by Jen Nadol
I’d started to wonder if maybe it could help me sort out the mark, answer some of the questions my trip to the library hadn’t.
Professor McMillan had said that Lucas would teach part of our next lesson and I was eager to see how he’d handle it. He hadn’t asked me to coffee again, barely acknowledged me in classes. I was disappointed, but tried to focus on the lectures instead of the way his dark hair fell gracefully forward as he jotted notes in a black journal.
It was just before noon when I entered the park carrying my bag filled with pencils, textbooks, and lunch. I had barely gotten to spread my blanket on the grass by the pond when I saw the woman with the mark.
I felt the familiar queasiness mixed with a tiny touch of relief, like the way you hold your breath during a scary movie until the killer jumps out or you finally see what’s behind the closet door. I’d expected it to show up again, though not so soon after the woman at Cuppa. It made me worry that maybe it was somehow feeding on itself, getting stronger.
This woman walked right toward me, the glow clearly visible even in the bright sunshine. For a minute I had a weird feeling she knew and was coming over to yell at me or ask for help, but she was smiling, blissfully unaware.
“Here, Ginger!” she called, and I realized she was walking toward me, to fetch the dog who’d run to the edge of the pond.
At the sound of her voice, the dog turned and started back up the slope, stopping by my blanket. She sniffed at its edges, probably still smelling of Nan’s incense. I felt the woman beside me, watched her well-used sneakers gently prod the dog away.
“I’m sorry,” she said warmly. “Ginger, no!”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind.” My voice was thin, barely able to force out the words. I looked up at her, shielding my eyes from the sun. Wishing I could cover them to block out the light around her.
“What a beautiful day,” she breathed. She was older, maybe in her late forties or early fifties, slightly overweight and smiling. I could tell from the creases by her eyes and mouth that it was an expression she wore often.
“Yeah, it is,” I said. Together we watched the pond, light glinting off soft ripples in the water like shiny fish flicking to the surface. Ginger had finished her inspection of my blanket, deemed it good, and moved on to my leg.
“Just push her aside,” the woman said, shaking her head ruefully. “She can be such a pain.”
“I don’t mind, really,” I told her. “I love dogs.” I scratched Ginger’s ears, happy for the distraction. Her fur was warm and silky, and she rolled her head back, pushing into my hand for more. I stole another look at the woman, watching her dog fondly. Out of habit, I checked her left hand. No ring.
“I feel blessed to have days like these,” she said. “I took today off for her vet appointment this morning. It’s been so hot, I thought we’d end up inside most of the day, and look what we got instead.” She turned her face up to the sky, still smiling.
I wondered, as I always did when I saw them, how it would happen. And whether it was better or worse that it was unexpected, as her death clearly would be.
Ginger looked up then, her ears perking at a squirrel scavenging nearby. Like a rocket, she was gone, blazing a path toward the nut tree the squirrel scampered up.
“Ginger!” The woman turned to follow, giving me a quick wave before she left. “Enjoy the day!”
“You too,” I said automatically to her retreating back, immediately feeling stupid. Of course she wouldn’t. I watched the woman standing by the tree, arms folded as she patiently waited for Ginger, running rings around the trunk. Finally the dog came to a stop, jumping up, scratching at the thick bark, before loping over to her master. The woman squatted, nuzzling the dog’s neck and talking, the hum of her voice barely audible. I felt terribly sad. Why her? Why did she have to take today off work?
It was wearing on me, seeing these people with the mark. Knowing what it meant made all the difference, even though I tried hard to pretend it didn’t. I mean, everyone dies, right? What did it matter if it was today or tomorrow or next year, or if I knew about it or didn’t?
But it did matter. Even if I couldn’t help, I had started to wonder if I was wrong not to tell them. Was I denying them a chance to make whatever final preparations there were: say goodbye, call their lawyer, or the mother or daughter they hadn’t talked to all month, the husband they’d had a fight with last night? Or was it better to let things take their course, let that woman enjoy what she could of her last day?
I was so torn, my insides twisting at the idea of trying to tell her, not knowing how or if I really should.
The woman and Ginger lingered by a bench, then a trash can, then a bush. I walked to the edge of the pond. Closer, the flashes of light on the water were brighter, almost painfully so, sharp pinpricks cutting across my vision. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, willing her away. Letting indecision be my decision, like I had with the woman at the coffee shop.
When I finally went back to my blanket, she was gone.
And I felt awful.
chapter 15
“Today we’re going to talk about right and wrong.”
That was how Lucas introduced his lesson. Back home, it would have been “Tell me the first line of the Gettysburg address.” Here it was life and death, good and bad, the meaning of existence.
“Ethics is the study of right and wrong, derived from the Greek word ethos, or habit,” he said. “We are what we repeatedly do. Anyone ever heard that before?”
A few nods.
“It’s one of my dad’s favorite sayings,” Lucas said. “I always hated it.”
A few laughs. Already I could tell he was good and definitely more fun to watch than my teachers in Ashville. I’d been surprised Lucas would actually be teaching classes, but he was hardly on his own, with Professor McMillan right there watching and taking notes.
