Convergence Read online

  “You moved?”

  Ryan looks back at his office then to me. “Over the break, remember?”

  “Oh… Right.” Did we talk about the move? I don’t remember. We must have—Ryan wouldn’t take that type of liberty. “You’re lucky to have Willow this semester, Dr. Alister. She’s an excellent student. She’ll make a great assistant.”

  He raises one eyebrow and looks back to Willow. “A recommendation from the esteemed Dr. Denilyn Rossi, department chair? Impressive.”

  As Willow’s milky complexion blooms, Ryan looks at me and winks.

  “It was good to see you, Willow.” I pull my keys from my pocket as Willow follows Ryan into his office. Caught in a snare of confusion, I stare at the linoleum as I try to bring up the details of Ryan’s move, but they’re lost to me. Throat tight, I swallow. I’m slipping. Forgetting things. Letting the stress get to me.

  Stress? It’s more than that. My mind is betraying me, and it stings like the betrayal of a trusted friend.

  I turn back to my office. The murmur of Ryan’s and Willow’s voices drift out Ryan’s open door. I’m grateful for the company in the still nearly empty building—actually, I’m grateful the empty office is occupied again. It was vacated midsemester when Dr. McPhee took early retirement due to ongoing medical issues. That I do remember. I find the key on my ring again and unlock and open my office door.

  Before entering, I reach around the doorjamb and flip on the light switch. I stand in the doorway and take stock. Everything appears as I left it. Desktop empty except for my computer monitor and inbox. Beside the window that frames my desk, diplomas and designations hang. Shelves line another wall, stocked with books and a few decorative items, mostly mementos from students. Nothing personal.

  I hold the office door ajar, take a few steps inside, and then lean in and peek around the edge of the desk. I lean back, exhaling as I do. Nothing amiss.

  I leave the door open and hang the umbrella, along with my coat, on the rack in the office. I pull a nubby cardigan off the rack and drape it across the back of my desk chair, then tuck my briefcase under the desk. Once seated, I power on the computer and wait as it loads. I knead a knot in my shoulder.

  The calendar app beckons, but I open my email instead. A perusal of the contents reveals faculty updates, what look like a few emails from students—the number of which will grow exponentially as the semester progresses—and junk. Nothing unusual.

  The time posted in the upper right-hand corner of the monitor indicates I have less than an hour until my first class. I shift my gaze to the calendar icon at the bottom of the screen, but again I ignore it and begin working through the emails, deleting and responding.

  But the calendar pesters.

  No, I tell myself. But finally I give in. I open the app, click ahead to the first of the month branded on my mind, and begin counting back to today’s date. The number of remaining days isn’t a surprise. With each setting of the sun, I mentally tick off another day. Though, I admit, the date is a guesstimate, at best.

  I worked hard to put the time frame out of my mind and focus elsewhere during the break. To stay present. Live the moments. I recognize the fixation I’m developing isn’t helpful. Isn’t healthy.

  With the calendar still open, I click back to email and type a quick note to my therapist to confirm my appointment for later this week. I haven’t seen her in almost a month.

  I press SEND, close the email server, then swivel my chair away from the monitor. My gaze lands on the bookshelves and the spines of my published works—my doctoral dissertation and the book that followed. I turn back to the desk, reach into my inbox, and pull out the file containing the publishing contract and emails from my agent I’d printed before the holidays. The contract is another thing I worked hard to forget over the break.

  My publisher has suggested another book. My first, Beating the Bullies: Turning Shame into Gain was based on research I completed for my dissertation.

  But so much has changed since that first book. Because of that first book. What I hoped would offer others encouragement and empowerment robbed me of almost everything I held dear, including my marriage. Had I known what the book would lead to, would I still have written it?

  No.

  Perhaps that’s a selfish answer, but it is the only answer I have.

  The book hit the New York Times bestseller list the week it released and stayed there for more than a year, catapulting me onto the public stage. The stage where I crumbled and my marriage disintegrated.

  No.

