Fall Semester (28 page)

What the fuck?!?

“What? When did she say that?” Erin asked, her eyes narrowing with concern.

“She texted me yesterday morning when I asked her if she needed a ride to school,” Lane said, glancing back and forth between Malcolm and his mother, gauging their reactions.

This was madness. She’d said nothing of the kind to him. Surely, she knew that this would have set him off. It was total self-sabotage. Like throwing away a winning lottery ticket. TA positions were in short supply. They covered the lion’s share of tuition and paid a monthly stipend. They provided teaching experience and the opportunity to cultivate and document a teaching philosophy. Next to one’s thesis and publications, they were the most important items on a curriculum vitae. How could Maren be thinking about throwing that away? It was too much.

Malcolm wanted to shake her. He wanted to make her see what she was doing to herself. He wanted to make her understand that such a sacrifice was meaningless. It would gain her and her family nothing. His temper broke.

“She
cannot
do that,” he barked, startling them. “You cannot allow her to continue to jeopardize her academic career—No, her
professional
career any further.”

“What do you mean by ‘any further, Malcolm?” Erin asked, shaking her head. “What has she already done? She’s an excellent student.”

Malcolm clenched his fists, keenly aware of his pulse pounding at his temple.

“Yes! She’s an excellent student and an excellent writer who gave away her chance at a first rate university in her field to come back
here
.” He fairly spat the last word. Malcolm saw the guilt splash over their faces, but he could not stop himself. “It won’t matter in ten years why she did it. When she’s competing for a tenure-track position in Memphis or Chicago or Boston, this will
always
hold her back. And that’s ground she’s already lost, if she gives up more—”

“Malcolm!” The word, shouted like a curse, came from behind him. Malcolm’s heart plummeted. He rose and turned to find Maren seething in the doorway. Her brown eyes blazed with fury and—what pierced him deepest—a naked betrayal.

“How could you?” Her voice grated over the words, anger choking her. “How
could
you? I trusted you! How could you do this to me? To
them?”

Malcolm watched with horror as her wrath seemed to wobble then and tip dangerously close to heartbreak. He stepped toward her.

“Maren, I’m sorry. I had to help y—”

She raised a hand in disgust.

“Stop. Just shut up, Malcolm!” Maren raged, finding her wrath again. She was still in her soft, lilac robe, her hair still wet, but she may as well have been an assassin armed to eviscerate him. “I never asked for you to help me, you arrogant, self-righteous asshole!”

“Maren!” Her mother rasped, reminding Malcolm suddenly that he was being flayed alive in front of an audience. Somehow, this was unimportant. He had to make her see that he was on her side.

“Maren, my love, you are hurting your prospects,” he said, gently, trying to penetrate the violence in her eyes. “You are hurting yourself.”

She drew a breath to attack him again when a half-sound stole it from her.

“Merry?” her father croaked. “Is it true?”

Malcolm watched Maren’s face fall—absolutely fall—as her eyes met her father’s. Even Malcolm heard the regret in the dying man’s voice, and he knew then that he’d made a terrible—unforgivable—mistake.

For an instant, the look of devastation on her beautiful face made him want to fall to his knees, but then Maren straightened her spine and looked Malcolm dead in the eye as a stony mask stole over her features.

“Get out.”

Chapter 27

Maren

M
aren stood there in her parents’ living room, listening to the silence that followed. Malcolm had shut the front door behind him, and no one spoke. Her parents, she knew, would be patient, but Lane and Laurel stared at her wide-eyed.

“Maren, what the hell?” Laurel muttered, unable to stand the tension.

She wanted to run upstairs and shut the door on everything, but she wasn’t a little girl anymore. Instead she sank down into the loveseat across from her family. It was still warm from holding Malcolm.

A knife edge sliced through her.

How could he do that to me?

“Lane, Laurel, come on. Let’s go fix ourselves a plate and give your sister some peace.” Erin stood up, and Maren’s brother and sister followed, as if they were school children.

Maren studied her fingers in her lap. She needed a manicure. The nails on her middle and left ring fingers had broken two nights before as she had struggled to keep her father from slipping out of the hospital bed. Convinced that the house was on fire, he had flung himself at her, yelling wildly. The nails now looked squared off and ugly, nothing like the neat ovals she usually sported.

It was easier to imagine trimming and filing them than to allow herself to feel the sinkhole that had started to hollow her out the moment she’d awoken in her brother’s room to hear Malcolm’s raised voice.

“She cannot do that!”

And it was the tone—more than the words—that had made her jump from the bed and head for the stairs.
He had sounded afraid.
For a moment, she had been terrified that someone was hurting him. But as she descended the stairs and heard his treacherous words, she felt as though her ribcage was being ripped away.

“Maren...?” Her father was still alert, still watching her. She could hear the others in the kitchen, murmuring in conspiracy, but she could not make out what they said.

