Pascal's Wager by Nancy Rue

varied from a duration of less than two years to well over ten.
    That’s about the time I turned the computer off and made myself a cup of extra-strong Earl Grey. There was no way. We had to be talking at worst a tumor—which would more than probably be operable—or at best a case of severe mid-life crisis, which,knowing Mother, she could knock out of commission in about three sessions with a psychiatrist. Make that two.
    By the time I finished deciding all that, the sun had long since come up and it was time to head for Sloan. I splashed some cold water on my face and threw on an outfit I wasn’t sure was a whole lot better than the little number my mother had worn the day before.
    The woman is haunting me
, I thought as I headed across campus at a trot.
We have to resolve this
.
    I was practically running by the time I got there, and I forced myself to slow down and get it together. Just because my mother was losing it didn’t mean I had to. It was time to get out of the what-to-do-about-Mother compartment and into the what’s-going-on-with-my-thesis slot. It would be bad form to actually look like I’d been up all night when I met with Nigel.
    I fumbled in my bag for a clip and, using the front door for a mirror, organized my hair into some semblance of order. There wasn’t much I could do about the bags, fully packed, under my eyes. For once I wished I
did
drink more coffee.
    I closed my eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, and pushed through the double doors. They swung open into the cool, clean, orderly place that was my real world.
    Except that Jacoboni was right there, leaning into the half-door on the department office.
    â€œHave mercy, McGavock,” he said. “I thought you looked bad yesterday.”
    I gave him a sour look and glanced at my watch. “What are you doing here at this hour? Am I that late?”
    â€œNo, the Arab terrorists roped me into meeting them for breakfast. Do people really eat at this ungodly hour?”
    â€œThe who?” I said. And then I put up a hand. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
    â€œActually it’s Peter and Rashad, but—”
    â€œJill, I’ve been looking for you.”
    It was Nigel, emerging from the classroom across from the department office. It took a few seconds for that to register. My brain was like a 45 rpm being played at 33⅓.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “My mother and I had an accident yesterday on the way to lunch—”
    To my utter amazement, Nigel put out a hand and curled it around my arm. “Come in here. We don’t need to discuss this in the hallway.” He drew me toward the classroom door, his eyes on Jacoboni. “Keep the noise to a minimum, would you, please, Alan? I have a class taking an exam in here.”
    I let him usher me into the classroom like I was some kind of bereaved mourner, but the minute we were in I managed to tactfully pull away. His eyes swept the room where ten students were hunched over their Scantrons and wiping away beads of sweat. Nigel motioned me toward one of the wide windowsills on the bowed window that overlooked Lomita Mall and the Science and Engineering Quad beyond it. I perched dutifully and tried to reclaim an aura of composure. Fortunately, I’d just clipped my hair back or I would’ve raked it.
    â€œHave you had a chance to look at my new proposal?” I said.
    Nigel gave me a long look.
    Not a good sign
, I thought.
    â€œIs it a huge problem?” I said. “I felt confident about—”
    â€œWere you hurt?” he said.
    â€œBy what? I haven’t checked my mailbox yet this morning. Did you put some kind of reply in there? If the proposal is trash, I can deal with that.”
    â€œI’m talking about your accident.” Nigel’s normally impassive face was puckered. Was every middle-aged person I knew undergoing a personality transplant?
    â€œI’m fine,” I