  I never finished the second and third contracted books. I broke the contract. My agent assured me at the time that I’d likely never receive another offer from any publisher.

  But now, nearly eight years later, they’ve sought me out and offered another contract. A young actor, one of Hollywood’s hottest, was arrested recently after he was tied to the death of a young woman he’d dated. Following their breakup, he ridiculed her repeatedly, publicly, and without mercy. His vicious verbal attacks are well documented in both the media and online.

  Allegedly, he bullied her to death. She committed suicide.

  Based on the publicity the case is receiving, the topic of bullying is center stage again, as it should be. In a fast turnaround, my publisher is repackaging and rereleasing my first book, and they’re revisiting the second and third books I was originally contracted to write.

  I open my desk drawer and reach for the pen I keep in a tray at the front of the drawer—a silver Cross pen engraved with my name—a gift from my dad when I received my PhD. He’d taken me to lunch and given it to me. He used to do that—take me to lunch. Just the two of us. But that was the last time. Just before he died.

  The pen is one of the only personal items I keep in the office. I want to make a few notes as I go through the contract again. But when my hand doesn’t land on the pen, I scoot back from the desk and search the drawer. I open another drawer then another.

  The pen isn’t there.

  I reach for my briefcase, then dig through the contents. But it isn’t there either. Why would it be? I never take it home. It’s always in my desk drawer.

  Or… did I take it home?

  I get up, leaving the file on my desk, and turn to the window. Rain beats on the glass and slides down the panes. The light inside makes it difficult to see out through the window, so dark is the day. Instead, an obscured image of the interior of the office and of myself, front and center, reflect on the glass. My eyes, light green against the dim backdrop, stand out.

  “Open your eyes, Denilyn. Open your pretty eyes.”

  Memories unspool and images play on the glass, accompanied by the soundtrack I can’t tune out. At least not permanently. Trembling, I take a step back and turn away from the window before the haunting images project on the pane again.

  I wrap my arms around myself, inhale deeply, and then exhale. “One, two, three, four,” I whisper. I take another grounding breath, working to stay present. “I’m in my office. Those are my books on the shelf. The framed quote was a gift from Jen before she graduated.” I glance at the monitor on my desk. “It’s 7:48 a.m. on Monday. I’m safe. I’m okay.”

  I am safe. But okay? I’m no longer sure.

  When I dare to turn back to the window, I squint to see through the reflection. Oak trees, their branches sharp and spindled, stand against a brooding sky. I swallow the lump in my throat and swipe at the edges of my eyes where tears brim.

  The lights in the office flicker as the soundtrack murmurs in my mind again, stilled only by the low growl of thunder in the distance.

  I turn away from the window and reach for the sweater hanging on the back of my desk chair. Longing to hide within its folds, I pull it close and shrink behind its thick weave.

  I walk into the classroom and set my mug of fresh coffee on a table at the front of the room. I pull my laptop from my bag and connect it to the projection system. Once that’s done, I scan the faces of the few students who’ve arr
ived early. As others filter in, I survey each face. It takes another ten minutes for the seats to fill. I’m grateful for the time to gather myself.

  At the top of the hour, I get up from a stool where I’ve perched myself. “Good morning. This is Introduction to Psychology, and I’m Denilyn Rossi. If that’s not the information on your schedule, now’s your chance to, like Elvis, leave the building.”

  Eyebrows rise. Others offer blank stares.

  “ ‘Blue Suede Shoes’? ‘Blue Christmas’? C’mon, I’m not that old. He died before I was born, but everyone still knows Elvis, right?” The tension in my shoulders eases.

  A student standing with a dozen or so others at the top of the room, behind the rows of theater seats, raises his hand.

  “Great! A fellow fan.” I point, and a hundred or so heads turn toward him.

  “Um, no. I… I just have a question. Dr. Rossi, will you be—”

  “Deni.” The heads turn back toward me.

  “Wha… What?”

  “Call me Deni. We’re all adults here. First-name basis. Call me doctor, and I’ll think you’re referring to my OB/GYN.”

