So here I am, standing in the most uncomfortable place imaginable, a room with a growing crowd of people I don’t know. But what a room! From what I had seen, Parada had the most amazing house I’d ever seen, in a part of Seattle called Lower Queen Anne. It was historic, like I like, elegant but spare, spacious but warm, the perfect place to do what we were doing, feting Dr. Marcum for his Abel Prize win and seeing him off with all kinds of things, I’m sure, to tell the President. The White House was celebrating the winners of all the big science prizes this year: Abel, Nobel, Wolf, Fields Medal, the Fundamental Physics Prize, the Templeton Prize (which mixes in religion, and is hence controversial), the Breakthrough Prize, the Lasker Award, and of course the Sparks Prize, aka “The Alexanders,” which lavish recipients with one more dollar than the other prizes—combined.
People I’d seen in the parking garage, elevators, and hallways of the PAB were here, joining the university president and his wife; the Mayor of Seattle; most of the math and physics departments; our team; and plenty of strangers.
“Parada knows half the town, if not all of it,” Dr. Levitt said, as I scavenged the nosh pit.
I picked up a shrimp lacquered with a delicate orange sauce.
“This is so nice of you guys to do this for Dr. Marcum,” I said.
“And likewise,” she said.
“Hmm?”
“You’ll see.” She smiled and plunged into the crowd.
I navigated toward one of the bars, smiling but trying to avoid eye contact. I’m a hopeless INTP in an office where the only other “I” (for introvert) was probably Dr. Brando.
“INTJ,” I heard a low voice say. I jumped and turned.
“Hey, what? Did I…”
“Just tell me your Myers-Briggs?” Nathaniel Hawthorn smiled. “You find it difficult to introduce yourself to other people,” he said. “You often get so lost in thought you ignore or forget your surroundings. You do not usually initiate conversations.”
“I can’t believe you heard me.”
“Overheard. Who were you talking to?”
I looked away. “Who else would an INTP be talking to in a room full of strangers?”
“An INTJ,” he said. “Better yet if he’s not a stranger.”
“You’re good,” I said. We were at the bar. “What are you having?”
“After you,” Nathaniel said.
“Tonic water,” I told the bartender.
“Same,” Nathaniel said. “With a lemon.”
“You don’t drink?”
“Not tonight.”
“Driving?”
“That’s one reason,” he said.
A gentle shock crept up the back of my neck.
“How’s your mom?”
“Good,” I said. “May even have a new guy in her life.”
“Really? You know this guy?”
“Yeah.” I directed my glass of tonic water toward him. “He’s right over there.”
“Him?”
I watched Dr. Hale hand his black rain coat to a party staffer.
“Harold Hale,” I said. Cool of him to fly out here for our fete. Maybe he really was mellowing. “I used to work for him. Dr. Levitt used to work with him. And Dr. Cooper works with him now.”
“Your mom—” Nathaniel said.
“High school sweethearts.”
He jerked his head back and opened his eyes.
“Jennifer.” Dr. Brando held up a beer and moved between some people. He swapped the beer with his other hand and shook Nathaniel’s hand.
“Our lawyer,” Brando said. “Getting used to you guys.”
“Doesn’t sound good,” Nathaniel said.
“Divorce.”
“That sucks,” Nathaniel said.
“You said you had Lexi the other day,” I said.
“Took her to school,” Brando said. “I take what I can get.”
“How’s the custody evaluation going?” I asked.
“Still evaluating.”
“No way I’d ever do family law,” Nathaniel interjected.
I saw Dr. Cooper, Dr. Shonstein and her husband, Dr. Marcum shaking hands and photo-opping with cloudcams around the room.
“Can you excuse us?” I said to Brando. I took Nathaniel’s wrist. “I might need a lawyer.” I led him toward Dr. Hale before co-workers and admirers devoured his attention. Nate almost flew off his feet.
“Whoa! Lighten up,” he said.
“Dr. Hale.” I jutted out my hand. He took it. His hand was surprisingly soft. I don’t know what I expected. Tough guy, rough hands, though I doubt he worked outside a day in his life.
“Jennifer, right?” he said. “You work for Dr. Levitt.”
