Page 72 of Given Our History

I spend Friday washing bedsheets, Swiffering the hardwood floors, and scrubbing the grout on the countertops, as though Izzy’s going to march in here tomorrow and immediately swipe the nearest surface to inspect it for dust. I’m pretty sure I could live in a hovel, for all the difference it would make to her, but it helps keep my mind off things. Thick snowflakes whirl beyond the kitchen window as I toss empty bottles of salad dressing and overripe fruits from the fridge. The weather hasn’t relented since this afternoon; there’s five inches on the ground and counting, unusual for December in Maryland, but there are no signs of it stopping.

As terrible as I feel admitting it, I wish I hadn’t promised to pick Izzy up from the airport tomorrow morning. It’s all just been … a lot, the past couple of days. I didn’t hear from Teddy all day yesterday—not that I blame him. We left things where we’ve pretty much always left them: inconclusive. Except I know that if I let him walk out of my life again, this time he won’t come back.

Maybe I’m letting my stubbornness get the best of me. It’s not like he’s asking me to move closer to Pittsburgh, rewrite my entire life. On the contrary, he’s offering to follow wherever I go. Some would call that romantic. Izzy certainly would. Maybe a love like that is wasted on me. I never sat around dreaming about meeting my soulmate, falling in love. Maybe that’s because I met the only person for me when I was fourteen. Love never had to be added to my list of never-ending goals because it was just … already there. A constant in my life, something I took for granted, and I didn’t quite appreciate it until it was long gone.

When my phone chimes in my pocket, I straighten up in the middle of wiping out the bottom shelf of the refrigerator to check it. But it’s not Teddy. It’s an email from Julien, and the subject line makes my stomach bottom out.

From: Julien Zabini ([email protected])

To: Clara Fernsby ([email protected])

Date: December 13, 6:12 P.M.

Subject: Tenure Decision Letter

Clara,

Attached is the decision letter from the tenure advisory board. I know it’s not quite what we hoped for, but it’s not all bad. Let’s discuss.

J

I take a long and measured breath. Okay. Sounds like they rejected me. I can’t say I didn’t have time to prepare myself for this, but I’m feeling a little nauseated anyway. I open the letter, because why not? Better to get it all over with at once. It’s a PDF file, the letter emblazoned with the university crest:

Professor Clara Fernsby, History Department

University of Irving

1200 E Richmond Ave

Irving, MD 21532

Dear Clara,

I am writing as a follow-up to our meeting on Wednesday. I’d like to thank you once again for taking the time to meet with us and your patience in answering our questions.

I scoff at this, because I don’t think I was all that patient. I was pretty short with them, actually. But I keep on reading.

I regret to share that opinion was divided in regard to your application for tenure, with the majority feeling that your application was premature. While we are immensely grateful for your contributions to our university, particularly your growing collection of published works and your extradepartmental activities, we ultimately felt that your overall relevant experience was lacking. This opinion was conveyed to the president, who elected not to move forward with your case for tenure.

We would, however, like to invite you to apply for an associate professor opening for the upcoming academic year. I’d also invite you to reapply for tenure again once you’ve reached the seven-year mark; while your career shows promise, the committee is in agreement that we’d like to see a couple of years’ more experience under your belt before considering your application again.

Warm regards,

Andrew Greene, Ph.D.

Chair

Tenure Advisory Committee

I kneel in front of the refrigerator, scanning the letter again. It’s not unheard of for assistant professors to be offered a slightly better position in lieu of tenure, but I’m not even sure they’re offering—just inviting me to apply. I wait to feel something. Indignation, maybe. But I’m numb.

It was always a long shot, securing tenure so early in my career. I don’t resent them for denying me. I don’t resent Julien for encouraging me to apply. I don’t feel anything. It’s as though suddenly, out of the blue, the thing I’ve put first for my entire life—my career, my professional reputation, my future—it doesn’t matter to me either way.

Reagan skirts around me as she enters the kitchen, tossing me an odd look. She grabs a mug from one of the overhead cupboards and fills it beneath the tap. “What’s the matter with you?”

I glance over at her. “They rejected my application for tenure.” It comes out sounding so calm, measured. I stuff my phone back in my pocket and drag myself to my feet, collecting the sponge and spray bottle of disinfectant that I was using to clean out the fridge. I set them on the counter.

Reagan tracks my movement. “I’m sorry,” she says after a minute. It’s uncharacteristically gentle, coming from her. But then she adds, “They’re a bunch of fucking fossils.”