16. 'I'm on it'

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Phillip

Me working from Dad's office is supposed to make everyone feel like there's control at the helm. As if Dad's temporary absence is nothing more than him letting go of his tight clutch on the reigns. Those in the know play along joking about Dad finally enjoying a little rest as I assume the position of leadership I have always been destined to take.

"Phillip." Dustin, my new assistant comes through the open door. "Your 3 p.m. is here."

I tear my mind away from the research paper about the possible use of a device that the doctors can implant into Dad to help with Parkinson's. The machines we manufacture and distribute are highly regarded in the medical and research community, but I'd have to rely on someone else's expertise for Dad's intervention. If he'd even want one instead of insisting he needs no help.

"Who is it?"

"Mr. Mallard," Dustin says.

I rake my head for the name. It sounds vaguely familiar, but I'm not sure I've ever met that person.

Canceling the meeting might be best. It's probably the legal team again, insisting we update the language on more documents now that I'm signing on the dotted lines. Maybe if this were a regular transition, when all I had to worry about were work, I would've been more interested, not that the CEO job has ever been my dream. But it's Dad's legacy.

Between reading the drafts of the contract my personal lawyer has been sending for Nata and me to agree on, and persuading Dad to accept the meds the doctor recommended, work is the last thing I'm able to focus on.

"Why's he here?" My voice is so high it scrapes the ceiling.

Dustin checks the iPad in his hand. "This is something your father's assistant scheduled last week. Something about UChicago? Maybe the alumni association?"

The name clicks into place. "Professor Mallard." The internships offer I gave to Dean Kaas. I no longer have bandwidth to deal with starting a new internship program, but the guy's here. I can at least see him, schmooze, and promise something in the future. "Right. We can talk here. It'll be short."

"Sure."

Dustin brings a white-haired man in before I tighten my tie. My new assistant hasn't made any egregious mistakes, not enough for a reprimand, but plenty for my mounting irritation.

I round Dad's desk to greet the professor. His dark eyes are on the same level as mine. I'm not used to seeing people as tall as me. I reached my Dad's 5'11" by the time I was fifteen. By twenty I was the 6'4" I'm now, well over Mom's six feet, and taller than my grandparents who dies before I was old enough to ask them questions.

I extend my hand his way. "Phillip Van der Heuvel."

"Professor Mallard." We shake hands. An unsteady smile tugs at his lips. "I must confess, I was expecting to meet your father."

We walk to the desk. I point at one of the arm-chairs for Professor Mallard to sit. I take Dad's. The man's face looks younger than his completely white hair suggested at the start. "Have you worked with my dad before?"

Professor Mallard isn't looking at me. His eyes are glued to the photos of Dad, Mom, and me, Dad has around the office. "No." The shake of his head is barely there as he pivots and finds the next photo, then next. "I don't know your father, but your mother..." He finds the last photo and his eyes return to my face, as if he can figure out which facial features, I inherited from her. Most of them, has been the consensus.

I'm skinny like Mom as well. Skin-and-bones has been Mrs. Buckingham's name for me for the longest time, she still calls me that on occasion. I wish I inherited Dad wider build, but my personal trainer assures me I could gain some mass if I ever cared to pay attention to the supplements and work out more. I'm not built to be a gym-rat. After days and nights spent inside office buildings or restaurants with artificial light and air-conditioning, I'd much rather use my rare free time hiking, camping, or swimming outside.

"I've been your mother's TA during her PhD. days." He leans his elbows on my desk, as if he needs a closer peak at me. "You look remarkably like her. I'm sure when people see you together, they comment on—"

"Mom died." I cut him off. My chest pinches with the unhealed hurt.

His shoulders droop, and his face slackens, like I've just punched him in the solar plexus and knocked the air out of him. "My condolences," he whispers.

I should've found a less abrupt way to tell him about this, but hearing him talk about Mom in the present tense dislodged something painful inside. "That was thirty-two years ago."

Professor Mallard grasps the edge of the desk and steadies himself. "Thirty-two?"

He looks even worse. The fact that Mom died years ago usually lessens people's pitying expressions. Maybe he thinks it was a something dramatic. "Complications from a routine hernia surgery."

Professor Mallard is breathing hard and rubbing the hand that is not on my desk over his heart.

"Do you need some water?"

He nods.

I messaged Dustin to bring in some drink options.

The only reason for the professor to be this affected by the news is if he actually knew her. Learning about a random student passing over thirty years ago doesn't seem grounds for heart palpitations. My heart begins its own palpitations.

There is such a dearth of people as I was growing up who could tell me about Mom. I have galleries of photos and videos, and hours upon hours of stories from Dad about her, but his perspective is always rosy. Just like with me, he refuses to see the faults in the people he loves. He always sees the best in them. In Mom. In me. But I'd love to know her as she was, not covered in the perfumed memories of my doting father.

