Page 86 of Wish I Were Here
She shrugs and hands my paperwork back. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nope. I just typed in your information, and it appeared.” She holds up her hands like,Don’t look atme.
At that moment, my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I swipe to answer.
“Dr. Lipton?” comes a feminine voice through the phone. “This is Helen Hardy from human resources. Funny story.” She gives a high-pitched laugh. “It turns out that there must have been a computer glitch last week, but it’s all been resolved.”
“You don’t say.”
“I’m calling to apologize. When I ran your information just now, everything cleared. We’d love to have you come tomorrow for orientation.” Her tone oozes congeniality now that I’m no longer suspected of having faked my identity and plagiarized my dissertation.
For a moment, I consider gloating. But at this point, I’ll take the win. “Thank you very much. I’ll be there.”
We hang up, and dazed, I take my papers and shove them back into my file folder. Uncle Marco gives me a hug, and from somewhere far away, I hear myself thank him and thenTonya again. I wander out of the building and sink down on a bench to wait for the bus.
How is it possible that a week ago, I didn’t exist? My driver’s license, my Social Security information… all gone. And now here I am: not just in the flesh, but in the system, too? I’ll call my bank and my credit card company later, but I have a feeling that everything will be restored.
Could it be—
Some days, I’d simply like to be… nobody.
Was it as simple as wishing to be me again?
But then I shake my head to dislodge that thought. This isn’t the mystical meditation tent at Burning Man. This is my life. It’s far more likely that this mix-up can be blamed on a failure of technology—a computer glitch, like Helen said—than on meddling from the universe.
I pull out my phone and send a text to Melanie:Everything worked out. It’s fixed!
A moment later, she replies,Sorry, what’s fixed?
I stare at the message. Surely she knows what I’m talking about. My missing identity and the birth certificate were the reason that I reached out to her to begin with. I probably wasn’t clear in my message. I try again.My identity! I’m back in the system, I spoke to HR, and it’s all going to be fine.
A minute goes by, and finally she replies,Glad to hear it.
To be honest, it’s a little anticlimactic. I guess I didn’t expect yelling and fist pumping like Uncle Marco back there. But…
I try again:Maybe we could meet for dinner to celebrate?
Another minute goes by, and then:Okay.
I guess she’s waiting for me to pick a date.Wednesday? The café by the university? 6 p.m.?
The bus pulls up, and I pay the fare and make my way to a seat in the back. I check my phone. No answer from Melanie.
I flip over to Mrs. Goodwin’s number and send her a text:Everything worked out. It’s fixed!
Ten seconds later comes her reply:Yay!
And then:Yay! Yay! Yay!
And one more:Luca is here, and we’re doing the jitterbug!
I smile, picturing Luca holding out a tattooed arm, offering his hand to Mrs. Goodwin, and the two of them doing an elaborate kick step across the lobby’s scuffed tile floor.Thanks, I reply.
The bus travels down a block, and then another, and finally Melanie replies to my earlier text. She sends a thumbs-up emoji.
On Wednesday morning, I arrive at the front desk of the mathematics department to begin my brand-new position as a tenure-track professor. The orientation went off without a hitch yesterday, and today is finally—finally—my new beginning.
