The walk up the slight green hill was soothing, as if the idea of being in Professor’s presence lifted the burdens off the back and replaced tension with peace. It felt almost magical, but in a realistic sort of way.
“Heather,” Professor greeted when the door opened. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Professor?”
“Yesterday I noticed a student that looked very much like one of my favorites from a few years back, walking across campus. I was correct, then.”
A big, comfortable smile. “Yes, I’m back.”
“Good to have you,” he said kindly.
With Professor’s understanding character, there wasn’t a need for explanations or details, even after going AWOL for so long. Being back was all that mattered. And because of the plethora of writing requirements in Professor’s Creative Writing class from three years ago, he was fully aware of the plans to finish college, the less than ideal growing up years, the unhappy family life, Mom’s death, and the relationship with Nick.
“How are you?” he asked. “All recovered?”
There was a moment’s pause. “Recovered?”
He went on, “Two years and seven months in a coma is a long time, after all.”
The shocked face was response enough.
“Let’s see,” he paused for a moment to recollect. “As I remember, it was early one morning while watching the news when I was informed that a nineteen-year-old Washington University student was hit by a car and rushed to the hospital where she was in critical care. You can imagine my shock when I recognized the name.”
“Hallelujah!” he heard with a startle. “You’re the only person that was watching the news that morning, apparently. None of my friends had even heard about the accident. How does a local student almost die and no one find out about it? I was beginning to think they did away with local news around here.”
“I’m sure a lot of people heard about it. The fact is, it would have been a much bigger story had you actually died.”
“Thanks.” A joint laugh. Then another thoughtful pause. “But wouldn’t you have thought it strange if a schoolmate just up and disappeared?”
“Actually, it happens more often than you think,” he replied. “Students drop out all the time. Family issues, money strain, a change in priorities; there isn’t a group any more transient than college kids. So no, I don’t think it would have been all that strange. Were these friends close friends of yours?”
“My one friend, Liz, we were as close as you can get after two semesters of hanging out.”
“Roommates?”
“Well, no.”
He imparted a gentle smile. “You shouldn’t feel too bad,” he said lightly. “She probably felt worse when you left without saying goodbye.”
The comment brought some closure to a few nagging questions.
“How is life treating you these days?” he asked.
“Do you want the standard answer? Or the truth?”
“The truth has always been my preference.”
“Okay, you asked for it.”
Professor imparted a dubious smirk.
“I like my classes. My appetites back. I’m feeling strong. I’ve even started running again. And Creed and Liz have been awesome.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m happy for you, Heather.”
“Yeah. It is wonderful. Thank goodness I’m not desperately in love with a guy who hates me and won’t talk to me and is getting married in a few months.”
Professor’s face turned casually amused. “Yes, that would be bad.”
“And believe me, it’s not due to lack of effort on my part. But the harder I try, the more I can’t stop thinking about him.” The sentences connected together as if Professor hadn’t said anything in between them. “It’s driving me crazy. And the funny thing is, I think maybe I could have let go before the coma and the reflection-dreams. Maybe. Probably not, but maybe. Not now, though. Not when he’s so much a part of my life. Not when I’ve felt for so long how right it feels to be with him. Not when I’ve been dreaming about him for forever. We have to belong together, don’t we? But now he belongs to someone else. And I don’t know what to do. I act like it doesn’t bother me. But truthfully? I’m dying inside—”
“First things first,” he effectively interjected. “Who’s the imposter?”
Eyebrows stitched together. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
“It sounds to me like you don’t remember who you are. I used to know a Heather who was a strong, capable girl, a warrior of sorts, brave in the face of adversity and independent in her gentle resolve. The Heather I remember was happy not because of the world around her, but in spite of it. So I ask you again, who’s the imposter? Or have you forgotten who you are?”
“I haven’t forgotten. I’m just…I’m confused.”
“Then get un-confused. Start over. Rekindle that passion you used to have for life.”
“I don’t know, Professor. Maybe I’m not the same person. Maybe I have forgotten who I was, who I am, what I’m all about.”
“What of your love for fixing things? And the business you wanted to start with antique pieces.”
A completely forgotten memory, the love of taking old things apart and putting them back together. In fact, in the corner of the new basement apartment is the refurbished antique lamp, decorated with little antique chandelier crystals on the shades’ edges. Creed must’ve saved the lamp from the old apartment and stored it all that time. But it was a hobby from so long ago. Three years ago.
Could there be pleasure in that again? Could there be happiness within a lonely little sphere, without the man who once made it so happy? Knowing what companionship felt like, was it possible to go back to being alone? And feel any level of contentment? That’s the problem with being in love; if your heart’s been there, it wants to go back.
“I was alone once,” the words came out, “and I know I can do it again. But now that I’ve felt what it’s like to not be alone, it’s hard to go back. I don’t want to lose him. But I’m afraid I already have.”