“With Dr. Levitt,” I said. “This is Nathaniel Hawthorn, our IP attorney.”
They shook hands. “Saw you at the staff meeting,” Hale said.
“So...my mom.” I worked up my gumption, always hard in a chattering crowd, but often necessary. “My mom says you two have reconnected?”
“Your mom? Patrice...that’s right,” he said. “I knew that.”
I leaned in so he could hear me better. “She really likes you, I hear.”
“I like her.” His face softened in a way I hadn’t seen before. “Who did you hear that from?”
“My brother.”
“And of course, the family wants to be sure you treat her right,” Nathaniel broke in. He was grinning so it came across as only half-serious. There’s not an astrobio grad student, post-doc, Haleybop, or ex-Haleybop on the planet who would have had the courage to say that, let alone me.
“Your mother and I almost got married,” Hale said. “We would have, too, if my mother hadn’t been so against it.”
I leaned way in. “Your mom?” I said.
“Yes.”
As always, just when the conversation was getting good, a server appeared. I took an hors d’oeuvres and thanked him. Another server was close behind. Dr. Hale took a glass of champagne.
“It was nothing against Patrice,” he said.
“Handle with care,” I heard Dr. Shonstein whisper in my ear. She extended her hand to Hale.
“Harold—good to see you again,” she said. “My husband, Martin.”
“We may have met—AbSciCon, a couple years ago?” Hale said, about the annual astrobiology conference.
“You’re from Harvard, right?” Martin said. “Work with Dr. Cooper?”
“Yes. Is he here? We’ve hardly had any time to talk since he picked me up at the airport.”
“Somewhere,” Dr. Shonstein said. “If I see—”
“So are you planning to see mom?” I interrupted.
“We think—”
Ding, ding, ding. Ding, ding, ding. Someone was ringing a glass. The chatter tapered.
“Welcome,” Parada said. “Welcome, everyone. We have a very special guest and a very special announcement. Mar, would you do the honors?”
“Thank you, Par,” Dr. Levitt said. “As you all know, a member of our University of Washington team recently made history by becoming one of only a few people to win the two biggest awards in mathematics. Bill Marcum, on generous loan to us from Oxford University, is this year’s recipient of the Abel Prize. Five years ago, he won the Fields Medal. If it weren’t for him, we’d have never gone to Mars or returned with such exci—” She caught herself. “The first humans will step foot on Mars sooner rather than later, thanks to Bill Marcum’s beautiful equations.”
She motioned him from the crowd and he stood next to her.
“Speech,” people said.
“Thank you, Marcia. Thank you, everyone,” he said. “I’m humbled and honored to be in such incredible company, working for such an amazing team. I’d like to especially thank you and Parada for hosting us tonight in this wonderful abode.” He looked around the room, back and forth, a couple of times. His voice drifted into a rhythmic cadence, part Jamaican, part Marcum, that lent his words a passionate compassion. He came from nomads, he said, missionary grandparents and foreign service parents whose work took them from Spanish Town, Jamaica around the globe and finally, to London. “There is nothing more important to the son of nomads than the embrace of strangers, the love of friends, and the feel of home. With that in mind, we have an even more important announcement this evening. If you’ll all step back, make some room. ‘Small up yuhselves,’ as they say in my hometown.”
We were gussied and looked amazing. But Parada, at six feet and an inch, was on a different plane. She strode into the center of the room with something in her hand, reached out, took Dr. Levitt’s hand, and led her into the center of the room. They stood for a moment, then Parada went down on bended knee.
“Oh my god,” I whispered.
“Didn’t see this coming.” Dr. Cooper was standing behind me.
“Marcia Levitt,” Parada began.
“Louder,” I heard someone say.
“Yes,” Marcum said. “Bos out!”
Parada seemed uncharacteristically nervous. I couldn’t see Dr. Levitt’s face, but I thought from her body language that she felt same.
“Marcia Levitt,” Parada said. “Will you marry me?”