Lucas recapped some of the philosophies we’d covered: Plato’s three souls—that “right” was when the mind, will, and desire were all working for the same goal—and Aristotle’s “choice-worthy” actions, ones that avoided extremes. He moved on to Kant, who was beyond confusing. I’d had to search the Internet to learn that he thought you should do your duty, no matter what.
I’d spent a lot of time on this week’s readings after seeing that woman in the park with her dog.
I hadn’t looked her up. Didn’t want to read about how her life had ended and who she’d left behind or hadn’t. I was sure she’d died—no longer needed the black-and-white confirmation—but I couldn’t stop thinking about whether I’d done the right thing.
At the front of the room, Lucas kept talking, but I wasn’t really listening to him, unable to ignore the question that had been less than a whisper when Nan died, but grew louder, more insistent, each time I saw the mark. Should I tell or not?
I’d scoured the philosophy readings, but it wasn’t there. None of them ever got down to how to tackle a real problem, one with lots more gray than black and white. I’d hoped for more. I wanted answers. So when Lucas paused, asking if we had any questions, I raised my hand, my throat tightening at the thought of speaking it aloud. But I had to. Had to know.
“Maybe I missed it, but for all the time the philosophers spent talking about making the right choice, none of them ever talked about how to do it when the choices are hard.”
“What kinds of choices are you thinking about, Ms. Renfield?”
I pretended to think, then took a deep breath and asked it. “Let’s say you somehow knew someone was about to die.” My stomach was in knots as I finally said aloud what I’d barely been willing to ask myself. “Should you tell them? Or not? What’s the right thing to do?” Everyone was looking at me.
Lucas frowned. “You know they’re about to die? What do you mean? Like a doctor who can see a cancer?”
Not what I had in mind, but that would do. “Sure.”
He nodded. “Well, I think both Aristotle and Kant would say the doctor’s respon
sibility is clear: to tell the patient so they could explore treatment options.”
“What if there were no treatment options? The cancer was too far along, definitely fatal.”
“I think they’d say it’s still the doctor’s responsibility to tell the patient.”
“Why?”
“So the person can decide how to spend their remaining time.”
“Why is that the better course? If there’s no cure and happiness is the greatest good, wouldn’t it be better for the doctor to let the patient live in happiness?”
Lucas thought for a moment. “Well. Incurable diseases are not painless. The person would be suffering and has come to the doctor for an answer. The doctor’s role is to provide health. In this case, maybe he can’t provide physical health, but he could provide mental rest by telling the patient the truth. It is what the patient has come seeking. It is the doctor’s duty to provide it.”
“Okay.” I paused, regrouping. This wasn’t going the way I wanted it to. “What if the patient hadn’t come seeking it?”
“How could that be?”
“Well … let’s say the patient doesn’t feel any pain. They’re just at the doctor for a routine physical, but the doctor finds this incurable cancer, widespread. Untreatable. The patient is totally unaware of a problem. If there’s nothing that can be done for the patient—their physical health can’t be improved and their mental health may be harmed by the news—what is the doctor’s responsibility?”
Lucas looked at me hard, a small smile at the corners of his mouth. “What an interesting dilemma, Ms. Renfield. Let’s ask the class.”
Cop-out, I thought. I waited for Professor McMillan to jump in and answer, but he only watched as hands shot up around the room. For a while, I listened to the discussion, but my classmates gave me nothing. I’d already covered every scenario, every opinion they had, on my own.
Plato had talked about reconciling what we knew we should do with our fear of doing it and our desire to do something else. But his arguments assumed I knew what I should do. I didn’t. Same with Kant—I couldn’t do my duty if I didn’t know what it was.
It was frustrating. Throughout the room, students were debating, some passionately—definitely our best discussion so far. Great. The abstract was fun in class, but I wanted the concrete in my life. I needed, as Aristotle said, a target to aim at. It made me think of Tasha standing in her garage, facing the concentric circles of the hay-bound target what felt like a hundred years ago. I wished I could go back there, challenge her to a winner-takes-all round of archery, the stakes nothing more than coffee and a chocolate chip muffin from Jake’s Deli.
Around me, zippers were being opened, papers rustling, books snapping shut. At the front of the room, Professor McMillan reminded us of our assignment for the next week. “Great discussion,” he said as people started to file out of the room. “Ms. Renfield, thank you for getting us started.”
I gave him a quick nod and hurried past. Outside the classroom, I caught the end of one girl’s comment to her friend: “… Lucas Canton? Totally choiceworthy.”
chapter 16
He walked into Cuppa the next day, as I was finishing my shift. Instead of going to Doug at the counter, Lucas came to my station, resting his tanned arms on the high granite surface of the bar.
“You have to place your order over there,” I told him, trying to ignore the way my heartbeat had suddenly gone staccato. “No special deals, not even for my TA.”
“I came to see you. Can I take you to dinner?”
My stuttering heart felt like it had stopped. I looked quickly at Doug, stalling for composure, but he was busy counting the till. “Tonight?”
“You’re almost finished here, right?” And, in fact, I was. He had timed it as if he knew my schedule.