“Your faith must overcome your fear.”
“I’m not truly afraid, Professor. I’m just . . I’m—”
“Well then, hope must overcome whatever your feeling right now.”
“How can I have hope? They’re engaged. He’s going to marry her. He loves her. What’s there to hope for?”
“Answer this question for me, will you? Does the sun rise every morning?”
The question was ridiculous. “That’s rhetorical, right?”
“Just answer it.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.”
“But surely it’s the earth that moves, not the sun. So does the sun really rise? Does it ever change position?”
It was a point, albeit an obvious one. But why ever did someone coin the term ‘sunrise’ anyway? It made no factual sense. Sun-shone or sun-reveal would have been more accurate. But what did the sun have to do with the current situation?
Professor went on, “Sometimes what we see is not really how things are. So how can we find out how things really are, or in your case, what is right for everyone involved?”
“Sometimes we can’t,” the words surfaced after they were thought through. “Not everything in life turns out the way it’s supposed to. Especially when it comes to relationships.”
“I suppose not,” Professor agreed. “However, I have found that one way to seek if something is as it should be, is to first hope in it. It’s the act of trusting, or the leap-of-faith some refer to.”
“Are you telling me that simply hoping Nick doesn’t marry her will make it happen? If that were the case, not only would they not be engaged right now, they’d be archenemies.”
Professor chuckled at the sarcasm. “This is what I’m telling you: Trust your heart.”
It was gentle advice. Mild. Feasible. Professor always
knew how to lead the way to safe and pleasant places.
*******
By the end of the school week I was well into the swing of things with my four classes of Statistics, Physiology, Communications, and Health. There was a funny guy named Bart who sat next to me in Communications class and called me “Scottish Heather”. We’d become fast friends. He was rail skinny, dressed like a hardcore skater, had a cute smile, and was hilarious which made for fun conversation.
It was great to have a class with Liz. If she hadn’t taken a break for two years to work full-time and earn some money, she would have been long gone and graduated. And what a godsend that Professor was still on staff as an academic counselor. While Liz was a skillful empathizer, some things could only be discussed with the older and wiser, or, in Professor’s case, the father-figure type.
He’d reminded me of who I used to be, “a warrior” he’d said. Funny, at first I didn’t remember myself that way. The “coma me” was insecure and skittish. But now that Professor had jogged my memory, he’d brought to mind a different girl. A girl who was a little more grounded. A fighter inside. Someone who’d trudged through a crappy past, and stayed positive through it; who’d lied about that past not because she was embarrassed by it, but because, frankly, it wasn’t worth remembering. The past wasn’t what mattered; it was the future that counted. A girl who was determined to have a happy life in college and beyond, who wanted to be defined not by the past, but by who she was and who she wanted to become.
Evidently, Professor had seen that. He knew a lot about me. Aside from Creed, he probably knew the most. And he knew what Creed didn’t about the last six months before the coma.
Even with Liz and Professor, school was punishing. Everywhere I turned begat a memory of Nick, and then an unpleasant struggle to keep him out of my thoughts. I coped by playing a game with myself. Every time I could get him out of my head within a minutes’ time, I would reward myself with a candy bar. Needless to say, the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups sitting on my counter at home had yet to be opened.
Without difficulty, I settled into my basement studio apartment, which was dim and dinky, but cozy. In the kitchen were two chairs and a small round folding table that also served as a TV stand; then a mattress and box spring were situated on the back wall; and finally a red vinyl couch perked up the petite room nicely. And of course, my refurbished antique lamp decorated the corner.
Friday evening I sat with my legs crossed on the couch for hours, switching through TV shows till I’d run the roll of stations at least twenty times. Creed would be at school till late. Liz had gone home to visit her parents for the weekend. And Nick was…probably with….
At the thought of them together, a chill settled around my heart. Imagining him with anybody but me was impossible to assemble in my mind. How could I, after dreaming of him for so long? His love was permanently woven in the fabric of my life, my love for him still burning like a flame in my soul. My world had once revolved around his. It was an impossible conflict. How could I hope, as Professor admonished, if he was with her?
As I tried to exercise that measure of hope, I began daydreaming of us together—unfortunately causing me to again forfeit another Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. It felt much too indulgent on my part, but it was also inevitable, particularly because there was a mechanic shop being advertized on the current TV commercial. The memory came:
“Hey genius, you forgot to tighten the filter,” Nick said while quickly grabbing a towel and laying it under the car where a big black puddle grew on the cement.
“No, come on, let me do it!” she cried, snatching the paper towels and then reaching for the filter under the hood of her car. “You said I could change the oil myself this time. You promised you wouldn’t interfere.”
“Not true. I said I would supervise. Which means interfering when the fluid that goes in your car is leaking onto the street.” And then his thumb smudged some black grease on the tip of her nose.
“You’re asking for it,” she threatened, poking him with a displeased look while fighting off the love behind it.
