Chapter Text
“Come on, synak, you have to stay,” my mother begs with her pretty Slovak accent.
Despite the irresistible scent of the buffet my sister and Mom prepared, along with its mouthwatering visual, I dread this day every year.
They all know how I feel about this. How important it is for me to remember him the right way. And these moments, which should bring joy and proximity within our family, only remind me how wrong our lives have become.
“I hate it when you do that,” she adds, disappearing into the kitchen to open cabinets for yet a little bit more food.
In the corner of my eye, I see Elena snatch some Lokše. My stomach gurgles.
“Do what?” I ask.
“Look at me with your big brown eyes and hope I’ll get tired enough to wait for an answer.” She comes back to the dining room, hardly covering the smile on her lips.
“They’re hazel,” I correct her, grasping a piece of Vyprážaný syr my sister gives me behind my mother’s back.
“What?” she blabs, turning around after placing the napkins next to the plates. I try my best not to chew, but my cheeks are stuffed, and she immediately notices. Her stare could destroy matter. Dissect molecules. Bombard atoms.
I place my hand over her arm in an act of peace and give her a gentle squeeze. “The color of my eyes. They’re hazel. Same as yours.”
Except for that, and the shape of my nose, the rest I inherited from my father. Dark, bushy eyebrows matching my hair. Large hands and bones. Sharp, masculine features.
“Katarina, love, let him go if he prefers.”
Speaking of the devil.
Stefan enters the room like he would in court. His casual, imposing presence always instilled fear in me as a child. But now, I only feel exhaustion.
“Hello, father.”
“You are wasting everyone’s time,” he says, watching me as though I’m a stain on his shirt. “Choose.”
I wish I could.
Spending time with my family is probably the best option to “waste time.” Elena’s energy might be too much to handle sometimes, but my mother’s tenderness usually resolves the trouble that befalls us. And Stefan is often the trouble in question.
I know, deep down, that he only wants the best for me and my academic future.
Maybe a bit too much on the latter and not enough on the former.
My happiness, or my well-being, frequently subsides to other subjects. “Have you talked to Dr. Krelic?” he demands, sitting at the table first.
Katarina and Elena follow, and I’m now forced to join the party as well.
My work at the university is one of those subjects. The advancement of my medical article, which has been waiting on my desk, is another. He’d also love to elaborate on my promotion as a research professor, but I don’t see that happening in the near future. For now, I’ll have to stick with Lecturer, despite my PhD and the promise of my former advisor, Isabella, for an opportunity at Tufts’ labs.
Because, after four years, all I’ve won is more classes to teach and not another single word on that damn article.
My chance of ever reaching my goal is thinning by the second. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to; Dr. Krelic has been retired for a year. I thought I told you that.”
His expression remains stoic, as if he’s not listening. “You didn’t.”
I did. But there’s no point in arguing with this man. I’ve never met someone as stubborn as him.
Both my sister and my mother watch the conversation in silence. They eat, surely just as tired as I am from hearing the same things over and over again.
“You know,” Stefan insists. “Your lack of publications isn’t helping. How’s your article coming along?”
“Good,” I lie. Mentally checking another box. Tonight is not the proper moment to speak of this. I don’t have it in me. “You’ll be the first to know when it’s finished.”
“I hope so.” He chews one, two, three times, swallows, and then points at me with his knife. “If you don’t put yourself out there, show your worth, nobody’s ever going to hire you. This isn’t about diplomas anymore. They need to be on their knees for what you could offer to the science field.”
Talking like a true shark of a lawyer.
These words, I’ve told myself in the past already. Unfortunately, they got buried alongside my motivation under Anxiety and Fear of Failure. What Stefan seems to forget is that I’m not the only one (unconsciously) working against my dream. I wish I could just snap my fingers and magically get to where I need to be: advancing science and finding cures. Some aspects are beyond me. Above me, really. And it answers to the name Clark Haynes.
“You have a reputation at Tufts,” my father continues, and the tone he employs reminds me of the numerous scolds I got as a kid. His expensive watch clinks while he dabs on his lips with his napkin.
I serve myself some more Lokse. “Oh yeah?” I say, not bothering to conceal my annoyance.
“They say you are rude. Rough.” He waits, letting the silence simmer amid the clatter of cutlery and the sounds of mastication. Could he be hesitating to avoid hurting my feelings? “They say you are unqualified.”
My mother interrupts in Slovak. I don’t recognize the words, but I get their meaning. Elena has stopped eating.
“I always speak to him like this,” Stefan answers, squeezing his wife’s hand.
Elena leans my way and murmurs while our parents continue bickering on the side. “And it works, apparently.”
I shoot her a wink, and she laughs.
