Love, Theoretically

In the major motion picture of my life—a low-budget slapstick tragicomedy—Dr. Christophe Laurendeau’s role would be played by one of those old-school French actors who often star in Cece’s movies. He shouldn’t be hard to cast: a long-faced man who looks at once stern and wise, wears only turtlenecks, and never stops being handsome, not even in the tail end of his sixties, when his hair goes ash gray and his skin wrinkles into sandpaper. His office smells like chamomile tea and old books, and whenever I’m here (daily for the five years of my Ph.D., weekly since I graduated), he does the same thing: unfolds his tall, razor-thin frame from behind his desk and instructs, like it’s my first time on the Northeastern campus, “Sit down, please. In that green chair.” His English is never anything but perfect, even if his accent is still Disney strong. “How are you, Elise?”

It’s something I learned not to wince at, the way he always uses the wrong name. In Dr. L.’s defense, he called me Elise on our first meeting, and I never bothered to correct him. I did consider asking him to switch to Elsie when he took me out for dinner after I defended my dissertation, but I chickened out.

Aside from Cece, Dr. L. was the only human being who acknowledged me getting my Ph.D.—a matter of circumstances, I tell myself. After the Smith-Turner hoax almost killed his career, I was his first mentee in many years, which meant no close labmates. The theoretical physics research group at Northeastern was not quite fond enough of women in STEM to celebrate one. And my family . . . They couldn’t make the two-hour drive because of Lance’s adult league game—and, likely, because I never fully managed to convey to them what grad school is, though Mom once asked if I was done with that paper I had to turn in (i.e., my dissertation), which I took as a win.

So Dr. L. took me out to a fancy restaurant, just the two of us, where the hostess gave me an inquisitive Daughter, granddaughter, or sugar baby? look. And when he looked at me over a dinner that cost half my rent and said, “You carried yourself well, Elise. I am proud of you,” the rare spark of initiative died out. If I had Dr. L.’s approval, he could call me whatever he liked.

And that’s the story of my doctoral work: bookended by someone else’s name.

Elise, I’ve come to believe, is the Elsie that Dr. L. wants—a brilliant theoretical physicist with an illustrious job that will garner her the admiration of the scientific community—and while she might not be who I am, she’s who I want to be.

Too bad that her existence is antithetical to this other guy’s.

“Jonathan Smith-Turner.” Dr. L.’s mouth is a thin line. His eyes, hurt. “A disgrace.”

I nod.

“The likes of him taint physics and academia.”

I nod again.

“It is apparent what needs to be done.”

More nodding, in full agreement.

“Clearly, you must withdraw your application.”

Hang on. Maybe not full agreement. “Withdraw . . . my application?”

“I cannot allow you to work in the same department as that animal.”

“But I . . .” I squirm and lean forward in the chair. So much for elegance and poise. “I need the job.”

“You have a job.”

“I cannot adjunct for one more year.”

“But you are an adjunct professor. You should be proud of your current employment.”

Throughout my Ph.D., I expected to graduate and then move on to a research-only position. Those tend to come with better pay than adjuncts, health insurance, and a blessedly low number of student emails claiming the sixth grandparent’s death of the semester. As someone with . . . whatever the opposite of a calling for teaching is, it seemed like a no-brainer. My passion, my joy, my talent—they all fit into three simple words: two-dimensional liquid crystals.

Laurendeau was against it, saying that research-only positions are not prestigious enough. I initially disagreed (who cares about prestige if I can do what I love and purchase pancreatic hormones?) and for a while worried that he wouldn’t help me find the kind of job I wanted. Professorships aside, most academic postings are not advertised online, but obtained through professional networks of peers and advisors. In the end, it didn’t turn out to be an issue: Dr. L. said that he respected my wishes and reached out widely to all his colleagues to let it be known that I was looking for a research position.

Not one person was interested in hiring me. And when no tenure-track professorship was available, either . . .

“I used my connections to find you your current jobs, Elise,” he tells me, eyes full of concern. “Are you having issues with them?”

I’m instantly swimming in guilt. Dr. L. pulled strings. He called up old colleagues—reached out to people who turned their backs to him after the Smith-Turner censure. Swallowed his pride for me. “No! The commute between different campuses is time consuming, but . . .” I start biting into my cuticles, then remember that I stopped three years ago. With the help of Cece and a spray bottle. “But nice. The variety.” I smile.

He smiles back, pleased, and I feel a heady sense of relief and affection. Dr. L. is my one ally in the Red Riding Hood forest of academia. If it weren’t for him, I’d never have gotten into grad school to begin with. My heart squeezes as I remember senior year of college. My low grades. My mediocre GRE scores blinking on the screen, and the knowledge that I couldn’t afford to retake it. J.J.’s careless “Hey, what’s up?” whenever we crossed paths.

I remember the sense of dread I felt compiling my applications and sending them to fourteen—fourteen—schools, and then, over the following weeks, the weight sinking in my stomach, centimeter after centimeter. Other students were being flown out for on-campus interviews, and my email pinged with nothing but spam and Mom’s requests that I take care of my brothers.

It was the shortest winter of my life, and yet it crawled at a snail’s pace till the end of February, when I finally knew that it just wouldn’t happen. Becoming a physicist was the only thing I ever wanted, and it would never come true because of a stupid mistake.

Until Christophe Laurendeau contacted me.

“I was going through some . . . personal issues,” I told him during our first meeting, hoping to explain the dip in my grades. “Just relationship stuff.”

“I see.” He assessed me, inscrutable. “I trust that everything is resolved.”

“It is. For good.” No more relationships, I hoped he would read between the lines, and when he nodded with a pleased smile, I thought maybe he had.

“Theoretical physics, if pursued seriously, is hardly compatible with . . . personal issues.”

It sounded good to me. Ever since learning that the universe is subject to rules that can be described and understood, I’d had one dream. One constant, throughout the iterations of Elsies I carefully constructed for others. If it weren’t for Dr. L., I’d be left without it, and that’s why I’ll forever trust him.

But paying for insulin out of pocket for one more year . . .

“Elise, it is my responsibility to look out for you,” he’s saying, voice full of worry. “You deserve better than to work with Jonathan Smith-Turner—”

“He’s not in the Physics Department,” I blurt out. It is, technically, the truth.

Dr. L. squints. “What do you mean?”

“Ja—he’s the head of the Physics Institute. He’s . . . barely part of the search. I might never meet him again.” I wrap a hand around a green armrest. Okay, this one’s a lie. But small. A lielet.

“I see.” He nods silently, fingers stroking his chin. “In that case . . .”

I’ll forever trust Laurendeau with my career, but his salary is six figures. He hasn’t taken a bus since the late eighties, and I bet the credenzas in his house are all neatly assembled.

“Do not withdraw, then. But be careful. You know what that man did,” he admonishes. The Smith-Turner Affair is, surprisingly, not a taboo topic. Laurendeau is nothing but open about his contempt. “If I hadn’t been tenured, I would have lost my faculty position. And he nearly destroyed my reputation. If it hadn’t been for him, I would have been awarded grants in the past sixteen years. I would have had the funds to keep you here, working with me.”

One more reason to hate Jack. My jaw sets. “I know.”

“Very well, Elise,” Laurendeau says, holding my eyes a little too intensely. “Now that I think about it, you winning the position over his handpicked candidate might be an opportunity in disguise.”

“An opportunity?”

He slowly breaks into a smile. “For revenge.”