Fall Semester (25 page)

“There’s a girl from one of my 202 classes at a booth in the corner.”

Maren raised a sardonic brow.

“Whatever you say, 007.”

She could tell his laughter startled him. Well, at least one of them was amused. Finally, he looked down at her, caught between a smile and his own chagrin.

“I’m sorry. I feel like such an ass.” He stepped closer to her and ran his pinky down the length of her forearm. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Maren closed her eyes at the stirring sensation. Was it okay that with a look and a touch, everything was fine again? Not just fine, but pretty wonderful. Was she that simple?

None of this is simple
, she reminded herself. Not for either of them.

“It’s okay,” she granted. “Neither do I.”

While Malcolm paid for lunch, she got their drinks and made for the exit ahead of him, willing herself not to look at the corner booth.

In the car, they were quiet for an uncomfortable stretch of time. The incident at Izzo’s was only a tiny indication of what they would face at school surrounded by the rest of the English department. Maren knew that it was foolish to try to define where they stood and how they should proceed just now. She simply could not devote any energy to those questions at the moment. But the experience made her feel lost and un-centered.

Malcolm parked on the curb in front of her house. Maren made to open the door.

“Wait...I know that was weird,...” Malcolm said, as though reading her mind. He reached across and took her hand. “But we will figure this out as we go. Right now, I just want you to know...that I’m with you...that I want to be with you..
.
that I am for you
.”

I am for you.

The statement surprised her. It said so much. Not, “I am yours.” But “I am for you.” The words drew to mind allegiances, bonds, loyalties. His words made an awkward encounter in a restaurant seem meaningless, insignificant.

He brought both hands to her face and closed the distance between them. Her stomach fluttered at the tug of his fingers, and she gave a tiny gasp as his lips met hers. Even after such a night, such a morning, his kisses were a new and thrilling kingdom.

And even as she relished the discovery, there was a sense of the familiar. An
“Ah, yes, of course,”
feeling of returning to something long lost, but so dear. She sighed as she felt his hands move into her hair. His tongue parted her lips, and without a thought, she opened her mouth to him.

He gave a low moan that hummed against her lips, and she grabbed a handful of his sweater. Would it be necessary to wait until they got inside her house before taking it off?

Holy shit.

Maren pulled back as though splashed with cold water.

“I’m sorry,...” she said, near panting. “I can’t. I can’t go there right now.”

She smoothed the front of his sweater to restore its shape and to soften the heft of her words. Maren didn’t like rejecting him, but there was not time for this bliss, this self-indulgence.

“They need me....I’m sorry.”

Chapter 26

Malcolm

M
alcolm sat at his office desk and tried to finish making the test for his 455 class, but Isabel Allende could not hold his attention. It wasn’t Allende’s fault that her story about a father, a daughter, and a doomed lover gave Malcolm to worrying.

Maren had not been to school in three days.

She had gone to her classes on Monday following her father’s release from the hospital, and, although they had not spoken in person on campus, Maren had kept in touch with him mostly through texts. It was clear from what she told him that her father was in rapid decline.

What worried him wasn’t the grim news that his cancer had left him unable to eat—although Malcolm ached at Maren’s distress—it was the way she was coping. Or not coping. Since Monday, she had not allowed herself any time away from her family.

He had offered to take her to dinner, even to go with her for a run for a half an hour. She would not accept. He had wanted to ask if he could come to her, but he wasn’t sure who he was doing it for—her or himself—so he did nothing. But that would have to change. Maren was coming dangerously close to academic self-destruction—even given the tragic circumstances of her family.

Malcolm knew without asking that she had not worked out any arrangements with her professors about an extended absence. The last two nights, she had reassured him that she would be at school the following day. To make matters worse, she had missed her own class the day before. If she failed to show up again, someone would likely complain to Sheridan. As her T.A. observer, Malcolm would be notified of the complaint and be assigned to investigate the problem. While he was grateful it would be him and not someone else, the situation could become highly problematic in no time.

He had conducted dozens of such investigations over the years, and virtually all resulted in an official reprimand to be filed with the department. T.A.s were supposed to contact the department office when they anticipated a class absence, even in the case of illness or emergency, though those reasons were more forgivable. The intention of the process was to establish a paper trail, to show that the department had not ignored student complaints in the event that someone appealed a grade in a T.A.’s class.

Malcolm seriously doubted his ability to issue Maren a letter of reprimand. Even if countless other grad students survived the censure, the thought of doing it made him physically ill. Better to avoid the possibility altogether. He had to talk to her tonight.

He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket.

Thursday, Nov. 9:
3:44 p.m.

I need to see you. I’m going to come over this evening.

He waited for a reply as he finished creating his test, but none came.