“No need to fight over me again,” I state when their voices start to rise, the loud noise of my chair enough to draw their attention. “They would have fired me if I weren’t qualified, Dad. They’ve asked that I take over Dr. Felandra’s courses while she’s on maternity leave.”
He nods while I grab my sweater from the backrest of the chair. They all follow when I reach for the entrance and the coat hanger. “I have much to do,” I add.
“Alright, son. You can do it.” He admits, giving me one of his rough hugs. He won’t apologize for his behavior, as he doesn’t even realize what he did. But I trust Mom will give him a piece of her mind, at least. “Just keep us updated.”
“Of course.” I take Elena by the neck and shove her into my chest. “Talk to you later, sis. And good luck for your first day.”
“You say that as if we won’t see each other there.”
“We’ll cross paths, probably.”
She will also be starting her year at Tufts University, only in the Engineering department.
“Give me a kiss,” mother says, and I bend for her to smash a peck on my cheek. “Take care.”
“Thanks for dinner,” I answer.
‡
It takes a bit too much time to understand what’s happening when my alarm rings.
I find myself on the couch with a nasty headache and a numb right arm in the same position I was in the night before, when I finally found a decent movie to settle in front of.
My heart is pounding in my ears, and my brain threatens to flee from my skull.
On the small table, there’s my phone blasting the ringtone, my socks (that I most likely took off in my sleep), and my glass of Tatratea I poured myself when I got home from my parents’. By the smell, I hadn’t chosen the lighter one. Which can only mean one thing: my capacity to handle alcohol has improved.
Not that it’s a good thing.
As I watch the clock, I’m not late—yet, but I need to shower, brush my teeth, change my clothes, and prepare my briefcase with all the papers needed for the start of the new year in about thirty minutes.
When I hop in my car, I have about five minutes left and a twenty-minute drive. Unlikely doable.
While I finally arrive, Caroline, the woman at reception, grins with her perfect white teeth. “Well, Doctor Miller, I see you are right on time.” She’s playing, obviously, but I give no signs of stress.
“These reunions always start late. And I’ve heard the speech four times already.”
She shakes her head, amused at my excuse. “Have you been spending extra time in the bathroom for the new professor, Alexej?” She pronounces my name right, which is the main reason why we continued to exchange as regular people do. Caroline had always acted like an attentive friend.
That news just popped out of nowhere.
She comes back to her chair, high enough for her to see past the counter. I play with my rings on my fingers. “What are you talking about?”
“We have a new professor.” Her smile gives me a weird impression. A strange sensation in my stomach.
“Are they replacing someone?” I ask, suddenly afraid that the classes I've been asked to cover, additional funding for the year, and possibly my dream position, have just been reassigned.
“He isn’t. He’s here for a semester.”
The loudspeaker calls my name, and we immediately stop talking. “Dr. Miller to room 15-04. Dr Miller, room 15-04.” I grab my briefcase from the counter and throw it over my shoulder. “Nice seeing you, Caroline.”
“Wait! You have…” She gestures for me to lean forward, and her thumb strokes my cheek in harsh movements. “A bit of toothpaste.”
“Thanks.” It seems I should have spent less time inspecting the cut and bump on my nose.
We give each other a wave before I depart.
As I get close to the room, I see the door already open, with most of my colleagues inside. Only the School of Arts and Sciences is represented here, but the department already possesses a fair number of professors and doctors. I can name so few of them. Reciprocally.
While squatting to grab the piece of paper that fell from my hands, the dean’s voice exclaims, “Ah! Doctor Miller!”
“Yes,” Both me and someone behind me say.
I’ve never liked that name.
Didn’t like it at ten, when we arrived in the US, and I don’t like it much more now, twenty-two years later. But apparently, nobody here could pronounce my real name properly. So, my father searched for the closest translation of our last name and chose the seventh most common one in the US. An estimated population of more than one million and one hundred Millers.
We look at each other. He’s just a little bit smaller than I am. And the first thing that sweeps me like a slap in the face is his scent.
I’ve always had a particular connection to smells. I could easily recognize what my mother was cooking from my bedroom back in Slovakia, or guess when my father had mowed the lawn. It also has a downside: people’s perfume is frequently a problem, as they like to hammer the sprayer so much that they become a walking bottle on their own.
His is subtle. He smells like clean clothes and fruity shower gel. His hair is combed, and the path his fingers took to apply the wax is still visible, giving him this effortless look everyone seeks. His eyes are dark, specks of gold inside a pool of profound brown, and I don’t know how many seconds we stay like this, facing each other, scrutinizing the little details, but at some point, my superior clears his throat, and the spell is broken. “Doctor Andrew Miller, please, come in.”
Andrew Miller.
Another Miller.
One of the millions and hundreds of Millers.
