Elizabeth the First Wife by Lian Dolan

“Stop!”
    â€œThis is a special spot, Elizabeth,” he repeated, as if he was working up to something bigger.
    â€œYes.” Again I agreed but was pretty sure the next sentence out of his mouth was going to include the words “brain tumor” and “three months to live.”
    Much to my surprise, he offered some unsolicited advice. “But maybe you do need more of a challenge. In your career pursuits.”
    Relief then anger rushed over my being. Oh, I see, he wasn’t dying, but my career was. I sighed, “Et tu, Brute.”
    â€œNow hear me out. I’m not like your mother, but I don’t understand this nonsense this summer. Why are you running off to Oregon with that actor if you’re satisfied with your work? It’s a sign that something is off.” I was taken aback at his surprising display of emotional awareness. He’d never acknowledged my emotional equilibrium before. (There’s no crying in physics!) If I wasn’t so annoyed, I might have been touched.
    â€œNothing’s off. I just need to get away.” Mainly from these kinds of conversations . “The work sounds fun and challenging, that’s all. I’m not pining away for my ex-husband, if that’s what everyone is concerned about. It’s a change of scene, and I need the money to remodel my kitchen. It’s a smart work move, not a step backward.”
    I was stomping around the plaza a bit, behavior not befitting a grown woman. And that indeed was my problem: Outside my family, I was capable; inside my family, I was thirteen. “I don’t understand why this is such a big deal.”
    â€œYour mother and I are worried about you.”
    â€œBoth of you are worried?” I was skeptical that worry was the main motivator here. My father never, ever worried; he believed in the Theory of Everything, so for him, things happened whether you worried or not. And my mother wasn’t a big fan of worrying either; she was a doer, not a thinker.
    â€œâ€˜Well, I’m worried. I don’t trust that man. Is he really being honest with you? Your mother, on the other hand, is enjoying spreading the news,” he admitted, not making eye contact. Richard Lancaster was not a big fan of the heart-to-heart (kinetic friction!), but I could tell he was really trying to have a meaningful conversation. He must really not trust FX. His instincts were worth something.
    I backed off. “There’s nothing to worry about, Dad. It’s a couple of months and then I’ll be back, hopefully recharged and ready to remodel. Maybe even with a book deal. See, all good. But I won’t be back with my ex-husband. I promise you.”
    He looked relieved and satisfied, as if he had to hear me say out loud that I had no interest in FX so he could really believe it. With newfound confidence, he took in the scene around him. Maya Kim, a student from last semester, walked by and waved. I returned the gesture. My father noted the exchange. “You know, you’re a much better teacher than I am.”
    Okay, now I was slightly astonished. “Really? Then where’s my Nobel?”
    â€œThat’s for research, not for teaching. I hate teaching. It’s a necessary evil so I can continue my work.”
    That’s not the reality I remembered. “Your students love you. I grew up with all those adoring grad students hanging around the house, drinking Mom’s coffee. I saw the way they looked at you, like you were Jesus with a laptop.”
    He laughed. “My students don’t adore me, they fear me. And they should. I have no patience for fools, and most eighteen-year-olds are fools.”
    â€œSome, not all,” I countered.
    â€œSee, that’s what makes you a better teacher. Every couple of years, a kid comes along with real talent, someone who deserves my time. But most of them? They’re smart and they end up with PhDs, but then they go into