My eyes assumed cry posture and I felt my sinuses congest and my face warm. But that’s where my emotions stopped. Instead of proclaiming “yes” and leaping into her lover’s arms, or coyly grinning between a few profound tears and taking Parada into her arms and accepting the ring with an extended finger and saying “I will,” Dr. Levitt just stood. I moved to the side to look at her face and she looked like I did at my first school play, paralyzed with stage fright, lost in the lights and anticipations.
“Marcia?” Parada said.
That feeling like a sink draining was coming over me, when I’m so mortified for someone else I need to look away. It’s so much worse than being embarrassed for yourself because when that happens, you’re so caught up in the embarrassing act and how to escape it, you barely have the wherewithal to consider the embarrassment itself. You can’t see yourself, either, like I could see this woman I loved and the woman she loved, whose grace had helped re-open my mother. I drank the rest of my tonic water and gripped the plastic glass in preparation for an intervention.
“I’m feeling really faint,” I whispered to Nathaniel, hoping he’d get the clue and catch me so I didn’t hurt myself on the hardwood floor. Just as I heard the first uncomfortable whispers making the rounds of the room, down I went, a feint, not a faint, gasping loudly enough (I hoped) for the room to hear and turn and gasp themselves. Nathaniel (mostly) caught me.
I opened my eyes just enough to peek through my thick eyelashes, as people gathered around. Parada darted over, murmuring “I’m a doctor,” and me hearing “oh, thank goodness,” and “oh my god” and a Babel of exclaimed concern. Dr. Levitt was over my shoulder and Dr. Cooper and Nathaniel at my head. Dr. Brando leaned down and said “anything I can do?” and Dr. Marcum took the plastic cup I gripped. The university president’s wife gently encouraged people to step back, give Parada some room, she might need CPR. The doctor took my pulse and listened for my breathing and felt my forehead. I blinked my eyes and gasped and took Parada’s arm and heard “she’s okay,” and “Jennifer,” and “thank God, she’s conscious,” from Martin Shonstein. Nathaniel and Dr. Cooper helped raise me and I coughed and Dr. Shonstein handed me a plastic cup of water. I played it up with, “I’m so...I don’t know...got hot all of a sudden,” and other confused-sounding things. I stood and heard a sort of muted mission control cheer appropriate for dinner parties. Dr. Levitt handed Parada a damp wash cloth and she dabbed my cheeks and forehead.
“You okay?” Parada asked. “An ER visit—”
“No,” I said. “No, not necessary. Really. I’m okay. Thank you.”
“How ’bout some fresh air?” Nathaniel said. “Would that be okay?” he asked Parada, who nodded. Nathaniel helped me through the crowd toward the front door, as people placed their hands on my back and smiled encouragingly. I looked back coyly, at the party returning to normal, and felt the heat and congestion recede. I felt a hand on my shoulder as Nathaniel opened the door.
“I hope that wasn’t over the thought of me seeing your mom.” Dr. Hale’s mischievous grin caught me off guard.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Room got, uh, really hot. I’m okay.”
“Good,” he said, He squeezed my shoulder and reflexively, I guess, I reached around and squeezed the top of his hand. “Helluva grip,” he said. “You must be okay.”
Parada came outside with us. “May I?” she asked. She felt around my head. “When you fell, did you hit your head?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I didn’t feel anything.”
She looked at my eyes with a pen-light. “You feel tired, or suddenly sleepy, you must get into the ER. We don’t want a concussion.”
“I’ll make sure,” Nathaniel said.
“I’m so sorry I screwed up your proposal,” I said.
“You didn’t,” she said. “Not at all. In fact, you might have rescued it.”
I had taken Ryde—our self-driving taxi-slash-ride-sharing service—to the reception, but Nathaniel Hawthorn, who insists on driving his own car, took me home. I couldn’t help but notice the size of the dent I’d earlier made. It was a lot bigger than I thought.
“You did a nice thing back there,” he said.
“Back where?” We were standing in the lobby of my building.
“At the party.”
I looked at him.
“You know what I mean,” he said.
I took his hand. I looked at his eyes as that gentle shock on the back of my neck returned. “Thanks for catching me.” I moved toward the elevator but he tightened his grip on my hand. The shock stayed on my neck.
“Thanks for letting me,” he said. He freed my hand and it was me who watched him depart.