It had only been three days since he’d last seen her, and it unnerved him how much he missed her. He would be in the middle of the most mundane task—checking his email, starting his car, shaving—and some fact about her would spring to mind and set his pulse racing as though she’d touched him. The white of her breasts. The way she said his name. The unmistakable look of longing that—by some miracle—she cast his way.

Just as distracting was how he worried about her. Of course, he worried about her academic career, but at least in this he had some measure of control or influence that he could wield to help her. But there were other dragons that he could not slay. This compulsion of hers to sacrifice herself for her family, for one. Did she even recognize it for what it was? Didn’t she see that it was a pattern that needed breaking? One that would only lead to suffering and resentment?

And in his weaker moments, he obsessed over her physical safety and well-being. Did she really have to jog alone at night? The thought of some creep idling behind her in his car maddened him. And that damned bicycle. He was buying her a helmet this weekend, and she damn well better wear it.

By 4:30 p.m. she still had not replied, and Malcolm had worked himself up into a fit of agitation. He decided that he would not wait. He drove home only to feed Ricardo and change, wanting to doff the jacket and tie of Dr. Vashal and dress like a lover, casual and familiar. In jeans and a pullover, he felt like some of the years between him and Maren fell away, and he was certainly less conscious of the fact that she was a student and he a professor.

His attire was not much of a comfort on the drive to the Gardner house; the fact that he had not heard from Maren all day—and that she still had not replied to him—stymied his confidence. Perhaps she was rethinking their...relationship? Connection? Whatever they had, perhaps she was rethinking it. He could not blame her if she were. She had enough on her plate without an illicit affair with a professor. Malcolm knew that he would not protest if she had decided to end it. There was a part of him that would applaud.

Even if losing her devastated him.

Still, he had to help her. He had to convince her to take her academic career into account. He couldn’t let her sabotage herself. He thought, with some resignation, about one of Sister Alejandro’s poems, “
El Puente Viejo,” “
That Old Bridge.”
It was a lyric poem about a crude bridge in the countryside that had survived floods, battles, and a wildfire, but it remained a safe place to cross. The ravine below menaced with sharp rocks, racing currents, and the occasional serpent. The bridge, Malcolm knew, was meant to represent the orphanage, its humble existence, its vital importance. But Malcolm also knew that in writing the poem, Sister Alejandro was capturing herself. She was the force that created a place for her wards to safely traverse a perilous childhood. She, herself, was old, wizened, and care-worn, but her strength and stability defined her purpose.

Malcolm imagined that he could be Maren’s bridge—carry her across this flood that threatened to drown her. Afterward, she could move on from him without a backwards glance, and Malcolm, even as flawed and ugly as he was, would have served a higher purpose. It was not the worst outcome he could imagine for them—even if it would pain him to watch her walk away into her future while he remained pillared in the mud.

These images played out in his mind even as he parked in front of Maren’s childhood home on Corona Drive and walked to the front door. And they vanished the moment Maren opened it to him.

“Good God, Maren!” Malcolm barked.

She looked awful.

He took in her pallor, the dark circles under her eyes, the disheveled state of her hair. She looked exhausted. And in need of a shower.

“Malcolm,...what are you doing here?” The look on her face when she’d opened the door had been one of surprise, but it quickly gave way to mortification. “Oh my God, I’m such a mess.”

One hand went immediately to her hair, the other futilely brushing what appeared to be dried food from her shirt. Malcolm cursed himself.

“No, no, it’s alright...” He reached for her hands to still them, bringing her closer to him. She had misunderstood his shock. Her appearance had not repulsed him; it had pained him. What had she been through in the last three days? “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Maren said, evenly. She tried to arrange her expression to match the meaningless words, but what Malcolm saw in her maple eyes was the look of a woman losing a battle she could not accept losing. Even in her exhaustion, even facing certain defeat, her strength awed him.

He loved her completely. It was the clearest truth in the world. He loved her, and he had to help her through this, even if she fought him. And because he knew she would fight him, he had to take his time.

“May I come in?”

The silence that followed his request fueled his doubts—not about how he felt or what he must do, but about her desire to see him.

Sadness filled her eyes, and when she reached up to touch his face, he feared the worst.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, surprising him.

His relief was so great that he tugged her out of the open doorway and into his arms.

“I’ve missed you, too. So much.”

For less that an instant, he felt the tension in her body, the tension that may have been the only thing holding her up, but then she melted and became all softness in his arms, clinging to him. He held her closer against him, his body recognizing this vital reunion, and on instinct, he brought his lips to the curve of her neck, breathing in the scent of her hair.

“Malcolm,...” she sighed, his name on her lips stealing his breath.

“Maren, my darling,” he whispered, wishing he was able tell her how much he loved her.

