The English Department was in the ugliest building on campus. Wescoe Hall was initially intended to be a parking garage, but the university changed its mind and decided to make it the humanities building, apparently pretty late in the game. It was just a sad thing to look at. The surrounding buildings were beautiful, all limestone and brick, many of them castle-shaped, with flags waving from terra-cotta roofs and high, arched entryways. The science library was particularly impressive, all soaring architecture and beveled glass, the gift of some generous alumnus. Wescoe, on the other hand, was short and squat, concrete gray; the first two floors were basements. The upper floors were okay—they put in a lot of windows, and the classrooms were large and bright. But as you descended into the lower floors, where the instructors had their offices, the halls started to feel like tunnels, illuminated only by flickering fluorescent lights. Smokers huddled at both belowground entrances, and sometimes, even inside, the air smelled a little like car exhaust, as if the building somehow knew of its original destiny and was still working to play the part.
But now, right next door, in Wescoe’s dreary basement, my English professor was telling me that he was impressed with the draft I’d turned in for my final paper on
Far from the Madding Crowd
. I was the only student who had argued that the ending was sad, he said. Strong critical thinking, he said. Palpable enthusiasm for the subject matter. A real talent for this. I smiled back at him, feeling dazed and slightly warm, though his office was cold, and my hair was still damp and curling from the rain. It had been a while since anyone had told me I was doing okay at anything.
He said he’d been impressed with every paper I’d turned in that semester. He thanked me for the thoughtful comments I’d made during class discussions. It was so nice, he said, to see so much genuine enthusiasm for learning. He asked me if I was an English major and if I was planning to apply to graduate school.
“No,” I told him. “I’m pre-med.”
The words came out of habit. But this time, as I said them, I felt as if I were listening from the outside, nowhere inside my own head. My gaze moved around his office, at the shelves full of books on Hardy and Keats and Yeats, books I would very much want to read if only I had the time. Papers cluttered his desk, and a print of Virginia Woolf’s face stared out from the wall behind him. On the other wall by his desk, he’d Scotch taped several crayon drawings of stick figures with smiling faces, “FOR DADY” scrawled across the bottom of one.
“Pre-med,” he said, smiling as he slid my paper back across his desk. “Renaissance woman, huh? Good at everything. Well, you’re smart to do medicine, then. You’ll always have a job.”
I did not correct him. I did not explain that I was not a Renaissance woman, good at everything, or that I was about to flunk out of my major. I only stood and thanked him when it was time to leave, my voice maybe a little too grateful, too loud for such a small office. Before I left, I took one last look around. The only thing missing was plants, and he probably would have had some if he’d had a window. What was important was that he had an office. He spent his days doing what I would love to do, and he did not appear destitute. There was no reason to assume he would someday need to move into his child’s dorm room to save up for a security deposit. Perhaps doing what you loved, what you really wanted to do, wasn’t a problem. Perhaps just being my mother was. I did think wistfully of our family doctor, and all the tangible help she gave to people here and on the other side of the world. If I did not get control of myself immediately, I would never be able to vaccinate children in Kenya, or maybe never learn to do anything that useful. But maybe I could find some other way to be good.
I felt strangely light as I climbed the stairs back up to ground level, even in my coat and boots, my bookbag swinging beside me. Outside, I stood under one of Wescoe’s many overhanging slabs. A bus came by, but I didn’t run out into the rain to catch it.
A talent for this. Genuine enthusiasm.
I stared into the falling rain, vaguely aware that I was smiling.
I should have taken that bus.
“Veronica Von Holten! What a pleasant surprise!”
Jimmy Liff walked toward me across the patio, something metal jingling in his pockets, both arms extended, as if he were coming in for a hug. When he got closer, his arms still raised, and it appeared that he was not going to stop, I took a step back, forgetting I was standing at the top of several cement steps. I had to catch myself on the banister.
“What’s the matter?” He stood over me, stooping a little so his face was very close to mine. “You’re not afraid of me, right?”
I glanced back over my shoulder, searching for another bus. I didn’t want to be afraid of him. I told myself not to be. Anybody could yell and throw plants and study gangsta rappers on BET until he could perfectly mimick the raised arm walk, the sneer, the Chicago Bulls hat pulled low over his forehead. But his focus was unsettling. Just a few days ago, he thought my name was Valerie. Now even my last name rolled off his tongue.
“How did you get to class this morning?” His voice was friendly, but he poked my shoulder, fairly hard, with two fingers. “Did you walk all the way in the rain?”
“I took the bus,” I said. I put a foot down on the first step to keep my balance. He was still under the overhang; I wasn’t. Rain tapped on my head and shoulders.