Lucas waited for me on a bench outside, which was a relief. I didn’t want to talk about him with Doug, or worse, not talk about him and just let the awkwardness of my maybe-date hang in the air. I could picture Doug’s raised eyebrows and disappointed eyes, the lower lid wincing ever so slightly. But he never noticed Lucas, which meant I never had to explain why I was leaving with him when I’d never been willing to even have lunch with Doug, who’d really been nothing but wonderful since I’d met him.
“What are you reading?”
I’d startled Lucas, totally immersed in the tattered pages of his paperback. Watching him unguarded in the seconds between the door and the bench, I thought I could see how he’d been in high school: quiet, shy, too serious, but gorgeous behind the glasses and thick books. He seemed the kind of boy girls had secret crushes on because he was just a little too distant to encourage them. I wondered if he’d gone to homecoming or prom and who his best friend had been.
He smiled and flipped the cover closed to hold it up: A Prayer for Owen Meany.
I was glad to see a novel instead of something academic. “Great book.”
He nodded. “I think this is my third time through it.” Lucas marked his page with a dog-eared corner, then slid it into the worn messenger bag he carried to class. “You like Italian?” He stood, less than a foot from me, and I could smell his aftershave, clean and crisp like a breezy day at the beach. Intoxicating.
“Sure,” I answered, perfectly hiding how my pulse raced at his closeness.
“A friend of mine owns a place just a few blocks away,” he said as we started walking. “Mostly Northern Italian. Delicious.”
It was that part of summer where days go on forever. Nearly eight o’clock and the streetlights were hardly needed. I’d been nervous that it would be awkward with Lucas, but our conversation danced lightly over common ground. Something about the evening, the long, easy days of summer, made me feel like it would have been perfectly natural for him to slip his hand in mine as we strolled the comfortable sidewalks of Bering. He didn’t. But I kept hoping he might.
The restaurant was on a side street that I’d never been down.
“Gianna,” he said, returning the owner’s air-kiss greeting, “this is Cassandra.”
“So nice to meet you.” Gianna had a trace of an accent and a warm smile. She led us to a courtyard table in back. “Please. Let me know if you need anything. Wallace will be with you in a moment.”
There were four other tables, only two of them occupied, surrounding a small stone fountain on the patio. Candlelit sconces and flickering lights on each table made it feel secret and intimate. If it hadn’t been owned by his friend, choosing someplace like this would have left me no doubt about Lucas’s intentions.
Our waiter appeared with bread and water and Lucas ordered a carafe of wine.
“You’re not twenty-one,” I said when the waiter left.
“No, but Gianna would be disappointed if we didn’t have a glass with dinner.” He smiled. “It’s the Italian way.”
I thought about our lesson from last week, Socrates preferring death to breaking the laws of Athens, then shook my head. Too much philosophy on the brain.
“So, how do you know Gianna?” I asked.
“She’s a friend of my mother’s, actually. Years ago, she owned a bakery back home. Gianna and her husband moved here when he got a job running Food Services at the U. When I decided to come to Lennox, my mom and she reconnected.” He reached across the table for the butter, his hand nearly brushing mine. “Gianna’s a great cook, but a fantastic baker. You have to try the desserts. They’re amazing.”
The wine came and Lucas and I watched Wallace fill both our glasses midway. We ordered our meals and Lucas raised his glass, his eyes meeting mine. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I agreed, clinking his rim softly.
He’d chosen a merlot, fruity and warm. I sipped gently, familiar enough with alcohol from Nan’s tea and the occasional holiday toast to know how quickly it can go to your head.
“So, are you enjoying our class?”
“I am,” I answered. “It’s challenging, as you said it would be, but I like it.” I sipped again, looking
up at him as I added, “I thought you were good yesterday.”
He smiled. “I thought you were good yesterday too. I can’t say that was in my lesson plan, but that’s the fun thing about philosophy. You never know when you’re going to get a great back-and-forth going.”
I took a piece of the bread he offered. “How’d you wind up majoring in it? It’s kind of an unusual choice.”
“Yeah.” Lucas shrugged, flashing a small, embarrassed smile. “My mom went through a Buddhist phase when I was in high school. You know, Zen, karma, the whole thing. It got me thinking about why we’re here. I took a few classes back home and was hooked.” He paused, looking down as he added, softer, “I think we all have a purpose in life. I guess I’m just trying to figure out exactly what mine is.”
I’d never heard a guy be so honest. Maybe Jack, but only about small things. There was a vulnerability about the way Lucas said it that made me feel warm and trusted and special, like we were cocooned here in this quiet place together. I took another sip of the wine, letting his words sink in. Purpose. I didn’t really want to think about the mark, but for once, it seemed like the right time to bring it up and Lucas the right person.
I watched him carefully as I said, “You know, you never answered the question in class yesterday.”
“About …?”
“The doctor’s responsibility. You tossed it out to the group but never gave your opinion.”
He answered without hesitation. “I think the doctor should tell what he knows.”
“Why?”
“Remember what Aristotle said about using pain correctly? The path to happiness isn’t always fun.” He leaned in, his closeness making my head a little fuzzy. “But dealing with hard things, like a terminal diagnosis, can lead to greater happiness. No pain, no gain.”