“Yeah, Dad?” She still could not bring herself to look at him. She never again wanted to see the look of guilt and self-blame that had filled his eyes just before she sent Malcolm away.

“I asked you a question.” His voice was so weak. Maren sighed; she couldn’t make him ask again.

“It’s true about the program, but it doesn’t matter.” She looked up then, finally, so he could see that she spoke the truth. “I mean it doesn’t matter to me that UL isn’t Denver. I knew what I was doing, and I’d do it again....So don’t you dare feel guilty, Dad. Malcolm was way out of line.”

“Perhaps....But he seemed to have some good points,” her father said. His dark eyes were clear, and he seemed truly coherent for the first time in days. Why did this have to be the moment that he was able to tune in? She could have handled it if Malcolm had spilled her secret to everyone else while her father drifted. She crossed the room and took her mother’s abandoned chair by his bedside.

“I don’t regret transferring, Dad. Not for a second.” She could feel her anger returning, and she didn’t mind letting some of it show. “It’s
my
education.
My
career.
My
life. Don’t you see? If I’d have stayed in Denver, I’d be miserable with regrets.”

And I wouldn’t have met him.

The thought snuck in behind enemy lines.

And he wouldn’t have betrayed you
, was her reply to it.

She pushed those thoughts aside. She could not deal with her feelings for Malcolm right now. Maren knew that what she told her father was true. If she’d have stayed in Denver, she would have been wracked with guilt and a suffocating desperation, knowing that she was missing her father’s last days, knowing that she was powerless. And Ben may have still been in her life. Which surely would have been a mistake.

Coming home hadn’t been easy, but Maren knew that it was the right decision for her. Screw Malcolm Vashal and his pretentiousness.

“What about what’s happening now?” This he asked with his eyes closed. He was so frail, so tired. And still, Maren could see that he was worried about her. It was unfair.

“Everything’s fine, Dad. Don’t worry,” she said in a soothing voice. But this clearly was not what her father wanted to hear because his eyes shot open.

“Don’t patronize me, Maren. I may be dying, but I’m not simple-minded,” he said, sternly. “Malcolm thinks there’s a reason to worry. He cares about you. Are you sure you’re seeing things clearly?”

“
Me?!?”

This from the man who’d accused her mother of having an affair with the male hospice nurse not two days ago.

“Yes, you,” he said, closing his eyes again. “Maren, I don’t want you to use me...as an excuse...Get your mother, Maren...”

“Dad?” Fear gripped her. Was he slipping away again?

“Get Erin.”

She bolted up.

“Mom!” she called, almost panicking.

“You don’t have to yell....” he mumbled. “But don’t use me as an excuse to give up...Ask for what you need from people...who love you.”

Maren’s mother suddenly was at her side.

“What is it, Mark?” she asked. He opened his eyes and looked at his wife.

“It’s time to call Jackie. Tell her we need her here. Do it now, Erin.”

Maren watched her mother’s eyes fill with tears, but she nodded, pressed a kiss to his lips, and retreated to the kitchen.

“Merry, promise me you’ll go to school tomorrow,” her father said, his eyes barely open, but his focus still on her.

Malcolm had tried to make the same demand of her, and she had refused to give in, but she could refuse her father nothing. Not now.

“I will go to school tomorrow,” she said, evenly.

“If nothing else, talk to your professors....Make a plan for the coming days....Find someone to sub for your classes....Malcolm will help you...He loves you....”

“
Malcolm
is a jerk,” she uttered, unable to stop herself. “I can’t trust him.”

Her father smiled, even though his eyes were now closed again.

“Don’t be so hard on him....He’s exactly what you need....” His voice was just above a whisper.

“As if,” she said, rolling her eyes, but her father did not see her. He was asleep again.

Maren sat back in her chair and heaved a sigh. The strain of the last half hour threatened to undo her. She didn’t want to think about any of it, especially not Malcolm Vashal.

Faithless bastard.

She shot up out of her chair and headed for the kitchen. Laurel, Lane, and her mother were hovering around the island, plates of pizza crusts before them. Three boxes of pizza were stacked on the stove, and the aroma set her mouth watering.

Fuck that.

Maren grabbed the loaf of bread off the counter and yanked open the refrigerator.

“What are you doing?” Lane asked, as though she were daft.

Maren pulled out sliced turkey, mayonnaise, lettuce and tomato.

“I’m making a sandwich. What does it look like?” she snapped.

Out of the corner of her eye, Maren saw her mother purse her lips. Laurel’s brows rose, but Lane was the only one who dared say anything.

“Look, Maren, I know you’re pissed at the guy, but that’s no reason to deprive yourself of pizza.”

Maren put a plate on the counter and set about making her sandwich.

“I’m not in the mood for pizza,” she lied.

