Chapter Thirty-Five
Bernie
Smoothing down the front of my shirt, I take a deep breath before knocking on Gail’s door. It's been five days since I’ve heard from Ash, and it’s like my mind doesn’t know what to focus on—saving my job or saving my relationship.
I picked the one that hurt a little bit less.
After our fight, I flew home and scheduled to meet with Gail the next morning. When we met, I laid out all the ugly details and pretended my heart wasn’t broken.
Gail listened patiently, taking notes, asking for copies of my postdoc work, and then nothing.
On Friday, she wasn’t in the office at all. Her admin said she was in meetings all day, so I tried not to let it bother me, despite dread being my ever-present companion.
All weekend, I huddled in my apartment, ignoring Pru’s knocks and my phone, and refitting the same puzzle pieces together.
Gail put me out of my misery Sunday night, scheduling this meeting—8 am Monday morning. Nothing good happens at an 8 am meeting on a Monday morning. It means there’s urgency.
“Come on in, Bernadette,” I hear her call, and I open the door.
Gail’s office could be fancier. As the Vice President of Research Development, she could have the office with all the windows at the end of the hall with a big fancy desk. Instead, she picked one in the middle, at the heart of her team. She converted the big office at the end of the hall into a conference room.
As I walk toward her desk, I realize how much I admire her and how much I’ve liked working for her—because that is inevitably coming to an end. I can feel it.
“How was your weekend?” she asks, placing a file with my name on it in front of her.
“It could have been better,” I admit, sliding into the chair in front of her desk and trying not to look at the file. It’s thick, with sticky notes sticking out from all angles.
“First, thanks for bringing all of this to my attention last week. It’s better to be on the offensive than the defensive.”
Pressing my lips together, I nod, clasping my hands together and squeezing them between my thighs to stop them from shaking.
“I met with General Counsel on Friday and briefed them on the situation. They haven’t been contacted by Seattle State, but I provided them with examples of your work and laid out your current portfolio. Over the weekend, we received a formal complaint of intellectual property infringement.”
Nervously, I run my fingernail along the edge of my inseam, my throat tight.
Clearing it, I manage a strangled “Okay.”
Gail waits a long time before she starts speaking again. I wonder how her weekend was and realize I didn’t ask. Her eyes look a little red, and the wrinkles that frame her stern face seem a little deeper today. I’m sure mine looks the same. I spent the weekend compulsively checking my email and staring at my phone, willing Ash to call me.
Willing myself to be brave enough to call him.
“I don’t think they have a claim,” she says bluntly. “I’ve pointed out that your work here is different. The processes you’ve developed aren’t the same. And it’s ludicrous to try to prevent someone working in the same specialization office.”
I nod along because she’s right. I only did research in Seattle. I didn’t use that work here.
“But Seattle State is claiming unauthorized use of research findings. Basically, because of your research there, your actions here are minimizing the commercial value of their model, software, and consulting capacity.”
My heart drops into my stomach, and I squeeze my thighs harder.
Gail sighs and her shoulders droop. Tracing the edge of my folder, we both stare at the top of her desk, her prolonging the moment and me waiting for the second shoe to drop.
“You didn’t sign any non-compete agreements when you started as a postdoc, right?”
I shake my head.
“I signed standard HR paperwork and released IP rights to the university. Stephen said it was a standard agreement in STEM fields because labs often develop technology.”
“Do you have a copy of your paperwork?”
I nod and reach into my bag pulling out copies of my records. I trust Gail, but I realize she’s only one person and the university and their representatives might feel otherwise.
She stacks the folder on top of the one on her desk and folds her hands, taking a deep breath. “Bernadette, I am limited in what I can say in this meeting.” She pauses, mulling over her words, and I make myself meet her steely blue gaze.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. It’s not her fault. This whole thing is fucked up.
“Do you like this job?”
My eyebrows shoot up because it’s not what I was expecting her to say. “What?”
“Do you like this job? Is this what you want to be doing?”
Rubbing my palms over my pants I try to think what the right answer is supposed to be. “I-I like working here. Working for you.”
“Okay, but career-wise, is this what you want to be doing?”
“If I say no, will it make it easier to fire me?” The words rush out my mouth before I can stop them but at least it's been said. That’s what I’m here for right? To be fired?
“No, I want to know how hard I should fight this. I’ll be honest, the lawyers were being squirrely.”
My lips flatten into a bitter line. “Stephen said they wouldn’t fight for me. That I’m replaceable.” I hate that he was right.
“Hmm.”
“I wanted to be a professor. Research. That’s why I did the postdoc in the first place.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why did you want to be a professor?”
I look down at my hands, amazed at how blank my mind feels at this moment. Why the hell did I want that? “I-I love,” my throat threatens to close up and I try to clear it. “I love the possibilities.”
The reminder of Ash’s earlier words makes my chest tight.