She recovered herself as quickly as she’d surrendered, and she drew back to look up at him. Still, her hand returned to his face with a gentle stroke.

“Thank you for coming...but...”

Malcolm frowned. He was not leaving now. There was no way he was leaving now. How come he had not been here every night? To check on her. To be with her. To hold her for just a few minutes.

“But what?” he asked. This time her eyes widened as she spoke.

“Malcolm,...it’s
really
bad in there.” Her voice wobbled over the words, and he knew that when she had sagged in his arms it was because he had pulled her out of her waking nightmare. He was not about to let her return to it alone. The memories of the last few days with his mother flashed before him mercilessly, and he gripped her more tightly.

“All the more reason for me to be with you.”

For an instant, she looked at him with doe-eyed wonder before shaking her head.

“He’s...he’s not himself,” she said, her voice straining against emotion. “It’s the worst possible thing.”

“I’ve seen it before,” he said with conviction. “You have to understand, Maren, I am not leaving.”

She gave him a look of resignation, but he saw the beginnings of a wry smile.

“Silly me, thinking I had a say.” Despite her sarcasm, she stretched up and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you. Come on in.”

He did, entering the small foyer where he had said goodbye to her four days before. When she closed the door behind him, her voice dropped to a whisper.

“We’ve moved the hospital bed into the living room so Dad can be closer to everyone. He’s sleeping now, thank God.”

From Malcolm’s vantage point, he could just see the foot of the bed, but he stifled a shudder at the sight of medical-grade restraints that were tethered to the lower rails and disappeared under the covers.

“Come on. Let’s go upstairs where we can talk,” she whispered, turning to the flight of stairs opposite the front door. But a horrid thought made Malcolm grab her hand and wheel her around to face him.

“Are you alone?!?” He rasped, scowling as he searched for signs of the rest of her family.

“Shh! Yes, for now. Come upstairs before you wake him.” The urgency in her voice struck him, and he dropped her hand. She set off up the stairs, and he followed silently. At the top of the stairs, Maren turned left past a Jack-and-Jill bathroom and into what was clearly Lane’s boyhood bedroom, if the Green Day, 311,
Anchorman,
and
Bourne Ultimatum
posters on the knotty pine paneling were any indication. Maren noticed him studying the decor as she closed the door behind them.

“This was Lane’s room,” she said, needlessly.

“So I gathered. I didn’t see you as a Ron Burgundy fan.” The observation made her laugh weakly, and her laughter stayed the turmoil that had been rising in him as they climbed the stairs.

“I would have bet money that you wouldn’t even know who Ron Burgundy was,” she teased, crossing the room and sitting on the navy comforter of the neatly made twin bed. He wanted to sit next to her, but it would be too tempting to touch her then, and he needed to keep his focus, so he chose the adjacent desk chair and turned it to face her. Even positioned there, he was keenly aware of her legs inches from him, draped in what he now knew was her favorite loungewear, black yoga pants. He recalled what her thighs felt like under his hands....

And he shook his head to clear it.

“I texted you to let you know I was coming. Didn’t you get it?” he asked.

Maren shook her head.

“I’ve misplaced my phone, and I guess the battery’s dead. I’m sorry,” she gave him a regretful smile. “I’m glad you’re here, though.”

Her answer did not comfort him.

“Why are you here alone?” he asked, not bothering to hide his agitation.

“My mom had to go into work for a little while,” Maren answered, her smile waning.

It did not phase him.

“And where is your brother and sister?” He felt himself frown.

“Lane is at work, and Laurel is at a friend’s.” An edge of defensiveness crept into her voice. “Malcolm, what is this about?”

He was undeterred. In fact, he could feel his temper heating, and he breathed in and out through his nose to keep it in check.

“So, your mother went to work today, and your brother went to work today. What about yesterday?”

“Malcolm, why—”

“Just answer the question.” A part of Malcolm’s brain registered that he had begun speaking to Maren in the same tone he reserved for difficult students. An imperious tone. One that refused to be ignored. The same part of his brain did not like the sound.

Maren blanched.

“They did,” she said it meekly, almost guiltily.

Malcolm swallowed, feeling suddenly ashamed at the widening of her eyes. He reached for her hands in apology and lowered his voice to a near whisper.

“Maren,...why haven’t you been to school? For the last three days?”

Without warning, tears sprung from her eyes. He felt instantly ashamed of himself.

“
Someone
needs to stay with him.” Her words broke into sobs, and she pulled her hands away to cover her face.

Malcolm shifted to the bed then pulled her against him, half afraid that she would push him away for his boorish approach, but she did not. Instead she wept on his chest, loosing a sea of anguish that she seemed to have held back for days. He stroked her back and kissed the top of her head, surprising himself with the gentle rocking he employed.