfilling than helping those in need.
“Not too bad,” he said. “Spent the morning tossing expired cans someone brought in.”
“I can’t believe they treat the drive like a dumping ground.”
“Maybe they didn’t know.”
I huffed. “You’re too forgiving, Dad. Of course they knew. They probably just wanted to clean out their pantries.”
He laughed. “That’s what your mother said.”
“Look, my first exam is tomorrow. I’m going home right now, okay?”
“Okay, okay. Please text me when you get home.”
“I will. Love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I hung up with a tired laugh, slowly gathering all of my work to shovel into my backpack. I lived off campus, so it was a brisk fifteen-minute walk before I got home. Toeing off my shoes at the door, I texted Dad just as promised.
We had three hours allotted to complete the exam, but I finished in two.
I pretended not to notice all the dirty looks I got from a few of my male classmates as I vacated my desk, traipsed down the aisle and handed my stapled booklet to my professor at the front of the gym.
I was riding high. There wasn’t a single question I didn’t know how to answer.
Number forty-three stumped me for a bit, but I eventually worked it out.
One exam done, five more to go.
A part of me wanted to go straight home and take the rest of the day off, but there was no rest for the wicked. I was on a hot streak, my brain already attuned for learning, so I headed straight to the library and parked myself at a table where I fully intended to camp out for the night.
Once I put on my noise-canceling headphones, I was lost to the world.
Computational cognitive science was probably my weakest subject.
I pored over my notes, flipped through every possible page in my textbook.
At some point, my stomach grumbled, begging for a dinner break.
I chewed on a small bag of almonds I’d packed instead.
I was going to eat everything in sight once I was back home to enjoy Mom’s cooking. Until then, I could soldier through.
My phone buzzed. Another text message from Dad.
Dad: How did it go today?
Dad: Wishing you lots of luck!
When I didn’t respond right away, too caught up in trying to finish reading a paragraph, I was met with a flurry of new texts.
Dad: Mom says good luck too.
Dad: Did you remember to book your flight?
Dad: Try to get a connection through Montreal, it’s cheaper than direct.
Dad: Have you eaten today?
I set my jaw. I knew Dad cared, but between the irritating buzz of my phone and all the work I still had ahead of me, my muscles were starting to tense. My headache from the night before was back in full force now, and grinding my molars certainly didn’t help.
When he texted me again, I called him directly.
“A-Ba,” I said, exasperated. I was so, so tired. “I’m at the library.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb.” Dad sounded genuinely apologetic. He probably forgot about the time difference again. Even though this was my fourth and final year at MIT, he still sometimes forgot.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It was just the stress getting to me. There was no reason to get mad at him. “It’s fine,” I said. “I booked my flight already, don’t worry. I haven’t eaten dinner yet, but I will soon. I can’t concentrate when you text me every five minutes.”
I felt like absolute crap the moment I said it, but I didn’t have the mental capacity to put it in a nicer way. Juggling being an overachieving student and an attentive, dutiful daughter was too hard in that moment.
“I understand,” he said gently. He didn’t sound upset, which I was grateful for. “This old man worries about you. Work hard, Addy.”
“I always do,” I said irritably and ended the call.
Modeling with machine learning—done.
Dynamical system modeling and control design—done.
Robotic manipulation—thank God, that one’s done.
I was restless to get the hell out of there.
My flight was scheduled first thing tomorrow morning, and I was practically chomping at the bit to get to the airport.
There was a wonderful buzz in the air, an excitement at the thought of nearly finishing the semester.
All I had were two more exams, these ones unfortunately back-to-back.
I was in for a tense six hours, but the silver lining was that once they were done, I’d finally get to go home.
A whole group of students was gathered outside the classroom in the hall, a few still shuffling through their notes in a last-minute cramming session. The professor opened the door at five minutes to the hour, and we started to shuffle in. I was just about to take my seat when my phone buzzed.
Dad was calling.
The exam was about to start. I had no choice but to ignore the call and turn my phone off. He probably wanted to confirm what time he needed to pick me up from YVR, but he would just have to wait until I was done.
There was something about computer science that made it easy to slip into a flow state.
I tuned everything else out, enjoying the challenge and the satisfaction that came whenever I got a question right.
All those late nights spent studying had paid off.
I could do this. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that I’d end up with the highest marks in my year.
Everything I had learned over the last few years poured out of me and onto the page, showcasing not only everything I had absorbed, but everything I understood.
I finish one exam, and then another. I took great pride in walking out of the room first both times. Sure, I looked like a hotshot, but I’d earned the right to walk out with my head held high.