“Possibilities?”
“Yeah. I-I love thinking about research as a site of possibility. That through it, we can better understand the world and how we act within it. That nothing is fixed in place.”
As I speak the words, I realize how very far I am away from that aspiration. Sure, Ashish’s grant got me closer, but it’s not my dream and it’s not my work. I don’t get to evaluate it and share with others how they might adapt the idea for their own community.
Gail presses her lips into a thin line before speaking. “Kid, there are a lot of Stephen Grahams out there. And I hate to tell you, but a lot of them don’t care about possibilities. They care about money.” She slides my paperwork aside and opens what I’m assuming is my case file. She pulls out a few sheets of paper, and I brace myself.
Hesitating for a second, she pulls a business card out of her desk and staples it to the back of the first page.
“Bernadette, while a formal investigation is being conducted, you’re being placed on administrative leave. You will be paid during this time and contacted once a decision has been made. During this time, we ask that you leave your university computer, access card, and office keys here. Any personal belongings that you would like to access should be taken with you.”
Her tone is softer, a mismatch for the formality of her words. I nod stupidly and reach both hands forward to grab the paperwork.
Gail covers my hands with hers, making me look up.
“You are not replaceable. You are special, but universities are not the only place to explore possibilities.” The tips of her fingers tap the top of the paperwork, and I look at the card stapled there.
Numb—I nod.
Reaching into my pocket, I slide out my key card and place it on her desk. Then I carefully fold the paperwork into my bag, walk out, and go home.
***
That night, the electronic lock on my door beeps, and then I hear Pru’s voice.
“I promise she’s not going to sue you, Tony. She’s sick as a dog, and I’m just worried she’s fallen and can’t get up, you know what I mean?”
“Pru, I swear to God, if I get in trouble for this, I’m not letting you in the next time you leave your keys somewhere.”
Pru cackles and steps into my apartment. “Promises, promises. See ya later, Tony.”
I hunch sullenly over the puzzle on my coffee table, searching for a black piece that has no tabs and four blanks with a tiny sliver of star on the right edge. This is the last of the Shakespeare puzzle series Ash and I have been working on. The Tragedies, how fitting.
“Oh, you are alive. I wasn’t sure.”
I ignore her bitchy sarcasm until she picks up a pillow and throws it at the back of my head.
“What the hell is going on?”
“Why are you breaking into my house?” I grouse.
“I don’t know.” I hear her kick off her shoes and climb over the back of my couch, sitting to my left. “Maybe because you won’t answer my calls? Maybe because I went to your office today and everyone looked like someone had died?”
I abandon my search for the black and start working on the tree area instead. “Everything is fine.”
“Are you delusional?”
“I fucked up, okay? I fucked up my life, and there’s nothing I can do but wait and see how it all works out.”
“What happened?”
Folding my arms on the table in front of me, I rest my forehead on my forearms, staring down at my crisscrossed legs. “We went to Seattle. Stephen said if I didn’t go back to work for him, he was going to fuck with my career. He told me Ash was using me. That he pulled all of our publications because Ash’s grant made him realize how much money the university could make if they monetized my work. And I-I freaked out. And blamed Ash. And he left me. Then Gail fired me.”
Tears roll down my face, so I press my eyes into my arm.
Pru doesn’t say anything, so I look over my shoulder and she looks down at me, a little stunned.
I sniffle, sit up, and look for a piece that has leaves on one half and the night sky on the other.
“I-I think you’ve stunned me.”
“I know, it’s a lot.”
We sit in silence for a while.
“Why were you fired?”
Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I shrug.
“Seattle State’s lawyers sent a letter to West Layfette lawyers claiming IP infringement. Gail put me on administrative leave while they investigate.”
“So, you’re not fired.”
“Well, not yet.”
“What did Ash say?”
Picking up a black piece, I absently try to fit it into the sky on the table. This part feels impossible. “He didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t say anything because I didn’t tell him. We got into a fight, and he went back to Boston. I didn’t tell him.”
Pru growls. “Why?”
“Because I was freaking out and I didn’t know he had worked with Stephen, and it felt too familiar.” I hate how stupid it sounds when I say it out loud.
“Okay, you go shower. Where are your keys? I’m going to order food, and we’re going to figure this shit out.”
“What?”
“Go shower. You stink of sadness, and I can’t look at the back of your head for another second. I need your keys because Tony’s definitely not going to let me back into your place.” She finds them in a little bowl on my counter, then turns back to me, pointing a finger.
“Shower. I’ll be back.”
I’ve lost executive function, so I follow orders, standing under too-hot water until it runs out, then changing into comfy clothes when I’m done.
When I step out of the bathroom, I’m greeted with the smell of burnt sage, cedar, and pizza. Walking through my bedroom to the living room, I find Pru walking around my apartment, waving a smoking smudge stick. Every window and cupboard in the apartment is open, and she waves me forward.
