Glimpse Time Travel: Enemy Of Mine Part 30

Erva held her hand over her heart, wanting to hang up on her mother, but this new approach kept her off her balance. She didn't know what to expect. So she stayed on the line.

"I-I don't know whether I am a Narcissist, because I hate that word, but I know I did the things that it listed from the book. I did bad things to you after your father died. h.e.l.l, I did them when he was alive too, but it got a lot worse after he died. I lied to you all the time. I screamed at you. I was so jealous of you. I told you your father had cheated on me when I knew he never had. I hated how you went to him when you were hurt, but also I didn't blame you."

G.o.d, this was more painful than Erva thought she could bear.

Judith continued though. "I was too busy getting my hair styled or out shopping. I hated how your father was more your mother than I was. And I took my hatred out on you and your father. I was cold to him while he was alive. I'll never get that time back, because he's dead. And I hated myself for being so mean to him while he was alive. But then I turned all that hatred toward you. Again."

Tear after tear kept falling from Erva's eyes. She couldn't stop it.

"I forced you to play the piano and sing," Judith said. "I know I forced you by manipulating you, telling you you'd never get married if you didn't. I knew I was being cruel, but I didn't stop. It just kept getting worse over the years. I kept saying crazier and crazier things, telling you men would never love you, but always I wondered if I would ever find love again. Worse than that, I didn't understand how your father could have loved me. I still don't understand that. I was awful. Look, I know I'm pretty. I still am. You get that from me, except for your blonde hair. And I hated that you got your father's coloring and my good looks. I know I can pa.s.s for forty, when I'm closer to...closer to another age."

"Getting off track, Judith," the calm voice said in the background.

"Oh," Erva's mother panted. "I'm sorry, Erva. I got off track."

Simultaneously, it was one of the most painful moments of Erva's life and one of the most satisfying. Reliving the past through her mother's point of view was always difficult, Erva knew, but going through it with her mother's new found honesty was...G.o.d, there were no words. As much as it broke Erva's heart, it also mended it.

"Erva, sweetie, you still there?"

"Yeah," was all Erva could muster.

"I got off track in so many ways, Erva. I kept trying to find something about myself that was good, and when you'd show up with your perfect grades, perfect hair, even your perfect little teeth it just...a mother shouldn't have ever done the things I did. Said the things I said. I should have taught you how to love yourself. Instead, I think all I taught you was to hate yourself." Then Judith's voice drifted further from the phone. "Did I tell you, Dr. Pete, that my daughter has been in Army intelligence and she has a PhD? Can you believe a child who came from me can do all of that? She's brilliant and beautiful, and she has no clue about either of those traits."

Erva's heart gushed and then quickly st.i.tched itself back together again at the words her mother had just said.

"Then perhaps it's time to tell her, Judith," the voice recommended.

Erva's mother sighed. "Erva, sweetie, you still there?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm here."

A few seconds tripped by before Judith said, "I'm d.a.m.ned proud of you."

Then Erva cried. All over again.

Of course, that was when a loud knock erupted through Erva's apartment. Surprising her for the millionth time during the phone conversation, Judith let her get off the phone without a guilt trip. Except she did say quickly that she could have visitors in two weeks, and if Erva wanted to come down, she could. The therapist said something about being honest and that the trip would also be another therapy session about making amends and apologizing for past deeds. With another loud knock, Erva got off the phone. She didn't wipe her face, thinking it was Ben coming back to paint another wall, when she opened the door.

"Dean Whittaker," Erva whispered as she looked up at her intimidating dean. His gray hair was slicked over with some kind of hair product that Erva wasn't too sure companies made any more-Dippity Do or something from a few generations before her own. He was a couple inches past six feet, and although his time served in the Navy had been decades ago, one could always tell a military man from his erect posture.

"May I come in, Minerva?" It was then that he looked her over as she wiped her face. "Or is this a bad time?" His voice was always gruff, but had softened when he noticed her wet cheeks.

She opened her door wider and ruefully laughed. "If you don't mind my emotional outburst. Sorry. I-"

He walked through her threshold as he extracted a white handkerchief from his gray blazer's interior pocket. It was a courteous enough sign to stave away her tears, instead it reminded her of Will, of when he'd given her his kerchief for her knee, and she found her eyes welling with too much moisture yet again.

