Fall Semester

by Stephanie Fournet

  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.

  “Shh…shhh, my love,” he whispered. “It’s alright.”

  “Someone needs to stay with him,” she repeated into his chest.

  He continued rocking and soothing. He gentled his tone as much as he possibly could.

  “Yes, I know. Of course….but why does it have to be you every day?”

  Maren hiccupped, pulled back, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. He cast his eyes about the room for a box of tissues, but there was none to be found.

  “It’s simple. I’m the only one who can.”

  In an instant, in that one statement, in the way she shut down her own weakness, Malcolm saw and recognized this side of her that both awed and mystified him: the protector, the warrior, the martyr. He had watched her enough to know that he could not engage this side of her directly; he had lost to her before. He could not oppose her and try to convince her that she was wrong, so wrong. He had to disarm her with gentleness and patience.

  “Why are you the only one who can?” he asked, softly.

  She took a shaky breath and seemed to sit up straighter in his arms.

  “Because Mom is out of sick days; their medical bills are through the roof, and their credit cards are almost maxed out. They can’t afford for her not to work.” She spoke rapidly, fiercely, but her eyes filled again as she listed their woes. “Her office lets her work from home when she can, but sometimes she has to go in. She has to.”

  Malcolm nodded, pretending agreement so that she would not feel the need to fight him.

  “And what about Lane?”

  Maren shrugged, and in that one gesture, Malcolm saw the truth.

  “Lane just got this job. I can’t ask….He can’t risk his position by taking too much time off.”

  Malcolm waited for her to see the truth, too, but he knew that she might not be able to. Had Maren ever asked her younger brother or sister to help her? Had she ever stepped out of the role she’d always filled in order to take care of herself? He would have bet money that she never had.

  He held himself back, waited to see if she would take the next step herself, and when she didn’t, he rested a hand on her knee, almost as if he sensed she would try to move away from him.

  “Why is Laurel at a friend’s?” He tried to conceal the judgment in his voice as much as he could, but Malcolm found that he was growing rather impatient with the Gardner family. Life and literature had taught him that every family had its own set of roles and that each parent and child must play his part, willingly or unwillingly. But maturity and experience were the curtain calls, the opportunity for each to find individuation. If Maren ignored the Call to stake her own claim at life, she would forever put the perceived needs of her family above her dreams. And her family, in turn, would keep allowing it. This he could not abide.

  The silence stretched between them, and Maren sighed.

  “She can’t take it. Like I said,…Dad’s not always himself.” Sadness drew her features down, and she did not look at him. Malcolm could see that she was lost in the grimness of unpleasant memories. “He’s been…disoriented…and angry.” She met his eyes, then. “You see, my dad is so gentle. He never yells….He never yelled before….It’s just not him.”

  Malcolm raised her chin so that he could look into her eyes. He wanted her to see that he knew only too well what she faced.

  “Maren, the week before my mother died, she told me that it was my fault she was sick.”

  “Oh my God,…Malcolm!” Her shock and the concern in her eyes touched him, but he pressed on.

  “My mother loved me more than anything, Maren. I always knew that growing up,” he said, remembering the beautiful woman with sad eyes. “She did everything in her power to make me fe
el loved and safe despite my father’s rejection of us….I knew all of this before she got really sick. It did not help lessen the sting of her words.”

  He saw her silent agreement, and he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before continuing.

  “I carried them with me for a long time….I still carry them,” he admitted. “But,…watching her die…it taught me that…a slow death is a great battle. The dying must fight their bodies,… their memories,…their fears. Everything unresolved comes up to be fought with—conquered, reconciled with, or surrendered to. Even if he seems like he is, Maren, your dad is not angry with you or anyone else here.”

  She nodded up at him, fresh tears pooling in her eyes. He watched her struggle again to command her voice, dread evident in her look before she even spoke.

  “Was she…was your mom…like that…all the way until the end?”

  Malcolm was relieved that he did not have to lie to her.

  “No, no.” He shook his head, reassuringly. “Two days before she died, it passed. She was peaceful,…almost joyful, and we had a chance to say…everything that needed to be said.”

  She softened in his arms, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to Charlotte Vashal for allowing him to comfort Maren. He acknowledged that his mother had been on his mind since Saturday night, as he watched Maren navigate her way through the loss of a parent. Now, the admission had seemed to conjure her, and he smiled at the thought of his mother meeting Maren, knowing what she meant to him.

  “I’ve never told anyone about that,” he said, squeezing her a little more tightly, wanting her to know how singular she was.

  She reached up, cupped his face, and ran her thumb against his cheek.

  “I’m glad you told me.”

  He wanted to mark the moment with a kiss, but he also wanted to make sure that she understood the whole of the story.

  “It was not easy to endure, Maren, but I’m glad no one hid it from me,” he said, carefully.

  Knowingly, Maren pressed her lips together and shook her head.

  “Laurel is not strong like you,” she insisted. “She’s the baby; she’s too young for this.”