“Ah. Lucky you.” He kept his eyes on mine. The area around his nose bolt was definitely infected. It looked red, puffy, the skin rising over the bolt’s edges. “The bus doesn’t go out where we live. The nearest stop is about a mile away. Did you know that?”
I looked over my shoulder again. No bus. When I turned back, he didn’t seem to have moved at all. Even his eyes were very still.
“Are you even a little bit concerned with how I got to class this morning?” He was not yelling. His voice was still very calm. “Or Simone? Did you think about her? Do you ever think of anyone besides yourself? No? No concern? Well, I’ll tell you anyway.” He watched me, saying nothing for several seconds. He didn’t seem to need to blink. “I had to call a friend, someone who had nothing to do with wrecking my car. Because you wouldn’t answer your phone. Did you just not hear it ring this morning? Sleeping in, maybe?”
He flexed his eyebrows, waiting. Rain slid over my forehead, dropping into my eyes. For some reason, I did not think I should move to wipe it away.
“Or maybe you just figured it’s not your problem?”
I started to turn away. He stepped in front of me.
“So how do you think Simone and I should get home? Walk in the rain? Try to hail a cab in Kansas? Well guess what? If I have to call a cab, you’re paying for it. We’ll add it to your bill. You don’t want to answer your phone? Fine. But it’s going to cost you. And let me tell you something…you’re going to pay.”
I looked into his eyes, searching for any potential understanding. It made sense that he would be angry about the party. Anyone would be annoyed. And there was a chance he really was missing some CDs. But even if he really had lost three hundred dollars’ worth of music, it was hard to understand why he was looking at me with so much rage, why he was so bent on making me pay. I thought of his house, his car. Three hundred dollars plus cab fare was a lot for me, but it couldn’t be much for him.
“Jimmy,” I said. “I don’t have any money.” I held out both hands, as if to show him. “I would give you rides if I could. But I don’t even have a car.”
He clapped his hands hard enough to make a cracking sound that echoed off the concrete wall behind him. But his voice was still calm and quiet. “Oh, okay. So I guess you’re off the hook then. I guess it’s not your fucking problem that I can’t get to class and back because my car is going to be in the shop for another three days.”
He was smiling now, but his voice was getting loud. People walking by turned to look at us, took in my face, and looked away. There was nothing to say and nowhere to go. If I walked away, he would follow.
“Maybe I should just stay home until the car is fixed and fail all my classes? Does that sound more fair to you?”
I swallowed. He did have a point. I had wrecked the car. His logic was not completely off. I shook my head. I was doing it. I was doing what I always did with Elise and my father—stopping to consider the other point of view instead of just defending without pause. I knew this, but half of my brain was still trying to think of how I could make amends. I could call my mother and ask to use her van. But she was gone for the day, reading the classifieds in the public library or some coffee shop, staying warm and out of my way. And I couldn’t call her anyway. Jimmy still had her phone.
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” I said.
He sighed. He looked as if he really felt bad for me.
“You’re really not that smart, are you, Veronica?” He shook his head, answering the question for me. “Book smart, maybe. You do okay with school. But you just can’t apply it to the real world, right? I have to spell it all out for you?”
Here again, though I knew I shouldn’t, I wondered if he had a point.
“My last class gets out at one,” he said. He spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable, as if he were talking to a small child. “So does Simone’s. That gives you a whole hour to figure something out. You can pick us up at the fountain.” He lifted his chin, his gaze still steady. “Don’t you dare be late.”
Gretchen wasn’t in her room. Neither were her keys. I considered calling Tim, and quickly decided I shouldn’t. At half past noon, I ran across the parking lot to the dining hall, searching the tables for anyone I knew even remotely. But all the people I asked said they didn’t have a car; or, if they did, they were on their way to class, already late, their keys locked in their rooms. I suspected some of them were lying, and really, I couldn’t blame them. I could guess what I looked like: bug-eyed and breathing hard, rain-soaked hair in my eyes—not the sort of person you would just toss keys to without a worry. When the third-floor RA—who I knew had paid for her Jeep by waitressing two summers in a row—looked away and mumbled something about wishing she could help, I lost the will to ask anyone else.
I opened my door to find my mother and Marley sitting on the floor next to my bed, a large bag of M&M’s between them. Marley was braiding my mother’s hair. Bowzer slept peacefully on my bed. Both beds were made, the pillows fluffed. The windows looked suspiciciously clean.
“Natalie, keep your head still.” Marley shook her head and smiled. She was wearing the pig slippers and a dress that was denim on top, a flowered skirt at the bottom. Her horn case lay open on the guest bed, the horn brightly gleaming in a snug bed of crushed blue velvet.
