The Senator's Daughter. Sophia Sasson
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Driscoll—Senator Roberts’s Secret Daughter the headline screamed. Her eyes widened. She read through the article as quickly as she could, needing to blink several times when the words blurred before her. She flipped open her dated phone and called home. It rang and rang, and she swore under her breath. The mood stabilizer she gave her mother sometimes knocked her out.
This can’t be true. Or could it? Her mother had mentioned that her father was a politician. Her mouth soured as she read the article. She knew Senator Roberts. Correction—she knew him the way a professor knows a subject, having lectured on the three-term US Congress senator from Virginia five times in the past month alone. He was in a tough reelection battle because he was proposing a bill to spend billions of dollars on Improvised Explosive Device, or IED, identification technology for overseas troops. The normally boring congressional election had taken the national stage since its outcome would determine the majority party in the closely held Senate. It had been an exciting few weeks for the tiny political-science department at her small-town Virginia college.
CNN came back and repeated the headline she’d just read online. It seemed the first story had appeared a little over an hour ago. Her heart pounded in her ears, muffling the words of the TV announcer. She fingered the pendant on her necklace and took short breaths to calm the sharp pain in her chest. This couldn’t be happening. Not on this day.
Why do they think I’m his daughter? She flipped open her phone and called the house again. Maybe the ringing would wake her mother.
None of the articles mentioned her mother’s name; all that came up was an obscure reference to a “short-lived previous marriage.”
This had to be some horrible case of mistaken identity. She picked up her purse and checked her watch. Two hours until the committee would meet about her promotion. The only way to set this straight was to go home and rouse her mother.
The TV screen caught her eye and she gasped. A new picture appeared, one from just moments ago in the lecture hall. A scrolling Twitter feed showed next to it.
VA professor said daddy isn’t the smartest. #SecretDaughter
Prof Driscoll thinks @SenatorRoberts blew it. #SecretDaughter
The scrolling text was too fast to read. She went back to the computer and brought up her Twitter account. The hashtag was new, obviously being used in all the Tweets related to the story. When she typed #SecretDaughter into the search box, it brought up over a thousand Tweets, including a bunch from her students who were supposed to be writing an exam. There were at least ten photos of her standing in front of the class looking like a deer caught in the headlights. If possible, those images were even uglier than the faculty photo. Every crease on her tailored shirt showed, and her pencil skirt appeared to be a size too small against her newly gained five pounds. Her sensible flat shoes, good for traversing the campus, made her look short.
She struggled to take a breath but all the oxygen in the room had been sucked out. This wasn’t just some small media story. It was big-time news, and she was right in the middle of it. She stood on shaky legs. The only way to put a stop to all this was to talk to her mother. She couldn’t even call the CNN desk and yell at them for spreading lies. Her birth certificate, and every form she’d ever completed, had a blank next to her father’s name. He was a figment of Kat’s imagination, a man she’d created to fill her mother’s silence.
Could the news story be true? She shook her head. Senator Roberts was a public figure, and if he was her real father, someone would have mentioned it. The only person who could refute this nightmare was her bipolar mother, who was sleeping off a manic episode. She closed her eyes, took a fortifying breath and stepped out of her office. And ran right into a solid mass. She stepped back.
“Dean... Gl-Gladstone,” she stammered. The dean was an imposing man in his sixties with gray hair and a broad chest. He was well over six feet and used every inch of his height to rule the faculty. She had interacted with him only in group settings, preferring to deal with the dean through the department chief, who didn’t have a notorious temper and didn’t fire staff for sneezing the wrong way.
Dean Gladstone took up nearly all the space in the tiny foyer-slash-anteroom-slash-coffee-station. They didn’t have a receptionist; they barely had working phones.
“Professor Driscoll, I need a word with you.”
“Of...of course.” She waved him into her tiny office, wishing she had tidied up. Stacks of papers littered her desk. He strode in and took a seat. His huge frame looked comical in the tiny, threadbare visitor’s chair. Kat put down her purse and sat, keeping her back as straight as she could.
“There are reporters and news vans outside this building, harassing students, asking if they know you,” he said without preamble.
“What?” No one had been there when she’d walked in just twenty minutes ago.
“I have guards escorting them to the campus gates, where our jurisdiction ends. I’ve had to request more security.”
Kat swallowed. How was she going to get out of here?
The dean continued in a dramatic, gravelly voice. “Now, I’ve come to tell you that this school does not welcome such publicity shenanigans. You should have disclosed you were the senator’s daughter when you applied for your position here.”
She put her hands on her lap so he wouldn’t see them tremble. “Dean, I have no idea why they published that story. I don’t know my father—he left before I was born.” Her voice was tinnier than she wanted, but at least she’d managed to keep it steady.
“Surely your mother must have said something about him.”
You’d think so, wouldn’t you?
She shook her head. “My mother was quite traumatized by my father’s desertion. It made her so sad to talk about it that I stopped asking. I really have no idea where this story came from. Believe me, I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize this college.”
“Regardless, until it dies down, for the safety of the students, you need to go home and stay there.”
Kat’s heart sank to her toes. She couldn’t keep the tremble out of her voice as she asked, “Are you suspending me?”
“Not yet. But I’m not allowing you on campus. I’ll have your colleagues cover your exams and deliver them to your house for grading.”
Not again. Kat swallowed, trying to dislodge the big lump in her throat that threatened to choke her. It sounded like a reasonable course of action; they were a small school, and security consisted of old-man Pete and his sidekick. They couldn’t deal with the likes of CNN. But she knew this was the step before suspension. They’d let her grade the last papers and then fire her. If a big university took issue with a page-three newspaper article, a small-town college wouldn’t put up with national headline news.
And today of all days. “Dean, I hope this won’t affect the APT Committee’s discussion.” The Appointments, Promotions and Tenure Committee was scheduled to meet today to go over Kat’s record and determine whether she qualified to become a tenure-track professor.
“That remains to be seen.”
He stood, and Kat followed suit. “I recommend you not talk to the media unless you can conclusively refute what they’re saying and take the attention off yourself...and this school.”
She nodded dumbly. He left, and she collapsed in her chair. For two years, she’d been working toward the promotion by taking on classes that no other faculty member wanted, mentoring extra students on their dissertations and writing as many papers as she could. She had even learned how to blog, working herself to the bone to make tenure. Now this! Her luck couldn’t be this bad, could it? What if the story was true? Emilia had been moodier than usual for the past several months. Kat had chalked it up to a medication adjustment, but what if...
She stood and made her way to the back entrance of the building, the one the students used to cut through the large quad area between classes.