“That’s why we’re doing the work here. Because one day, you’re going to meet someone worth bringing down your walls for and taking that risk.”
If you say so, Doc. I don’t know why I get so defensive with Dr. Kassen when I’m the one seeking her help. Truthfully, Iwantthese things. I don’t want to be alone, but I’ve dug myself into a hole so deep I just can’t see a way to climb out. I just don’t know how to let myself be happy without the crippling fear of life pulling the rug from under me. I know I’ve put walls up, and those walls are crushing me.
Dr. Kassen puts her notebook down on the end table beside her.
“That’s enough for today. We’ll pick this up again next time.”
It astounds me how Dr. Kassen can get a rise from me, and then just halt the conversation and send me on my way. I know I’ll stew and gnaw on this revelation all week like a dog with a bone. I grab my jacket and bag sitting on the sofa beside me, huffing in annoyance to myself.
She gets up from her seat and strides over to her desk as I reach the door.
“Oh, and Ali? Do try to have some fun this week. Maybe step outside your comfort zone a bit?”
I roll my eyes and laugh, with my hand grasping the door frame. “We’ll see about that.”
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 totryto 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 aboutsomething. 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.