Like me.
He gives me a very nice smile, one that says very pleased to meet you, politely and impartially. Everyone sits down, Andrew Miller close to the dean, to his right, to be precise, and he… snorts? Who is this guy?
“I would like to introduce you, Doctor Miller. He was a professor here a few years ago, before he specialized as a researcher in contemporary art and scientific forms of non-verbal expressions.”
The others nod with large grins on their faces. Andrew is very calm, his hands crossed on the table, watching each of the teachers with attention. Too much attention.
“He accepted,” the dean resumes, “after what some might call harassment on my part, to teach a few classes for the following semester on the subject of synergology.”
And I’m the one who snorts.
His eyes automatically fall into mine, but I keep my condescending smile on. Synergology isn’t a science. It lacks rigor, multiplies misdiagnoses, and misleads, hurting families into believing whatever these charlatans would invent to pretend they understand medicine as real scientists do.
I’m grinning, but really, my blood has started to boil. For four years, I have taught at this institution and worked on real matters like autoimmune diseases and cancer, and nobody has given me the chance to show all that I am capable of. Still, this man has been implored to present his completely stupid and irrelevant non-science? I have to be dreaming. This is a nightmare.
Please, wake me up.
“That’s right,” Andrew says, with a honey-coated voice, eyes fixated on my face. He stays silent just a second too long, and everyone around readjusts in their seats. Is he hesitating? Did he finally understand this was a terrible idea and he should just abandon it? Go back to whatever his research is about?
My father’s words come back like a punch in the stomach. Rude.
I’m the one who breaks the glance.
“I’ve been… pondering on the idea a while now, but I ultimately accepted.” He turns toward the dean and rests his hand on his shoulder. “No harassment here, don’t worry about it.”
They both chuckle, and I really wonder what is happening. I cross my arm over my chest and sigh, not too loud, but he caught on because his focus darts to me once more. “In an Art and Science institution like this one, I imagined it was the best place to introduce synergology. Some of you might be skeptical, and I understand.”
I pretend my rings on my fingers are more interesting than his burning gaze over me.
Andrew continues. “I gladly invite these people to join me for the first lectures. They might change their mind.”
I know I won’t.
Change my mind or attend his class. But I still nod, finally glance back up, and he still hasn’t looked away. Is there something else on my face? Did a pimple appear from Caroline’s cubicle to this meeting room? Am I a black hole?
“I’m sure they will,” the dean answers and begins his usual speech.
Andrew’s attention remains solely on me, and I hate it. Hate that he’s using his so-called specialty to scan every single pore of my being. Hate that the more I meet his gaze, the more information I might be giving away, but I just cannot fail and lose to this man. I won’t allow it.
He’s amused by my skepticism. It’s written all over his face. The specialist of synergology is an open book, how funny is that? I don’t need a PhD and a lab to read people’s minds. It’s either sex, love, money, food, or all of the above. Humans are simple.
Could this be over yet? It’s been many years since I’ve had a smoke, but these kinds of reunions could make me give up and light one.
“I hope this year will present great opportunities for you all, and as you all are aware now…”
“Your door is always open,” everybody responds, some with more energy than the rest. I stay quiet. I’ve lost my appetite for opportunities.
“Also, as we have two Doctor Millers now, we will be adding their first name for better clarity. Is that alright with you, Alexej?” The dean smiles at me.
He pronounces the J like in the word jeans, which pisses me off more than I would care to admit. “Perfect,” I respond, grinding my teeth.
“Andrew?” he adds, watching his new pretty protégé with glowing eyes. The latter nods, his even more glowing smile stretching his thin lips, draped with a three-day mustache and beard.
We clap and stand up. Mr. Haynes and Dr. Andrew Miller shake hands, blabbering about something I can’t make out from where I am, and exchanging like they’ve been around each other for twenty years. Are they from the same family? Has he been favored because of an obscure reason? Did he blackmail the dean?
“Do you need something, Alexej?” The dean cuts my train of thought.
My mispronounced name loops inside my head.
Oh, but I need several things, actually. I need you to stop this forsaken nonsense, pretending that this year is like any other after everything that you and Isabella promised me. I need to swipe that smug smile off this person on your right, because he has no right being here. I need to be out of teaching. I need time for the things I really enjoy in life, and not throw away the time that I have now. I need my father to understand that I’ve lost my spark because of people like you, who stand between me and my future. And I definitely need to smoke.
Andrew is meticulously listening, and it’s almost like he’s heard everything. But he can’t. He’s not in my head. Yet his features betray a hint of pity. And I hate him even more for it.
“No, Mr. Haynes. Good day.”
As I turn around and leave the room, I swear to myself that I’ll ensure we never see each other again.