After the Leaves Fall

by Nicole Baart

  I shrugged again, this time wishing against all logic that there were a roll of fascinating posters—maybe blink-182 to prove I was cool or Che Guevara to make me seem edgy and avant-garde—hiding underneath the seat of my car. But, of course, there was no such secret stash, and my smile faded.

  Becca wandered over to my desk and dropped her cargo on the floor in front of it. She picked up the mug that held my assortment of pristine, as-of-yet unused pens and pencils. The mug was the one impractical purchase I had included in my shopping, and it sported a sweeping panorama of the Rocky Mountains. It didn’t even say where specifically the picture was taken, just those three words: The Rocky Mountains. The peaks were snowcapped and impossible in their height and immensity. I loved it because they took my breath away and because I could hardly believe that they were something more than an outrageous figment of someone’s imagination. I had never seen the mountains in all their real-life glory before. They seemed just outside the realm of belief.

  “These are the coastal Rockies,” Becca commented absently. “The mountains around Spokane look very different.”

  I had forgotten that mountains were everyday for her—her hometown was right outside Spokane—but I didn’t have a chance to respond before her dad and brother stumbled into the room buried beneath dangerously tilting loads of boxes.

  I made my polite hellos, then got myself out of the way before I became a boring roommate and a nuisance. I hardly saw Becca for the rest of the day.

  Listening to the sounds of her sleep, I decided that in spite of our somewhat cool introduction, she wouldn’t be a bad roommate. Not quite what I had in mind, but to be perfectly fair, I wasn’t even sure myself of what I had had in mind. I had never had a roommate before. But Becca would be fine. A bit messy and a bit disappointed in me but certainly not as bad as some of the scenarios I’d envisioned. She neither emitted a peculiar odor nor packed a chain saw in one of those overstuffed boxes—not that I could tell, anyway. We would survive each other at the very least.

  I didn’t move until her alarm clock went off at seven-thirty. By then, the sounds of an awakening dorm had filtered underneath our door, and as footsteps ambled back and forth and pipes creaked and flowed in the distance, I wondered what my chances were of getting a hot shower. I hopped out of bed before she even had a chance to hit snooze on her alarm.

  Becca moaned and glanced bleary-eyed at the clock and then at me. “How do you do that?” she muttered reproachfully.

  “Do what?” I asked, gathering my clothes and tossing a towel over my shoulder.

  “Jump out of bed like that. I’ve seen you do it twice now.”

  “I guess I’m a light sleeper,” I said, although I had never thought of myself as such before.

  By the time I got back from my shower, Becca was just throwing off the blankets. She still looked half asleep, and her hair was kinked out on one side of her head and flattened to the scalp on the other. She sat on the edge of the bed and stretched, moaning and yawning noisily.

  “There’s no hot water,” I offered, pulling the turbaned towel from my head and running my fingers through my cold, damp hair.

  Becca yawned so big I could hear her jaw crack. “I didn’t expect there to be,” she said. “My sister was in this building last year, and she said that there never is. Lesson one: sleep is more important than trying to catch a lukewarm shower.” She stuck her finger in the air and looked pointedly at me. I was about to be mildly offended by the unsolicited advice, but she grinned at me and I realized she was parroting her sister. “Claire is so superior. Like I need her to tell me what to do. Do you have an obnoxious older sister too?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said.

  “Lucky you.” Becca slid off the bed and went to stand in front of her closet. “I have two—and an older brother.” She shot me a smile over her shoulder. “Nate is great, though. He once beat up one of my old boyfriends.” She paused and then amended, “Well, he didn’t exactly beat him up. … I think he punched him once. Or told him to leave me alone. Whatever. Nate is cool.”

  Becca was silent for a few moments as she rummaged through the hangers in her closet. I was trying to scrunch some life into my hair when she turned to me with two shirts held against her chest. “What do you think for orientation? Slinky tank top?” She jiggled one of the hangers, and the purple sequins on a lingerie-looking shirt sparkled in the light. Holding the other top forward, she added, “Or something more casual?”