My mother’s eyes rested on mine. “Sorry, honey. I was on my way out, but then your friendly neighbor stopped by, offering chocolate and music.” She scrunched up her nose and smiled back at Marley. “How could I resist? And hey, have you ever heard her play?” She nodded back at Marley, as if I might otherwise not guess who she meant. “It’s really something! It’s one of the most difficult instruments to play well. Did you know that? Someone else told me that once. You wouldn’t know it, watching this girl. She has to think about her breathing and her hands and even the way she’s holding it. Marley, you’ll have to show Veronica when you’re done.”
“Okay,” Marley said. She looked up at me. “What’s the matter? You look really weird.”
I didn’t want them there. I didn’t want either of them in my room. I lowered my eyes and put my hand over my mouth. “Mom,” I said, looking down. “I need to borrow your van.”
“Why?” She moved her head to look up at me. Marley clicked her tongue and gently pulled back on the braid.
“Can you just give me the keys?”
My mother looked up at me, saying nothing. I knew, from vast experience, going all the way back to my earliest years, that the conversation would not continue until I apologized.
You don’t take that tone with me, young lady.
But apparently, these days, I could. “Okay,” she said. She leaned forward, reaching for her purse on the edge of her bed. Marley moved with her, still holding the braid. I stared at the bag of M&M’s on the floor.
“They’re mine,” Marley said. “You want some?”
I shook my head. I just wanted the keys.
“Veronica saw me play once.” Marley was up on her knees, twisting an elastic around the end of a braid. “She came to the football game when the band played.” She tilted her head, still looking at the back of my mother’s head. “Or at least she
said
she did.”
What happened next, what I did next, is difficult to defend or even explain. I will say I was tired, going on little sleep, and too much worry and adrenaline. I was in no mood for any complaint from Marley, no matter how subtle, no matter if what she was saying was true. I saw my mother look at me, wondering if I was, in fact, a liar. I saw Marley in a horror show of a dress and the pig slippers, the very picture of an easy target, and something ugly and fast in me decided,
You! You are the one who must be punished!
“You know, Marley. You might take some responsibility for yourself, for making friends, instead of just pestering me all the time. Maybe if you tried not dressing and acting like you were twelve years old, the other freshmen wouldn’t avoid you.”
They both stared up at me. My mother pulled her head back a little. I was already embarrassed, aware now of how I must look to them, and how I must have sounded; but in my swirling head, despite my embarrassment, or maybe even because of it, I felt I had no option but to stand my ground.
“I’m tired of feeling sorry for you.” I kept my eyes on just Marley, though I could feel my mother looking up at me as well. “I’m tired of you being so pathetic. This is my room, by the way. I didn’t invite you in here. And sorry, no, I didn’t go to the football game. I’m not your mommy. I don’t want to be.”
My mother stood up quickly. “That’s enough,” she said, her voice very low. “Just stop talking, Veronica. Just stop talking right now.”
Marley stood quickly. She smoothed her flowered skirt and looked at me, her eyes small, her mouth open, as if she still couldn’t believe what I had just said, as if she were waiting for me to smile and say I was only kidding.
I stepped aside, giving her room to leave.
“I’m sorry.” My mother touched Marley’s shoulder. “I really have no idea…” Both of her braids turned up at the ends, like Pippi Longstocking’s. She looked at me and spoke through clenched teeth. “I don’t know what has gotten into my daughter.”
Marley shrugged, and leaned down to close her horn case. I could see pink splotches on her pale cheeks, the same kind I got when I was trying hard not to cry. I put my hands against my face, my hands cold against my cheeks, my cheeks hot against my hands.
“Honey,” my mother said. She was talking to Marley. “You don’t have to go.” She gave me a hard look. “Or if you want to go, I’ll come with you.”
Marley shook her head. “I’ve got to go anyway. I have class.” She gave me a look of misery or hatred or maybe both, and ran past me out into the hallway.
When I finally looked up again, my mother had her head tilted away from me. She took a small step back and watched me from the side, birdlike, as if she couldn’t bear to look at me full-on. I stalked over to my desk, unzipped my backpack, and started pulling out books.
“What is the matter with you?”
I said nothing. It was a question with too many answers.
Where do I begin? Where, oh where do I begin?
I didn’t know what to do with myself. I stacked three pencils in a row. I scooted my chemistry book toward me until it was in line with the edge of my desk. I looked at my watch. It was after one o’clock, and still raining hard. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about Jimmy.
“Answer me.” My mother leaned forward. She was trying to see my eyes. “You have no right to speak to her—to speak to
anyone
like that. Do you understand? Veronica! Are you listening to me?”
She grazed my arm with just her fingertips. When I didn’t move, she sat on the foot of my bed.
“Honey?” she said, her voice soft, a little shaky. “Are you…are you doing drugs?”
