Second Thoughts

Somehow there was a break in being busy and the veil of packing and cleaning that had shielded my view of reality shifted. This is scary and hard. I changed my mind - I don't want to do this.

"When are you leaving?" was the common question at work yesterday.

"Wednesday," I replied, saying good-bye and offering gifts to the people I loved most.

"This is for you," I told Jill, handing her an angel with a tiny light inside. "I didn't write a card because it would make me cry. But thank you and I love you and I'll miss you." And then I blinked rapidly and dabbed at tears while she stood. I clung to her while she wrapped her arms around me, wanting desperately to return to my mental lists and packing up journals and files and books so I could stop thinking.

She told me I was the best fellow she'd ever seen (which is lovely, but untrue) and that I was one of her very favorites (which is true - I'm very lovable. Really.) and I dabbed at tears. With a nod to my southern environment, I even waved my hand at my face to stop the tears. She said she was proud of me and pleased I was leaving academic research - she worries about funding and publishing and stability - and knew I'd be vastly successful. I nodded and swallowed hard and we hugged again.

"I want you to take the violet," she said. "And take care of it." I bobbed my head rapidly again. I thought of Winnie, a wonderful post-doc who died my first year here, while I was packing boxes. I have one of her textbooks and I ended up with her desk and file drawer. I smoothed my fingers over the spine of the book when I placed it with others in a box. I filled two boxes with paper from the filing cabinet, wishing fervently she'd had the chance to do the same.

"I miss her too," I told Jill, resting my chin on her shoulder and rubbing her back. "And I'll always take care of the violet." I pondered Friend's warning that they don't respond well to moving and winced.

I was burning a CD for Friend when Boss came in - it actually looked like I was doing work.

"I just had a chocolate," he told me with a smile. I grinned back as he sat down in a spare seat and swiveled my chair to face him, looking across piles of boxes and trash as I packed up my life at work. I'd left a handmade glass bowl filled with chocolates on his desk. It was pretty - the shades of blue making iridescent patterns in certain twists of light. "So we'll have dinner tomorrow?" he confirmed and I said I'd love that. I enjoy him and his wife so that should be nice. We sat and talked about the woman who will replace me - her collaborators and classes she wants to take and papers and grants.

I realized with a sudden ferocity that I could do all of that. But I quietly told my competitive spirit to dial it back - this world wasn't really mine anymore. So I told Boss I'd be packed up soon, fighting to urge to replace all the items tucked away in their former spots and throw myself across the desk, proclaiming it mine.

"Pretty flowers," he said on his way out and I nodded.

"One for Quiet Mentor," I said of the gorgeous vases I'd stopped and had filled with modern and lovely blooms, "and another for Dr. Icing."

The former went quickly. I stopped at his office at the desired time, we sat down and chatted for maybe a minute, he thanked me again for the flowers and I walked back across campus.

"For the last time," I thought and nearly panicked. I know shortcuts. I can recognize certain people. This is familiar and safe. I don't want to go.

I took my favorite elevator - an ancient contraption that requires you to press hard on the button and wiggle your finger a little to make sure it arrives. There's a window in the heavy door through which you can see a painted number announcing the floors. I'd talked to Dr. Icing, assured him he'd not failed me by not recruiting patients, accepted congratulations and promised him - much as I'd promised Quiet Mentor - that I'd keep up with the papers that are submitted but not yet accepted. I hung the flowers in their tall plastic bag with white handles on the door of his office, for he'd already gone home for the day.

I went to fetch the car, moving it closer to my building and beginning to place boxes in the trunk and backseat.

"Is there room for my bag?" Friend asked when she hobbled to where I stood. I glanced down at her knee and shook my head, suggesting she smoosh her bag in the trunk on top of boxes. I returned the cart I'd been using to truck boxes to the car and began backing up my work computer before we stopped for Greek food then cleaning supplies before heading home.

"You have a lot of crap," she noted when the garage door opened and I began loading more boxes into the piles and piles that are already there. I nodded, thankful I was busy again and didn't have to think so hard. I could stack boxes and clean - crawling around the perimeter of each room with the vacuum to clean baseboards and carpet. Today is another busy day. Realtor comes at 1. There's much cleaning left to do.

But I'm scared. And sad. This is rather hard.