  I could tell by her voice that she wanted me to pick the pajama top over the white-and-pink-striped henley, but I couldn’t do it. “I like that one,” I confessed, pointing to the waffle-weave shirt. It was about five inches wide at the waist and intended to stretch and hug her every curve—it wasn’t like she was giving up a single ounce of sex appeal with her more “casual” shirt.

  She sighed anyway. “I knew you’d say that. It’s exactly what my brother would say.” I half expected her to ignore me, but she hung the club shirt back in her closet. “How ’bout you?” she asked after a minute of digging around for the perfect pair of jeans.

  “I think I’ll stick with what I’m wearing,” I said, glancing at my V-necked T-shirt layered over a white tank.

  “No, Julia, not your outfit. Do you have any brothers? anyone to tell you what to wear?”

  I shook my head and watched her reflection in the mirror behind me.

  “You don’t?” It was more of a surprised declaration than a question. I didn’t offer anything more—it didn’t seem that she had left me room to—so she said, “You’re an only child?” Another statement masquerading as a question.

  Only days before, I had spent hours prepping myself for these sorts of questions and inquiries into my past. I thought I was more than ready to be light and fun and flippant—as if being the only child of one dead and one absent parent were the mark of all things sought after and fashionable. But Becca’s surprise—and the turn that I knew the conversation would take—was crumbling all my careful intentions to dust.

  I struggled to hold the easy smile on my face. “It’s really nice,” I said quickly. “No competition, no sharing my room or my clothes, no nagging …” I gave her what I hoped to be a friendly wink in the mirror before turning my attention back to my hair. I hoped the conversation was over.

  “Must be nice,” Becca said finally, and I nearly melted in relief. “Although I think I’d miss it too. Brothers and sisters, I mean. There’s always someone to talk to.”

  I heard her pull the door open and I wished her a nice shower, even managing to put a bit of tease back into my voice. She just moaned and let the door fall shut with a loud bang.

  When she was gone, I squared my shoulders and rehearsed the lines that I had practiced to ease the introduction of my unconventional family. I knew it would come up again. I knew that even as Becca struggled to hold herself under that ice-cold stream of water, she was wondering what my home life was like. Whether my parents were superinvolved and overprotective. Whether I was old beyond my years because I had always been around adults and never children. Whether I was rich and spoiled because there was no one else to share my parents’ income and attention. And I also knew that she was wondering why mommy and daddy dearest hadn’t been around to help move their baby into college. Why my possessions were sparse and my clothes plain. Why I was nothing like the only-child stereotype she had always held in her mind.

  My dad died a few years ago, and my mom left when I was nine, I mouthed as I stroked mascara onto my eyelashes. That was way too blunt. She’d pity me before she ever got a chance to feel anything else for me. My parents aren’t very involved in my life. That was too ambiguous. She’d wonder if they were druggies or in jail and if I was here on a full-ride scholarship because I was some sort of hard-luck prodigy. I wished I could just say nothing.

  As it turned out, I could. She didn’t ask any more questions on her return, and I certainly didn’t offer.

  Becca and I went to freshman orientation
together even though she had already made friends on our floor. I had anticipated being left alone as she went with them, and when she chose to go with me instead, I didn’t fool myself into thinking it was because she liked me better. She had simply taken a long time getting ready, and I was the only one who would wait for her.

  We sat together near the back and quickly lost interest as the dean of students droned on about the responsibility that came with the independence of this new life outside our parents’ walls. He was stuffy and pretentious and used words that I doubted even he knew the meaning of. It was obvious he cared little for us and lots for the image of his reputable school.

  “I wonder if he gives the same speech every year,” Becca whispered, leaning into me.

  “He certainly knows it well enough,” I said. “I think he’s on autopilot.”

  She suppressed a giggle, although I hadn’t found my comment all that funny.