  Nervous laughter from the gallery punctuates my comment. Ah, freshman. I love them. They’re the reason I still teach Intro to Psych. I smile at the young man whose hand is still in the air. “And your name is…?”

  He slowly lowers his hand. “Jason.”

  “Go ahead, Jason. You had a question?”

  “Um, yeah… Will you be taking adds?”

  “The class is full. Overflowing, actually. But check with me again after we go over the syllabus. We’ll see how many of those with seats I scare off. Sound good?”

  Eyes wide, he nods again, and another nervous titter goes through the class.

  “For all of you interested in adding, check with me after class today. I’ll put your name on a list, and if you’re willing to hang out and do the work for the first couple of weeks, based on the usual drop rate, there’s a good chance you’ll earn yourself a seat.”

  About half the students who are standing at the back of the classroom turn and walk out, which I’d expected.

  “Now, speaking of the syllabus—” I flip on the projector and then go to click on the file on the desktop of my laptop where I keep a copy of the syllabus and PowerPoint presentations I use with my lessons. But the file isn’t there. “Excuse me a minute…” I search the desktop again, but I still don’t see the file—the file that’s been on my desktop for years. I click on the search icon and type in the name of the file, but nothing comes up anywhere.

  It makes no sense. What could have happened? Did I inadvertently delete the file? It contained years of lesson plans and presentations. I shake my head and look at the students again. “I’m sorry. Technical difficulties.”

  Who else has had access to my laptop? I had it at home with me over the break. But no one would have deleted the file.

  Flustered, I run my hand through my hair, my fingers grazing the ridge of scar tissue on my head. Then it occurs to me that I can log on to the school system and access the syllabus. Within moments it fills the screen at the front of the room.

  “Okay… you’ll find the syllabus online, if you haven’t already done so.”

  I walk the students through the syllabus and my requirements for the class on autopilot, all the while another conversation is taking place in my mind. How could I have lost the file? Could I really have deleted it? What is wrong with me—with my mind?

  After two classes, lunch with a few staff members, a meeting with PCU’s president, and another class, it’s late afternoon by the time I return to my office. The file with the publishing contract sits on my desk where I left it, demanding a decision.

  I finger the file, flip it open, and drop into my chair.

  “How’d it go today?” Ryan stands in the doorway of my office, his dark jeans, crisp oxford, and wool blazer impeccable, as always.

  I close the file. “Great. The classroom is still one of my favorite places. How about you? Good group of students?”

  “I spotted a few slackers, but all in all, it promises to be a good semester.”

  “I’m glad Willow’s TA-ing for you. She really is a great gal. Bright too.”

  “Yeah, I can tell.” He leans against the doorframe. “So, how are you, really?”

  I read the concern in his expression.

  When I don’t respond, he takes a step inside my office. “How are you today, January 9th?”

  “Fine. Thank you.” My tone is more curt than I intend. I appreciate his concern, but I don’t want the reminder of what the date signifies. Nor have I ever wanted the memories to tarnish my work environment. My job at PCU came later—a fresh start. I hoped I could separate the past from my present. Although lately, I have to admit, the memories have encroached. It isn’t that some of the faculty don’t know what happened. It was well covered in the media before I accepted the position here, a position offered because of Ryan’s recommendation. But I don’t care to revisit the details with the faculty, and I didn’t expect anyone to remember the specific date. Although, had I given it more consideration, I would have anticipated Ryan’s sensitivity. We have a history I don’t share with the other faculty.

  “Deni?”

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  “I said, I’m here if you need anything. I’m happy to walk you out lat—”

  “No.” I look down at the open file on my desk, then glance back to him. “I said I’m fine. I just have a few things to get through, and then I’ll head home.”

  He stares at me for a moment and something flickers in his eyes, but I can’t read the emotion. Then he turns and walks away.

  I rest my head in my hands and close my eyes. I was short with him. His offer was considerate. I get up and pace the office, landing in front of the window again. Focus, Denilyn.

  If I sign the contract, the books could bring further awareness to the general population, especially adolescents, young adults, and their parents, as did the first book. Reach a new audience, even.