I actually laughed, only for a second, but the pressure caused tears to spill out from under my eyes. I glanced down at her. She wasn’t laughing.
“No,” I said.
“Then what is it? What in the world would make you act that way? How could you say that about not being her mother, when she just lost hers? What is
wrong
with you?”
I looked up. Lost. For a moment, I really thought that she meant that Marley had lost her mother by leaving home and coming to college. What I’d said still wasn’t so bad. My mother was overreacting, looking at me like that.
I shook my head. “I don’t…What do you…?”
“Her mother just died last spring. Cancer.” She turned her palms up, holding them out, as if holding something fragile and round between us. “How do you not know that?”
I looked at the floor, at the bag of M&M’s. I looked back at my mother’s face. I tried to think what I knew of Marley’s mother, what she had told me. She played the piano. She gave lessons out of the house, and she accompanied the church choir. Those details had all made it into my long-term memory somehow. If I had been told she’d also just died of cancer, I would have surely remembered that, too.
“What?” I asked. “Why are you looking at me like that? How was I supposed to know if she didn’t tell me?”
But already I understood that I had just outdone myself. Out of all the stupid things I had done since Friday morning—the car, the party, Third Floor Clyde—yelling at Marley was the most shameful, the error I would remember the longest.
My mother crossed her arms. “She told me in about ten minutes. What’s the longest you’ve ever talked to her?”
Bowzer woke and started scratching his chin with his back paw. My entire bed moved with the vibration he made, the mattress rattling in the frame. I wanted to get up and lie down next to him, the way I might have done when he was a puppy and I was a girl. I wanted to press my face into his fur and scratch him behind his ears until he sighed with pleasure and forgot about his aching bones. Even my mother would not ever forgive me, perhaps. She might still love me, but she would not think of me the same. She loved Elise, too, but for different reasons. I had always been the nice one.
“Isn’t it your job to look out for the freshmen on your floor? Veronica, that girl is just dying of loneliness. Don’t tell me you can’t see it.”
I closed my eyes. “Mom. If you had any idea how much stress I’m under…You were just telling me that I need to focus on my schoolwork…”
She waved her hand. “Don’t give me that. You took this job. You signed on for it, and it’s important. If you’re not going to do it right, you shouldn’t do it at all.” She started to say more, and then stopped. She looked at me, frowned, and started again. “You’re doing all this studying so you can be a doctor? You know, doctors have to deal with people, Veronica. And I’m pretty sure the stress doesn’t stop in school. Is this how you’re going to treat patients? You sure you want to go into a caring field?”
I started crying. I worried she would think it was a ploy, but really, I just couldn’t help it. She handed me a tissue. When I looked up to take it, she did not smile.
“I’ll talk to Marley tonight,” I said. “I’ll apologize.”
“Okay.” Her voice was neutral, her expression blank. She seemed to be waiting for something.
“What?”
“This isn’t how you act. This isn’t like you. What’s going on?”
The landline rang. We both flinched. It rang again, and again, and again.
My mother’s gaze moved from the phone to my face. I shook my head. I had no answering machine for the dorm phone. But anyone normal would have given up by now. Nine rings. Ten rings. It was Jimmy. He would let it ring all day.
She looked at the phone. She looked back at me.
“Things have gotten a little crazy,” I said.
She leaned forward a little, squinting. The phone was still ringing.
“I’ve done some pretty stupid things lately. I’ve gotten myself into a mess.”
She nodded. Her eyes moved to the phone. The ringing seemed to be getting louder. I put my hand over my eyes. “It’s the guy whose car I wrecked. That was his town house I stayed in. He’s mad because I had a party, after I wrecked his car. He wants rides all the time, and he doesn’t care that I don’t have a car. He wants a ride back from campus right now.”
“Oh.” My mother cocked her head. “Well. Do you want me to answer?” She did not give me a chance to reply. Her hand moved quickly to the phone.
“Hello?”
Apparently, while waiting in the rain, Jimmy had lost his ability to stay calm. I could hear him through the earpiece, though I was sitting several feet away. Some words were clearer than others: “bitch,” “better,” “NOW.” I watched my mother’s eyebrows move up, up, up, her eyes growing wider beneath them. She looked at me. She again appeared to be waiting for something, some critical word from me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
She rubbed her lips together, looking back at the phone with narrowed eyes. She moved her fingers down one of the braids to the pink ribbon Marley had wrapped around the end. One of her eyebrows lowered, and the other stayed high, deep lines appearing across her forehead. She put her hand on my shoulder. “Yes,” she said into the phone. “I think I do understand. As a matter of fact, I do.”
I couldn’t believe he thought she was me. Her voice was lower. She sounded older, at least to me.
“No problem,” she said. “Just wait there. We’re on our way.”