  We tried to listen for a few more minutes before she tilted her head toward mine and said, “My dad thinks he’s a jerk. When we flew out here to visit he was sucking up to my dad so bad—they wanted me to play basketball.” I raised my eyebrows at her, so she added, “I told them I wanted to focus on my studies.”

  We both laughed. After knowing her for just over a day, even I could find the humor in that.

  Brighton was a rather prestigious private school, and although Grandma had wanted me to go to Glendale and be closer to home, she was very proud that I had been accepted and especially that I was the recipient of a none-too-modest scholarship. No one had flattered or sweet-talked Grandma or me in an attempt to get me to come, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit pleased to be here at all.

  In a completely uncharacteristic move, I looked knowingly at Becca and said, “I totally know what you mean. They can be so pushy.”

  It was obvious she hadn’t expected that from me because her eyes widened just a bit. “Really? What sport do you play?”

  “I don’t play sports,” I quickly answered, afraid of starting some awkward rumor. Something told me that Becca would be a good person to spread just such a juicy misconception. “I’m here on an academic scholarship.” It wasn’t a lie per se, but it sounded a little more glamorous than it actually was because I had left out the addendum—the part of the story that explained how I probably only got the scholarship because I was one of the few girls to apply for it in the engineering college. It didn’t take amazing powers of deduction to figure that equal opportunity had played at least a part in my substantial scholarship. But Becca didn’t need to know that.

  “What’s your major?” she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.

  “Engineering,” I said a little smugly, holding my breath because I wondered if she would be impressed or if such a confession would cement me as the dull, egghead roommate.

  “Cool,” she responded immediately, and I could tell she was neither very impressed nor turned off. “I’m undeclared. It makes my parents so nervous!” There was barely concealed glee in her voice, and I decided to try a friendly move, bumping my knee into hers. She smiled, and we diverted our attention back to the speaker.

  He was going over curfews. A few soft groans went up from the eight hundred or so students collected in Price Auditorium. The dean just kept right on going. He didn’t even seem to notice or mind that people were chatting or napping or barely paying attention to him. It was like watching those poor flight attendants on the one and only flight I’d taken in my life to Florida. They stood in the aisles and diligently went over each and every emergency procedure, even though I seemed to be the only person who listened to a single word they were saying. Apparently, as long as they repeated the right words, they could wash their hands of any culpability in the case of a true emergency. The dean was doing the same thing: washing his hands of us.

  I had tuned him out and was trying to discreetly study my diverse classmates when Becca spoke again. “Your parents must be so proud.”

  It was the comment I had been waiting for, but it still caught me off guard. I didn’t say anything for a moment; then, deciding to plunge in and get it over with, I whispered, “My dad died a few years ago.”

  Becca gasped. She actually gasped. “Oh, my word, Julia! I’m so sorry! I had no idea!”

  She was talking too loudly, but I didn’t dare shush her. By the sympathetic slant of her eyes I knew she felt compelled to say more, and since I was already cringing from the attention, I quickly hopped in. “It’s okay. I’m okay with it now. It was a long time ago.”

  Becca looked skeptical, but the pained concern in her face had eased just a bit. “What about your mom?” she asked. “It must be hard for her to have you so far away.”

  “I’m not that far from home,” I reminded her. “It’s only a two-hour drive.” And then, although I hadn’t planned it and although I regretted it even as my mouth formed the words—I could have just left things as they were, vague and uncertain and safe—I said, “Besides, her job keeps her really busy. She’s a chef.”

  The lie slipped off my tongue as easily as if I had practiced it beforehand. I hadn’t. I didn’t even know where it had come from or why I had made Janice into a chef of all bizarre things. I had always sort of envisioned her working as a waitress beside that friend who took up her every spare minute on the telephone in those days before she left. But the waitress I imagined her to be was trashy, and I could never admit to anyone that that was the picture I carried of her. Maybe my mind had rushed away from that make-believe woman in the too-tight dress with a plunging neckline in a greasy diner to the closest respectable occupation.

