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“What are you doing here so late?” I ask.
“Just finishing up a couple things. How ‘bout you?”
“Forgot something.” I walk over to my desk and grab my book. “I need to read a few chapters for tomorrow. See you bright and early!”
As I walk down the hall on my way out, I run into Dr. Terrill coming out of her office. She greets me with surprise and I explain that I’m just picking something up. As I close my jacket and prepare to walk outside, I hear her exclaim behind me, “Rachel! You’re working late again! I should have known you’d still be here, working hard, far into the night!”
I stop dead in my tracks and turn around. From my vantage point I can see Dr. Terrill standing in the doorway to the student office space, beaming at Rachel. Then, it hits me. I suddenly understand what they meant when they said that Rachel was the most academic. When we were told that to succeed in grad school we had to work hard and let them see us working hard, I didn’t realize how literally they meant it. I work hard, but I do so on my own terms, in my own time, and I fulfill my other obligations in between. This, I realize now, is simply not the approved, preferred method for getting through graduate school. Rachel’s is. She is totally focused and completely committed to being a student. She doesn’t have anything distracting her. This is her whole life. I get it.
I push open the door and walk out into the night. There’s a system at work here, one that we’re expected to learn and embrace. That’s what they meant by being academic: how well we’re able to adapt to the academic system. It has less to do with intelligence or critical thinking skills, and has more to do with the ability to conform.
Year Eight
Rushing
My professors aren’t as impressed as I’d like them to be. I got straight A’s the whole first year, and I’m sure I’ll do it again, but my professors aren’t showering me with praises. Even when I stay late, telling Scott to go ahead and eat without me because I have to stick around school, no one seems to notice. If they do notice, they don’t seem to care. I’m starting to get the feeling that they’re disappointed in me somehow. Or maybe they don’t think I have what it takes, or that I’m not good enough. It’s like the breakup line, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.” That’s how this feels: they love me, but they’re not in love with me.
And I don’t know how to fix that. I don’t know how I can possibly give any more.
I start to have wild, frightening dreams where I’m inside my house and I know something’s wrong, so I look out the window and there’s a gigantic tornado coming straight toward me. My heart almost pounds out of my chest, and I wake up shaking and sweating. The further into the semester I go, the worse the dreams get. The week before Christmas break, I have one where the tornado gets so close that I actually brace for impact, and when I wake up, I’m sitting straight up in bed, shaking in the darkness.
Morgen’s crying. I pull the covers back and rush to get her, gathering her in my arms and settling into the rocking chair. I take deep, even breaths and wait for my heartbeat to slow back down. Scott’s snoring in our bedroom, unaware that we’re up. I’ll be getting up for school in a couple hours, and a whole new hectic day will be starting. But for now, I’m here. Morgen looks up at me and I smile, knowing the best gift I can give her at this moment is my love. I sing “Rock-a-bye baby,” changing the last line, as I always do, to “mommy will catch you,” instead of “down will come baby.” She’s quiet and still, but her eyes are wide open, so I sing the song again. And again. I rock gently back and forth and hold her close, and slowly her eyes begin to close.
I feel like I have just crawled back into bed when my alarm goes off two hours later. I hit the snooze button and groan that I don’t want to get up.
“Stay home,” Scott says, rolling over. “I’m taking Morgen to the park today to shoot some winter pictures. Come with us.”
“I can’t. I have a million things to do.” It’s the last day before Christmas break, and I have two essays and another assignment due. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll be able to relax.”
But the next morning I wake up at six, as always, even though I’m on break. I roll over and close my eyes, but I can’t fall back asleep. When I push the covers back to get up, Scott asks what on earth I’m doing.
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