“Almost done. Go ahead and sit on the couch and imagine all of your bullshit drifting out of the windows with this smoke.”
I’ve learned after almost ten years of friendship to just go with it, so I do what she says, watching as she stalks into my bedroom and then settles on the couch in front of me, extinguishing the smoking herbs into a little wood bowl filled with soil.
“Okay, B. Are you ready?”
“For what?”
“It’s time—” she pauses dramatically— “for the tough love.”
I shake my head because I’m a coward. “No thanks.”
“Just imagine ripping the bandaid off.” She shifts her head from side to side like she’s weighing her words. “Okay, imagine the bandaid is covered in duct tape, and underneath the bandaid is that sticky blackhead sucking charcoal stuff. You have a lot to atone for.”
“So, imagine you’re going to rip the skin off my face.”
“I never said tough love wasn’t painful.” She thrusts out her hands, palms up in front of me, and I gingerly place my palms against hers.
“Good.” She nods in approval. “Now, deep breath.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“You’re ready.”
“Okay,” I whimper and pretend my chin isn’t wobbling.
She squeezes my hands for comfort. “Bernadette Ruth Bader Ginsburg Murphy –”
“That is not my middle name.”
“Bernadette Harriet Martineau Murphy–”
I snort, but she continues.
“It’s time for you to stop playing the victim.”
“What?” I protest.
“Don’t interrupt me.” She clears her throat and wiggles on the cushion. “Once upon a time, there was a brilliant serious girl, and she fell in love with someone she shouldn’t have. He treated her like shit and made her question if she was capable of her dreams.”
I sniffle, and she squeezes my hands.
“He hurt you, B and you’ve been healing from that. But…you’ve also lost yourself a bit and became so focused on what you think you can no longer have that you’ve lost sight of what you actually have.”
“That’s not fair. He–”
“Tough love,” she says sternly, and I clench my teeth.
“You’ve been so focused on what Stephen did that you haven’t even entertained the possibility that that path wasn’t even something you really wanted.”
“What?”
Pru clears her throat loudly, and I shut my mouth.
“You’re a brilliant researcher, but a terrible teacher. You hate all of the committees that Gail has made you sit on, and a tenure-track job will make you miserable. And, if you were really honest with yourself, you’d realize that you hate academic publishing. Think about how happy you were working on the white paper versus the years it takes to get a stupid journal article off the ground. If you even thought about it for five minutes, you’d realize that. Being a tenure-track professor is not your dream. Your dream has always been to discover, and you let some asshole take that away from you and misshape it. You got a little turned around in the positivist capitalist bullshit of someone who should never have been your supervisor or your boyfriend.” Pru clears her throat again. “But my beautiful, gloomy friend, I’m here to tell you that your worth as a person isn’t connected to the bullshit journal articles you write.”
She pauses to let her words sink in. Her hands squeeze mine.
“Because you are so – much – more .” She enunciates every word, and I feel each one in my chest. “You’re a deeply caring friend who will spend two hours on YouTube to learn how to wear a ring-sling to help a new mother. You’re dedicated to making those around you healthier by running your local bike club and getting other women involved in a sport they might otherwise have known nothing about. You’re always willing to help me write my literature reviews. You’re a bit of a loner and spend too much time hunched over coffee tables putting together puzzles, but you always make room for one more. And despite the objective worthlessness of your academic work and its ability to change the world, you are absolutely worthy of love from a man like Ashish Mishra.”
I sniffle and clutch her hands.
Tough love hurts.
“It’s okay, B, we’re almost there. Are you ready?”
I nod glumly.
“Bernadette Dorothy Smith Murphy, it’s time to pull your beautiful head out of your ass and take stock of the opportunity before you. You are talented and can work anywhere you want. If you want to work here, then put on your big girl pants, get a lawyer, and stop letting Stephen ruin this career you think you want. As for Ash–”
Pru ducks her head until I look her in the eyes.
“Ashish Mishra is a Texas-sized cinnamon roll, and you absolutely deserve him. He wrote a grant and won five million dollars because you gave him an idea. He goes downtown. He wrote the only two universities you’ve worked at in his grant so he could meet you. “
“He cited me,” I warble, and Pru scoffs.
“He cited you. He moved to Indiana and wooed the shit out of you. Ashish Mishra is the gooey center of a cinnamon roll with extra frosting, and he is crazy stupid in love with you. And if you’re honest with yourself, you love him just as much. You told me months ago that you didn’t have it in you to do this again, and I am here to tell you, you absolutely fucking do. Bernadette Murphy, my sister from another mister, get your fucking life together because no one else is going to do it for you.”
With that mic drop, Pru squeezes my hands and wipes tears from her eyes. She leans forward and gives me a quick hug before leaving me alone with open windows, a smoldering stick of sage, and cold pizza.