"Or should I say emotional outbursts, since I can't seem to stop crying lately. I'm sorry."

He turned around and looked at her light blue faux leather couch and ersatz zebra print rug, the little golden flairs that mixed with the blues, whites, and black throughout the room. "This looks exactly the way I thought it would." He smiled at her. "I can only a.s.sume the tears are because you have some sense of loyalty towards Dr. Peabody, or maybe you feel guilty about what happened?"

"Something happened?"

His green eyes narrowed. "You haven't heard? I a.s.sumed you called in sick because you heard."

"Heard what, sir?"

He inhaled and then gestured toward her new couch. "Maybe it's best if we have a seat."

She rolled her eyes. "Sorry, my manners. I should have-"

"There is no need to apologize."

She nervously motioned toward the couch too and sat opposite him. As far away as she could. Not that the dean made her uncomfortable, but everything seemed to make her feel, well, odd. She was still so raw from Will, from her mom, and now Dr. Whittaker just showed up on her doorstep? What the h.e.l.l?

Not making Erva feel much better, Dean Whittaker gave her a small smile that seemed both nervous and disarming. She didn't know what to make of it, so she sat mute.

"You know, I've been following your career from the time you interviewed, young lady. When I read in your CV that you'd been in the Army, I, of course, took notice. But the fact that your research was about the American Revolution, something I've always wanted to research more myself, I thought you'd be quite a catch for the university."

Erva smiled, thinking of his own CV, how he'd been in the Navy during Vietnam, serving in multiple tours over there, and of his Civil War research. He was also the only other military historian on Harvard's staff.

She wasn't too sure what to say and wanted to broach the topic of Dr. Peabody, but didn't know how. So she, embarra.s.singly, started blabbering. "Thank you. I came to the university because I knew of Dr. Peabody's area of expertise, the political and social aspects of the American Revolution. I thought she would be a perfect supervisor to help me with my dissertation."

He nodded. "I can understand that. But you are a military historian, while she is...not. I had thought at the time I read your CV that the campus was in need of another military historian."

Erva's heart sank at his words, "at the time." Was he saying that the university didn't need her now?

He cleared his throat and looked toward her black lacquered coffee table that looked a bit rock and roll and a bit Out of Africa. "I need to tell you-no, let me start from the beginning." He glanced at her with a noticeable wince. "I might sound like an eavesdropping old man, but I need to tell you everything. About four months ago I overheard you talking to Dr. Peabody about your dissertation. I heard her tell you that you needed to edit it, that it was now too big. Honestly, I had wondered what had happened to your dissertation, since I thought you were to present it a couple years ago. I know things can happen during the last years of one's dissertation. My own took three more years than I expected. But it was then that I realized I hadn't heard anything about yours. Thus, I had the temp secretary, one of the best I've ever had, give me a copy of what you'd tried to give Dr. Peabody."

He scooted a little closer then. "Minerva, your dissertation is perfect, as is."

Erva held her hands over her heart.

Dean Whittaker looked down then. "Of course, everyone could stand to have a few more rounds of edits, but your research is sound and clear and abundant. I've already made plans to usurp Dr. Peabody's role and have called upon other professors to hear your Defense. As I was setting this up, that red-headed temp secretary, showed me an article by Dr. Peabody in a Military Journal. As soon as I read it, I knew it was your work, not hers. Then I realized how greatly Dr. Peabody was abusing her position as your supervisor. Or I thought I did, until I caught you teaching her cla.s.ses."

He was quiet for a long time, his face growing sterner and sterner with every ticking second. Finally, he turned to her, fierce anger in his eyes. "Do I have this correct, Minerva? That you not only are teaching all of Dr. Peabody's cla.s.ses, but she had purposefully tried to keep you from defending your dissertation, as well as she's plagiarized your work?"

Erva looked down at her hands, folded uncomfortably on her lap. "I didn't know about the plagiarism until just a couple days ago. And I thought-I hoped she was trying to help me write the best dissertation I could. But..." she couldn't finish. It would be too humiliating.

"But?"

