Pascal's Wager by Nancy Rue Page A

said. “A couple of stitches and a bump on the head. I’m ready to get focused on this issue.”
    â€œAnd your mother?”
    She has nothing to do with this! I
wanted to shriek at him. Onlymy reverence for all things mathematical reined me in. I explained my mother’s injuries, leaving out the part about the psychiatric evaluation. Stanford was a mammoth community as universities go, but its grapevine was as efficient as any.
    â€œIt’s nothing life-threatening,” I said.
    â€œBut certainly enough to distract you.” Nigel shook his head slightly. “We do not have to talk about this today. A couple of days for you to regroup and be there for your mother isn’t going to hinder you that much.”
    If we don’t talk about this right now
, I thought,
I may explode
. That
would hinder me
.
    â€œLook, Dr. Frost,” I said evenly, “I don’t mix my personal life with my academic life. Whatever needs to be done to get me back on track, I’d like to know now. Did I not go far enough with my thesis? Are you thinking I may be scooped again?”
    I could tell I had Nigel a little unnerved, because he was patting his pocket for his half-glasses, which I spotted up on the overhead projector. Fine. Let him be unnerved. This wasn’t about his life anyway.
    â€œMy notes are upstairs in my office,” he said when he had given up the search for his specs.
    â€œShall I go get them?” I said.
    â€œNo,” he said heavily. “I would prefer not to go into detail at this time. I will tell you, however, that in my view you may have gone further than you need to with the new thesis. There’s a chance you won’t be able to finish the necessary work on schedule, especially given your mother’s injuries.”
    He apparently noticed my jaw tighten, because he continued.
    â€œThere are only so many hours in the day, Jill,” Nigel said. “No matter how you juggle them, they still come down to twenty-four. Subtracting sleep, you’re left with sixteen.”
    If I got eight hours of sleep a night I’d think I had narcolepsy
, I thought.
    â€œI see that you disagree,” he said.
    He was getting good at reading me. I didn’t think I was so transparent.
    â€œWe will discuss this more thoroughly,” he said. “At present, I think it’s best you simply do what you can in your—” he paused—
“academic life.”
    I heard his deliberate emphasis, and I resented it. My voice went cold as I said, “Do you have any objections to my continuing work on my thesis until we have a more in-depth discussion? I have to go in the same direction, no matter what is decided about the conclusion.”
    He absently patted his pocket again. “It would not be my choice, and I’m advising you against it. However, there will be no official consequences if you do. It is ultimately your decision how you integrate the various aspects of your life.”
    â€œThank you,” I said.
    As I padded out of the room, I could feel him still watching me. He was “integrating” just a tad too much as far as I was concerned. My personal life was none of his business. Having him cross that line was worse than getting the once-over from Jacoboni. Who, I decided as I scooped the paperwork out of my mailbox, was going to get zero details about the accident. Nothing. Nada.
    I headed down the hall toward the stairs, quickening my steps as I passed the break room with its odor of overcooked coffee. It was getting more tempting by the minute to take up the caffeine habit. Shuffling mail as I hurried down the steps, I stopped cold in front of the lecture hall at the bottom and stared at my mail. Stuck between the proclamation from American Express that I had qualified for a Gold Card and the latest plea from a distraught freshman to let him take his midterm late was a pink While You Were Out slip telling me to call a Dr.