Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Which, on that note…
I go to the front door, where Lillian has placed my packages that arrived the day before. I guess I’ll have to make room for some books after all, but not ones about quantum particles. Daphne had put together an astrology for beginners reading list for me, and I’d dutifully ordered every last one. I’m just beginning to take them out of their boxes when the phone I’ve shoved into the back pocket of my jeans buzzes.
I pull it out, and—I’m not proud of this—I very nearly silence the thing and put it right back into my pocket.
Instead, I take a breath, find the nearest bottle of wine, and…
“Hi, Mom!”
She lets out a tiny, disappointed sigh, as though I didn’t quite nail my greeting. It was probably too enthusiastic.
“Miranda. I’m surprised you picked up. Isn’t today moving day?”
“Why do you say that in the same tone that someone might say D-day?” I ask, even though I already know.
Aunt Lillian and my mom are like two magnets with the south poles facing one another. No amount of pushing will ever make them connect. And believe me, I’ve tried.
I get along with my mother, more or less. I get along with Lillian. Which makes me their only common ground.
My mother is a mathematics professor at Harvard. It sounds a little cliché, but her idea of a thrilling night off is a cup of her blueberry tea and a documentary series about code breakers. Lillian, on the other hand, carries a flask in her purse, tucked alongside a pack of cigarillos and her beloved Harlequin romance novel of the month. And she only likes “the good and smutty ones.”
“I understand that your newly unemployed status leaves you essentially homeless. What I can’t understand is why you’d choose to retreat to your aunt’s… realm, rather than come home to Boston where your family can rally around you and help you get back on your feet.”
“I am on my feet, Mom. I’m just taking a sabbatical. A perfectly normal, and encouraged, part of the academic process.”
“A sabbatical is meant to reinvigorate one’s academic rigor, not neglect it completely for some ancient pseudoreligion.”
I’m pouring myself a nice glass of wine, and with that last statement, I give myself an extra splash.
“You talked to Jamie,” I say, resigned.
I have two older brothers: Brian, a chemistry professor at Yale, and Jamie, a microbiologist at Boston College. I adore them both, but I’m a little closer to Jamie in both age and temperament. Brian is a sweetheart deep down; it’s just buried beneath a thick layer of intensity and a fondness for pontificating, especially to his younger sister. Jamie is more personable, and easier to talk to. He’d been the first in my family to break the ice after hearing about my job, and in gratitude, I’d found myself confessing to him about the Horoscope Project.
I’d also asked him not to tell a soul. A request that had apparently been ignored.
“Astrology, Miranda? You yourself have been very vocal about its impossibility.”
“Implausibility,” I say, correcting her. “There’s a difference.”
After a stiff pause, she says, “Yes, dear. I am aware. My point is, we both know that celestial bodies aren’t up there plotting your and my life. I realize you’ve had a setback, but this isn’t the way—”
I interrupt. “Why didn’t you call?”
There’s another pause, this one surprised. “When?”
“After I texted you guys saying that I didn’t get tenure. Why did nobody call? Not for weeks, and even when Jamie set up the group FaceTime on Father’s Day.”
“Well, to your point, it was Father’s Day, dear. I hardly think your dad’s ideal day involved revisiting your… misstep?”
I know it’s coming, but it still stings. “My misstep,” I repeat carefully, taking a tiny sip of wine. “You do realize that I did nothing wrong, right? Other than being more famous than my colleagues?
“And you know what?” I add, warming up to my subject. “Even if I was wrong, even if I was a colossal screwup, you’re my mom.”
“Of course I am!” To her credit, she sounds both surprised and upset that I’m upset. “What is it you needed that I didn’t provide?”
I exhale, because it’s one of those things where if it has to be explained, it misses the point entirely.
“I don’t know, Mom,” I say tiredly. “I guess I was just hoping for… support.”
“Exactly!” Her voice lights up. “That’s what we want to do, honey. It’s why I think you should come home. Your dad and brothers and I can try calling in some favors. I’m sure there are some guest lecturing opportunities…”
My sip of wine is much bigger this time. “Mom. I appreciate that you mean well, but I don’t want to be the family’s sad little charity case. I’m not even sure I want to be around the collegiate world anymore.”