She looked up at her dean and realized he was here to fire her. By putting up with Dr. Peabody's s.h.i.+t for so long, she looked like an idiot. A pushover idiot, someone who would let another person cheat from her work. A patsy of the worst kind. So why not tell him the humiliating truth? She didn't have anything to lose any more.

As her heart crushed into itself and ground into tiny little fragments the size of sand, she said, "I felt she wasn't doing me any favors, wasn't really helping me."

"Then why on earth did you put up with it?" He huffed.

She could tell him about her mother, how living with a woman who threatened her love daily had messed her up. But who was she kidding? She was an adult. Maybe she should have figured out all this emotional garbage a long time ago, but she hadn't and as a consequence it would suck away her chance at teaching at Harvard. Although she'd realized with Will she wasn't sure she wanted to be a professor, still, it was always nice to have more doors open than shut.

Erva shrugged. "I didn't know what to do."

"You tell me, missy, that's what you do," he yelled. "That's my job. I'm there to protect you."

Erva caved in, her body curving in on itself. The tears flowed immediately.

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry, Minerva. I shouldn't have called you missy. I-I have a daughter your age, and I know that drives her nuts. I-"

But Erva's laugh interrupted what he was going to say. She wiped at her forever tears. "I don't mind the missy part. Made me think of my dad." She sniffed. "I-I forgot that I could ask for help. But also, aren't I supposed to stand up for myself? Do it all on my own?"

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I have that same problem, think the same thing." He scooted a tad closer and patted her twice on her good shoulder. "You know, there's an odd problem in our society where we are told we aren't actually successful unless we go the path alone. But that's not at all the truth. When we send our soldiers out to war, we don't ask only one. We ask battalions of men, maybe a platoon, or a small brick to fight. But we never send them in alone. We know the power in numbers, and it's odd that our society, h.e.l.l, Hollywood glorifies the lone soldier. We know that the man who fights alone is usually a psychopath or suicidal. We are stronger when we are together. And I firmly stand with you, Minerva. Not just because I want another military historian to work with, and, Lord, I do, but I believe in you.

"I'm not saying it won't be tough on you, because soon you'll be called to testify against Dr. Peabody in an academic hearing, but I'll try to help every step of the way. I'm here to help. Further, it's when we learn to ask for help, when we learn how to trust others that we become successful. Well, at least at being humans."

She smiled. "That's very wise."

He grinned back at her. "And so much easier said than done."

She nodded.

He patted her again. "I fired Dr. Peabody. I've also let that Military Journal know who the real author of that article was. And you will be defending your dissertation on Monday."

Her mouth hung ajar.

"I know that's not much time, but I have a feeling you've been presenting your dissertation for years."

"I-oh," was all she could manage.

He grinned again. "No pressure, but I do need you to make a good presentation, because you'll be filling Dr. Peabody's shoes from now on. Only, I need you to get yourself a TA. Maybe two, because they will be filling your shoes, and," his smile waned into something serious yet filled with pride, "those are mighty big shoes they're filling."

"Really?"

He nodded with a smile. "But the only way I'm going to allow you to work for me is if you come to me from now on. If you need help, I want you to come to me. Oh, and that juvenile man who accidentally threw his water on you is suspended for a week. I couldn't get him into much more trouble than that, I'm sorry to say. But if he does anything else, you will come to me, right?"

The waterworks flew out of her eyes after that. Again. She lurched forward and gave Dr. Whittaker a bear hug. "Thank you."

He pulled away, looking rather shocked. "Of course. I, er, I should leave."

He unfolded himself from the couch, as Erva noted not to make her dean uncomfortable with future displays of affection. While he walked toward the door, he stopped at her computer and pointed at it. "Working on anything?"

She quietly laughed, while wiping at her eyes again. "Yeah, just started."

He turned back to her, his gray brows lifting. "Mind if I ask what?"

She shrugged. "I don't know how to explain it. It's kind of an Eat, Pray, Love meets history."

It was his turn to have his jaw swing wide.

"Sounds...too touchy-feely?"

He shook his head. "I love it! G.o.d, Harvard Press has been reeling in the past years from the recent publis.h.i.+ng crisis and wanted to start a new line...This is perfect for...I'm getting ahead of myself. I know I wouldn't be a good enough advisor for a project like this, but let's talk to Dr. Meriwether. She might make an excellent editor for you, help you flesh out this idea of yours. I can always try to help with the history, but, Minerva, you've got this."