My first deep breath of winter air was exhilarating. I was finally free for the holidays. I couldn’t wait to catch up with my family, to recount all the things I’d gotten up to. I fished my phone out of my pocket and turned it on. Dad would want to know my itinerary for tomorrow.
My phone blew up with alerts. Twenty missed calls from Mom. At least fifty unread messages from Lily.
Lily: ADDY.
Lily: ADDY ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE.
Lily: IT’S DAD.
I dialed my sister’s number. She answered immediately.
“Adelina, oh my God!” she sobbed into the receiver.
“What’s going on?” I asked, chest painfully tight.
“Dad is…Dad had a heart attack at work. He was in the warehouse alone. When they finally found him—”
My heart sank into the pit of my stomach. A heart attack? No. No, that can’t be. He called me a few hours ago. I swore I was going to get right back to him.
“Mom and I are at the hospital now,” Lily said, breathless. Listening to her was surreal—my own voice delivering the terrible news. “Addy…he didn’t make it.”
“This is the last of his stuff,” Bernice, one of the only full-time staff at the food drive, said as she helped pack up the box.
Dad’s office was empty, stripped of every trace of him.
It had to happen at some point. It had been two weeks since the funeral, and the newly appointed drive coordinator was going to need the office space come the turn of the month.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” Bernice said for the tenth time since Lily and I arrived.
For what it was worth, Bernice seemed to be taking Dad’s passing pretty hard too, but I was getting sick of people telling me they were sorry.
Sorry for what? It wasn’t their father they’d ignored.
“Edwin was so loved by the community,” she went on. “We’re really going to miss him.”
“Thank you,” Lily said again.
I tuned out after that, their chatter nothing but a muffled sound in my ear.
I combed through the box of Dad’s things.
Mostly desk accessories. Little things that brought this otherwise gray box of a room some much-needed color.
Some succulents in small pots, a few crayon drawings that Lily and I drew for him when we were barely out of diapers… and a framed photo.
I picked it up and stared at it. It was of Mom, Dad, Lily and me on graduation day. Lily and I were dressed in our blue gowns, caps adorning our heads. We were all smiling at the camera in what I now realized was the last picture we all took together as a family.
A terrible sob punched its way up my throat, leaving my lungs empty and chest burning.
I hadn’t been able to cry at the funeral, but apparently now was when my tears decided to betray me.
Guilt shredded me to the bone. What would have happened if I’d answered when he called?
Why hadn’t I spent more time with him while I had the chance?
“Adelina,” Lily called to me softly. “Adelina, it’s okay.”
“I’m fine,” I said shakily, swallowing my shame and anger and sorrow. I didn’t want to feel like this, seconds away from drowning on dry land. It was too terrifying. Better to ignore it. Bury it deep. “I just need some fresh air,” I said, pushing past my sister to leave.
It was one of those rare days where it was as sunny as could be, not a single gray cloud to be seen.
What a cruel joke, to have such pleasant weather on such an awful day.
Even the luxury of the crisp breeze did little to settle my nerves.
I sat down on the curb just outside the building, too weary to do much else.
The sound of laughter caught my attention.
There was nothing delightful about it. Grating and nasally and obnoxious.
I looked up to find a group of teenage boys gathered around an expensive-looking car that sat askew in its parking lot stall.
A couple of them sat on the hood, the others drinking out of soda cans.
I didn’t take issue with them being here.
It was a free country. They were just hanging out.
(Though I would argue that there were better places than outside a food drive.) It’s what they did next that pissed me off to no end.
They took their half-empty cans of soda, walked over to the donation bin that fed straight into the building’s warehouse—
And poured the contents of their drinks inside. When they were done, they tossed the cans in too.
They all laughed, cackling like hyenas. Red-hot fury engulfed me. How could they do such a terrible thing? How could they treat this place—a place that Dad loved and tried so hard to do right by—with such disrespect?
“What the fuck are you guys doing?” I snapped, rushing toward them. “You can’t do that.”
“Oh, sorry,” said one of the boys. Except he didn’t sound sorry. He had a mess of dark-brown hair styled with too much product. The leader of this little gang, I had to assume. “I thought it was the trash.”
“You have to clean this up,” I demanded. “People need the food in there! Either clean it up or pay to have the food replaced.”
He shrugged, unapologetic. “Not my problem.” They started to turn away, laughing at me as they got into the brown-haired kid’s car.
I was incensed. Did I need to call the cops? No, they probably wouldn’t arrive in time. These brats were getting away scot-free.
But not if I could help it.
I memorized their license plate number before they managed to drive away. They messed with the wrong woman. I was hurting. Pissed. And, unlucky for them, I happened to have a can-do attitude.