"Did you know Mom well, Professor Mallard?"

"Blake. Call me Blake, please, and yes." He keeps rubbing his chest. Maybe I should be taking him to the hospital. He's probably someone's Dad too, but I want to hear his answer. Any crumb of new information about Mom is important. "I can't believe she's gone. That she's been gone for such a long time. We were rather close for a while. In my head she's still living a happy life like the last time I saw her. You were just a baby then. How old are you now?"

"Thirty-seven. Not a baby anymore."

"Kids of your own?"

The pinching feeling from my conversation with Nata returns with a vengeance. Out of the goals I set for my life, I've succeeded at all of them but this one. Having kids has been on my agenda since I was in my twenties. Replicating the connection Dad and I have, has been something I've been looking for.

I want to cheer on a mini-replica of me on a baseball field, to kiss the scraped knees, and dole out dating advice I'm much better at than my father. Why should I care what everyone thinks? The playboy reputation the world expects me to uphold weighs too much. Maybe I'm having a reverse mid-life crisis, but after years of that lifestyle, I'm tired. "Not yet."

"Don't delay it if you want to have them. I was a young father and although my wife and I got a divorce, my kids, and now my grandkids, have been something I've never regretted in my life."

"I'm on it." Nata's hypothetical idea of a baby contract is now more solid than any other plans to have a child I had before. Once the paperwork is done, all we have to do it start. I might be rushing into it with her and I'm not kidding myself: Dad's illness played a role, but the outcome of what Nata and I can create together is something I care about so much more than the nagging fears at the back of my head.

Blake's breaths grow steadier, and he resumes his exploration of my face. "You have her eyes too, the same ring of brown around your gray. Same long lashes. Straight eyebrows. As if someone took her face and redrew it in a male form."

"Yeah, I've heard that a lot." I want to hear more. How do I get him to talk to me about Mom? "So you were friends?"

My pulse accelerates from the thought of this man being a potential window into my mother's life. I want to get inside his head and scoop every image and word and memory of her he possesses. I want him to tell me everything. I'll make him tell me everything.

"Not really." Blake tightens his lips, as if talking about her is physically hurting him. Maybe it is, but I don't care. I want to know more. Blake doesn't seem to be too eager to continue the conversation, as he inspects his knees.

"The Dean said you were interested in internships at VDH for your students?" I try a different approach to get him talking.

"That's something I'm looking for." He stops fidgeting with the cloth of his pants. "So they can learn how their skills in bioengineering can apply to real life."

"VDH would be perfect." He takes the bait, now I just reel him in. "And we are always looking for interns, and offer compensation, plus many end up coming back and working for us full time, after they have the taste of how good working for VDH is."

Blake gives a pained chuckle. "You're good at selling your company."

"I've heard that a lot too." I might've tugged on the line too hard and appearing too eager is a rookie mistake. I set my ankle on my knee and recline, offering him a sheepish smile. "I'm on the sales side of things. It would be weird if I couldn't sell it."

Blake nods and smiles to himself. "I brought some of the research papers." He opens his old-school hard-sided black leather case and pulls printed-out spiral bound papers. "I can email them to you as well, of course, but I thought this way we can both look at them." He pushes some copies my way and keeps the rest. Old-school all the way. I can work with that. I take my copies and see his face reanimate. "This one for example, he pats the top. Open to chapter three. You can see the hypothesis are very applicable to the medical equipment improvement."

I open the paper he points to and scan the paragraph. "I could look these over and meet with you when I had a time to talk to the research here and see who would like to get new interns. They are usually happy to get local talent."

"Wonderful."

Dustin pokes his head through the door. "Your Dad's doctor is on the line, should I tell him to call back?"

There's no water or drinks in his hands. There was also no knocking. Hiring Dustin was a dumb idea, but out of all the candidates I interviewed he was the only one who had no clue about my celebrity status and doesn't have any social media accounts. The slight smell of weed from his suit during the interview suggested he is not into high-stress lifestyle, but I didn't expect this level of relaxed approach to a workplace. "No. I need to take it."

Blake gets up. "I can go. You've got my projects here." He pats the pile of printouts on the desk. "Let me know when you've studied them." He gives me a tight-lipped smile.

I glance at the chunky things. The timing is rotten, but nothing deters me from pursuing the things I want. "I'll be in touch."

Author's Note

3.2.23

Posting a day early as I'm going on vacation!! So excited. I should be back in time for the next Friday's post, but may be a day late. TBD. 

Any guesses on why we are spending time with professor Mallard in this story?

Love,

GR


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