  A bolt of lightning flashes, dividing the sky, then crackles. A rumble of thunder almost immediately follows, shaking the glass in the pane.

  “Who am I kidding?” I whisper.

  The words, frigid, seem to bounce off the window and back at me. A shiver snakes up my spine. The same issue I’ve considered over and over taunts again. My publisher has big plans. They’ve discussed book tours, appearances on TV’s most popular talk shows, another TED talk.

  Just like last time.

  I’ve intentionally stayed out of the limelight since the first book. I turned down job offers from prestigious universities, speaking engagements, and interviews until the offers finally dwindled. I’m content with my life and work now. PCU offers all I need. Well, almost. But it does suit my primary need.

  Anonymity.

  Although, as the contract attests, I’m still not as anonymous as I’d like. I reach for the mouse on my keyboard tray, click, and open my calendar app again, then scroll through the months and look at the date I have marked.

  I finally let the truth I worked so hard to evade over the winter break sink in. I’ve deluded myself. Denied that others still remember my work. And me.

  But willingly put myself on public display again? There’s no decision to make. The stakes are too high. The risk too great.

  And not just for me.

  I close the file on the contract.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Denilyn

  October 2009

  The first time I noticed him was at Kepler’s Books in Menlo Park during a signing on the first leg of the three-week book tour my publisher had arranged. Two days later I flew out of SFO and landed in New York, where the blitz of publicity really began. But Kepler’s is where I remembered seeing him that first time.

  Head down, signing my name for what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon, the sense of someone watching me intruded. I lifted my head and handed the book back to
the woman who’d waited as I signed.

  “Thank you for coming.” I worked to maintain eye contact with her until she turned to walk away.

  Before the next person in line stepped forward, I glanced at the faces of those waiting in line. At least thirty or forty people were visible from where I sat, but then the line wound out of my view. Many of those not engaged in conversation with someone were at least looking my way, if not directly at me.

  A whole line of someones are watching you. So what? My internal moderator offered the obvious perspective. The next young woman in line—I guessed she was nineteen or twenty—appeared to have attended the signing alone. I recalled her sitting by herself in the audience as I’d spoken earlier. She stepped forward and handed me her book.

  “Hi there. Am I signing this to you?”

  She nodded, and her fair, pocked complexion blushed. As she pushed thick-lensed glasses into place on the bridge of her nose, I wondered if she hadn’t lived, maybe was living, the isolated life of someone shunned by her peers. Was she like the individuals detailed in many of the case studies I’d written? One of the many teenagers or young adults I’d interviewed who endured life enshrouded by the shame the bullies in their worlds assigned to them?

  I reached out my hand. “I’m Deni. Thanks so much for coming, and”—I motioned to the crowd behind her—“for waiting. That line is longer than I’d expected.”

  She shook my hand. “It wasn’t too bad.”

  “I hope you’ll enjoy the book.”

  “Thanks, I did. I mean, I’ve already read it.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “It… helped.” She looked back to me from beneath a fringe of long bangs.

  “Thank you. It means a lot to hear that. What’s your name?”

  She smiled, then looked away again. “Aubrey.”

  “Aubrey?” I waited until she looked back at me. “A beautiful name for a beautiful young woman.”

  Her shy smile revealed lovely teeth, likely straightened by years of orthodontia, and her blue eyes sparkled behind her glasses.

  “Spell your name for me so I’m sure I get it right.” I opened the cover of the book and lifted my pen as she spelled her name. But as I put the tip of the pen to the page, the hairs on the back on my neck stood at attention as the sense that someone was watching me assailed me again. I paused, looked up, and let my gaze rove through the line of people and around the front half of the store once more. This time I spotted a man standing off to one side, a few feet down one of the aisles of books. He looked about my age and wore a rumpled army-style jacket. He was just visible behind an endcap of bestsellers. My book, identifiable by its lime-green spine, dangled at his side. He watched me, his gaze unshifting, even as I made eye contact with him.