She couldn't help but smile through her tears once more. "Thank you." She wanted to tell him how grateful she was to have someone she could rely on, to turn to if things got bad. But she wasn't sure she could convey how appreciative she was. Besides, she wasn't too sure if he'd listen, since a hug made him want to leave. But she knew soon she would probably give him another giant hug and maybe a card to tell him how much it meant to have someone who would protect her when she needed it the most. Then again, she might dedicate the book to him. To him and Will.

Now she was getting ahead of herself.

She let Dean Whittaker out, after he said something about liking her hair and had asked if she truly had been at the hospital. When showing him her st.i.tches, he seemed impressed and even happier to leave. As soon as he was gone, she rushed back to her computer, hopeful to remember Will again. But instead of writing something professional about him, her hands insisted on writing about his wide shoulders, the way his chest felt under her hands, his heart beating against her palm. She knew she couldn't keep any of that in the book, but she couldn't help but write it. Then she wrote how much she missed him. That thanks to him she knew she had the strength to go on, but her heart never would.

She fell asleep on her couch, beside her laptop, staring at what she'd written, and knowing how much she had fallen in love and how bittersweet that was.

Chapter 31.

Will woke with a start, sitting up in a bed with black satin sheets. He hadn't screamed or even gasped. Nay, he hadn't the air for either activity. Instead, he stared at the black wooden bureau across from the bed with a flat screen telly on it. Somehow he remembered everything the muse sisters had taught him, including the invention of the television. But, Lord, it was such a blur.

His chest felt unusually cool. Glancing down, he realized he was naked.

"s.h.i.+te, they didn't." He checked under the soft sheets, noticing he hadn't a st.i.tch of clothing on. The muses had taken his uniform. "No, no, no," he growled, wondering what to do, where he was.

The bed he sat upon was stark white, the opposite of the bedding and bureau and a gothic chandelier that hung not too far off. But he caught sight of a matching white fluffy area rug that looked as inviting as the indulgent bed. An odd scent permeated the room. Was that paint? The walls were a soft cream, relaxing the black and white, romanticizing it. Suns.h.i.+ne poured through wide-open windows, but the air was cool, like autumn had already taken a crisp bite out of the season. Gripping the sheets to his crotch, he lifted to his knees and peered outside a window. He was in a very tall building. Taller than anything he'd ever been in. Looking down, he agreed with himself that it was indeed fall, and a beautiful one with deciduous trees blooming golden orange and vibrant reds. He scooted closer to the window when he knocked something over.

All his earthly possessions sprawled from a wooden box with an intricate, ancient Greek design around it. He growled again, but this time at the mess he'd made on the wooden floor. Still holding the sheet close, he scooped over to retrieve his diploma from Oxford and another from Cambridge. That was when he heard a squeak in the direction of the chamber's door.

Glancing up, he froze. A butcher knife clattered to the floor. She'd been holding it, but then let it drop, gripping her fingers over her lips as she kept blinking. That was his girl, his Minerva.

He straightened and smiled. "Going to kill me?"

She squeaked again.

G.o.d, she was beautiful, but completely changed. She wore dark blue jeans, a ripped apart t-s.h.i.+rt, and her tresses! "Your hair's blue, darling."

Her hands instantly fluttered to her glorious locks, similar to Princess Elizabeth lilac in color. "And purple." Her voice shook. "Your hair."

He felt with one hand through his newly shorn mop. "The muses thought I'd fit in better with it short. Do you like it?"

At that she broke down. A lone tear strayed from her wide eyes. "It's you."

He found his own throat had tightened, but said, "That's first thing you said to me when we met. Remember?"

Before he knew what she was doing, she tackled him to the bed, kissing his cheek and forehead. "Why don't you look as surprised to see me as I am of you?"

She kept kissing him as he answered. "Well, I knew I was coming to see you. But honestly this time traveling does whittle your wits, doesn't it? What day is this, darling?"

"Sat.u.r.day. It's been a depressing two days without you."

He gave her a sympathetic frown. "I was stuck with the muses for what felt like an eternity. Lord, I don't how I know what I know. Ach, listen to my asinine discourse now. What did they do to me?"