“Alright, alright,” he said, a short laugh escaping him. “Hands off.” And he lifted his hands in surrender fashion. Trusting his words, she turned back around toward the engine. But not a second later, his body was against her back and his fingers were subtly covering hers, assisting in securing the oilcan in place.
She reluctantly complied, acknowledging his superiority on the proper tension needed to tighten the can without stripping it. Besides, his body was wrapped around hers, and all she could think of was how pleasant it felt to be in his embrace, and how essential he was to her happiness. And how superb and complete the rest of her life would be with him in it.
Realizing she wanted to add to his life the way he added to hers, she rested her head against his chest. She felt grateful, undeserving, happy, and motivated. She thought for a moment, allowing her mind to consider all the ways she could better herself for him. “Do you think stubbornness is an inherited trait?”
His arms went around her waist. “Why do you ask?”
Hearing his sarcasm, she laughed and moaned at the same time. “I try,” she insisted. “I do. But I think I’m—”
Deftly, she was circled into him and silenced with a kiss to her black smudged nose.
After kissing a few other smudgy spots, he turned her back to the car and while leaning over her to tighten the last connection, whispered in her ear, “You’re exactly what I want.”
I was in the middle of this thought when my phone rang.
“Hello?” I said absently.
Just as I was about to repeat myself, a deep voice said from the other end, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I repeated unthinkingly. My brain forgot to update itself and I half expected him to mention something about the oil I’d spilled, or tell me I wasn’t exactly what he wanted after all.
“Meet me at the park tomorrow?” he startled me by saying.
“Um, yeah. Sure.” I caught my breath. “Is everything okay?”
“Just wanna talk for a sec.”
I hung up with the largest gasp in recorded history. We were finally going to talk. At last, what I’d been waiting for.
Chapter 3
Before I arrived at the park I gave myself a pep talk: Don’t talk about her, check. Keep the conversation casual and cavalier, check. And DO NOT lose your cool, check. It had been a week since I’d gone to his aunt and uncle’s to see him, and, I wasn’t proud to admit, I’d considered every possible angle regarding their relationship. The favored one was that I misunderstood him; maybe things weren’t as serious between them. That was the angle I wished for, but not the most likely. Still, I was keeping my fingers crossed.
When I walked around a bend and saw the black monster car, my heart fluttered and my thoughts went haywire.
I wondered what we’d talk about, and if my responses would please or displease him. I wondered if we’d go right back to where we left off, or if our exchanges would be tight and uncomfortable. In the end, I would walk away from the park today feeling either delighted or discouraged. The possibilities made my heart beat so fast I couldn’t feel the breaks between the beats.
As I walked closer, he came into view. He was resting against the black monster car, lazily studying people as they passed. My eyes took him in.
And when today’s liaison is over, will I feel as excited then as I do right now as I watch you over there? Will that irresistible self-possession of yours cast its spell on me once again? And will my eyes ever behold anything more appealing than that distractingly drop-dead gorgeous face of yours and the sexy way your simple long sleeve shirt and jeans hug just enough to hint at the remarkable body hiding underneath? Will I ever get used to the crushing desire I feel for you as I stare at you helplessly? As I watch your head tilt down, then turn toward me, and your eyebrow arch dubiously.
Magnificent, complicated creature.
“New car?” I asked as I walked up to
him, trying to shift my abandoned thoughts to more levelheaded ones, like how filthy the black monster was. Dried up dirt was splattered all along the sides, and the wheels were caked with light brown guck. It looked as if he’d given it a mud bath.
He pushed off the car and turned toward the park. “Yeah,” he responded. “Like it?” Since he knew full well I wasn’t the flashy type and wouldn’t be impressed in the least, I took the question as a taunt.
Carefully suppressing my adrenalin, I answered, “I don’t know since I can’t see most of it.”
He peered sideways at me, sharing the beginnings of a sly grin.
I wondered where he’d gotten the money to buy such a nice ride. His family was extremely wealthy but conservative spenders. I figured he’d dipped into the money he’d earned over the years working at his dad’s body shop. I’d once heard his mom say the earnings had turned into a substantial amount.
We walked in silence until finding some shade under a cluster of tall trees. But when I saw him find a seat on the small bench to the side, a frisson of pain crawled through me. In the past, our favorite place to hang out was the park. And our favorite way to lounge was with him sitting on the grass, leaning against a tree, my head resting on his stomach. How I used to love the feel of his torso rising up and down in time with his breathing. I loved the way his fingers played in my hair. Or how he’d tickle my bare shoulders with swirls and lines and architectural sketches from his head. Sometimes the sketches would go all the way up to my neck, and he would whisper in my ear little mathematical equations that went along with the sketches. There was nothing in the world more pleasurable.
Those were our little rituals. For some absurd reason that’s the picture I had in my mind for today.
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