  But a chef? And how could I undo it now? How could I take it back? How could I say, No, sorry, that was a lie. My mom actually left when I was a little girl, and I don’t know where she is or what she does. What had been done could not be undone.

  Of course, Becca was hooked. “A chef? You mean, like a cordon bleu? Or a cook at a family restaurant?” Her voice took on a different quality with the latter option. She probably thought I was trying to inflate my mother’s vocation.

  “A chef,” I answered defensively without thinking, even though I was defending nothing more than a pathetic mirage. I quickly threw in, “And a sommelier.” I had read the word somewhere and hoped I was pronouncing it right.

  “That has to do with wine, right?” Becca asked, now completely engrossed.

  As my heart sank deeper into the pit of my stomach, I tried to be thankful that at least she wasn’t looking at me with those weepy-sad eyes anymore.

  “My parents belong to a wine club,” she continued. “They would just love to meet your mom!”

  I nodded and tried to turn back to the orientation. But Becca was taut beside me, and I could almost hear the cogs revolving in her mind. After a minute, she cleared her throat quietly, and I waited for her next question with silent dread. She must have been wondering what a chef and sommelier was doing in itty-bitty Mason, Iowa.

  “Does your mom have her own restaurant?” she finally inquired casually.

  I must have been subconsciously preparing the lie because nonchalantly, without even bothering to look at her, I said, “She works at a five-star restaurant in Minneapolis. I doubt you’d have heard of it.” Burying myself even deeper, I went on, “I lived with my grandmother during the school year because Mom liked the high school in Mason better. She figured I’d get more attention. A better education.”

  “Ohhh … ,” Becca breathed. I guessed she was trying to absorb it all and, more accurately, trying to figure out which question she could ask next without sounding too nosy. “What about—?”

  “It’s complicated,” I broke in, cutting her off. I didn’t want to be rude, but more than that I didn’t want to answer any more questions about my imaginary mother. I went numb just thinking about it. Classes hadn’t even started. I hadn’t made any new friends. I had just—just—begun the life that I had worked so hard to reinvent, and already it was careening so far off course that I wanted to
jump ship and start over. Was it too late to enroll in another college?

  Thankfully, for the remainder of the day, Becca didn’t question me any further about my chef mother, so I didn’t have to be curt or provide any more details about my personal life. I had definitely piqued her interest, although not in the way that I had hoped to when I first saw her walk into our shared dorm room. I stumbled through my day half distracted as I tried to remember exactly what I had and hadn’t said.

  When we split into smaller groups for brief campus tours and introductions to some of our professors and counselors, I played the part of the good girl and went along, even though Becca—and lots of other people—were skipping out to go grab coffee at the nearest Starbucks.

  I had thinking to do. I had to live as though my lie were reality. I couldn’t backtrack—I could only maintain the pretense of the person she thought I was. It was a mask I hadn’t planned on wearing.

  I called Grandma as soon as I got back to my dorm room.

  When I left home for Brighton, I told Grandma she wouldn’t hear from me for a couple of days. We were standing in the driveway in front of my packed, gassed-up, and already-running car. I was leaning against the passenger door, and the morning sun was in my eyes. She stood facing me, and partly because I was blinded in the bright light and partly because she was holding her emotions so very tightly, I couldn’t read her expression.

  She didn’t beg me to call her first thing when I arrived, and she even said, “Okay, that’s fine” without a trace of worry or self-pity. “No news is good news, right?” Then she smiled, and I almost couldn’t tell that it was forged sincerity.

  “Right,” I affirmed, equally as genuine. “I’ll call as soon as I can. I just don’t want to get caught up in all the busyness and not have a chance to call you earlier if you’re expecting it.” I was making excuses even though she didn’t want or need any. “I don’t want you to worry,” I added after a moment.