Lane cocked his head at her and was about to press on when their mother raised her hand almost imperceptibly.
Leave her be,
it said. So instead of haranguing his sister, Lane made a show of serving himself two more pieces of pizza and enjoying giant, noisy bites.

He’s such a child.

“Aunt Jackie will be here tomorrow afternoon,” her mother said, seeming to address her empty plate.

Maren just nodded.

“And Lane and I are going to be here all morning,” Laurel said, risking a glance at her sister. “You can take my car to school.”

Maren set the mayonnaise knife against the countertop with an aggressive clank.

“That won’t be necessary. I can ride to school with Laurel first thing tomorrow, talk to the department chair, and resign my assistantship all before 9 a.m. I can catch the bus back, Mom, and you can be at work by 10.”

“Maren Elise Gardner, you will do no such thing!” Erin Gardner’s eyes flashed a black flint as she stared down her oldest daughter. “Malcolm was absolutely right. I know you don’t approve of his methods, but I’m grateful
someone
in your life has the sense to see that this kind of thing cannot go on one minute longer.”

Maren’s eyes went wide with shock. She hadn’t been scolded like this in nearly 10 years. Lane and Laurel seemed to be just as stunned at their mother’s outburst; they watched, riveted, but silent.

“Mom, I—”

“Maren, do you
want
to finish your master’s and get your Ph.D.?” Erin asked, still scowling at Maren as though she were a foolish child.

“Mom, of course! I don’t want anything else, but some things are more important than what I want,” she defended.

“Listen to me, Maren,” her mother half-scolded, half-pleaded, her face and tone finally softening. She came around the island to grip Maren’s elbow. “Nothing is more important to your father and me than that you three kids
have the lives that you want.
Don’t deny yourself and think that you are doing it on our behalf. It just isn’t true.”

Maren looked at her mother in defeat. With stunning clarity, she realized that nothing in her life made sense anymore. Nothing at all.

She looked down at the half-made sandwich and felt not even the slightest trace of hunger.

“I’m going for a run,” she said, pushing the plate away from her, not even bothering to close up the bread.

“What about your sandwich?” Lane asked, incredulous.

“You can have it,” Maren said on her way out of the kitchen.

She was freshly showered, but that didn’t matter now. The weight of the evening was threatening to bring her to tears again, and she absolutely refused to cry anymore. She needed to move, get away from everyone, and let her mind go. Maren quickly braided her hair, pulled on her running attire, and grabbed her music. She was out the front door and into the twilight without another word to anyone.

They thought they were saving her. They thought they were freeing her. All of them. But they weren’t. They were cutting her loose. She felt unmoored and rudderless like an abandoned skiff.

Moving back, staying by her father’s side, being needed, she did these things because she had to. Those were the things that had made her feel she had the slightest scrap of control during this whole hellish ordeal.

Maren cursed Malcolm Vashal for taking that from her.

And before her next breath, a white-hot pain slashed through her heart. He had ruined everything. Not only had he taken away her control, he had taken away himself with his breach of trust. She felt the loss keenly.

It was more painful than anything else.

The last echo of light was fading from the November sky as she turned onto Camellia Boulevard. She had gone more than a mile, and the urge to cry had only grown. Maren barred herself against it, instead taking deep, ragged breaths and urging her quads to pump harder. By the time she reached the foot of the bridge over the Vermilion River, she was flying. Her lungs screamed and her muscles seared with lactose. As she crested the bridge at an ugly sprint, her thoughts of loss had burned away. After her mad dash, she finished another three miles in a kind of exhausted numbness. Music blared in her ears, and it was fairly easy to keep dark thoughts at bay.

Lane’s Jeep and both cars were still in the drive when she got back, so she allowed herself to head upstairs without checking in. She showered again, but it was hardly the luxurious treatment she had enjoyed when Malcolm had come to her earlier.

She angrily shoved him from her thoughts for the hundredth time as she scrubbed conditioner from her hair. There was no point in calling him to mind.

Maren dressed, deciding to climb into bed and give herself over to writing. She had begun to play with some lines in her head about a scuttled vessel when a text chimed on her phone.

Thursday, Nov. 9:
8:22 p.m.

I know I’ve upset you, and I’m so sorry. Please give me a chance to explain.

She considered ignoring the message, knowing that no response at all would drive anyone crazy, but she was too irate to deny herself with restraint.

Thursday, Nov. 9:
8:23 p.m.

Go fuck yourself.

Maren felt a reckless thrill when she hit the send button. An unruly giggle escaped her lips. It felt good to be angry. Powerful. Intact. She sent a follow-up text for good measure.

Thursday, Nov. 9:
8:23 p.m.

And if you see me at school tomorrow, stay the hell away.

Maren turned off her phone so that she would not even know if he replied, and she willed her attention back to the notepad in her lap and metaphors of a swallowing sea.