While I'm Falling Part 14

Without waiting for my response, she stepped out into the hallway, shutting the door behind her so softly I worried she hadn't closed it at all.

When I got back from the shower, there was a message on my phone from Tim. He got home okay, he said, and he wanted me to think about where I wanted to go for dinner, because anything was good with him; he just wanted to see me. His voice was always scratchy in the morning, deep and warm. "Love you," he said, before he hung up. There was a pause before he said it, not a hesitation, but more of a deliberate wait, as if he knew very well what he wanted to say, but just wanted to think about it first.

I sat on my bed, my hair dripping wet, my phone tucked under my chin. I didn't want to do anything. I might have sat there for a very long time if I hadn't been worried about my mother coming back. She'd been out with Bowzer for almost half an hour.

I texted him. "In hurry. 72 night is good. CU then."

I stared at the message before I sent it, making sure it was what I wanted. It was good: I wasn't lying, but he wouldn't spend the day worried. There was no need for a buildup. I would just tell him. And then I would lose my best friend and the only part of my life that, in the last year, had felt consistent and certain. I would feel better, maybe, after it was over, after it was all settled and done.

I was just putting on my coat to leave when she burst back into the room, the hood of her coat dripping wet and pulled up over her hair. The ketchup stain was front and center on the knot of her cream-colored scarf. She was pink in the face and breathing hard-worn out, I suppose, from climbing seven flights of stairs with a medium-sized dog under her coat. She also had a white paper bag, rolled over at the top, tucked under one of her arms. When she set Bowzer down, the bag fell on the floor. She looked at it and laughed in a way that seemed unhappy.

"Breakfast," she said finally, leaning against the wall. "Bagels. I was going to get coffee, but I didn't see how I would get it up here. Sorry. And you like strawberry jelly, right? On top of the cream cheese? I had them do it like that. They thought it was weird. But they did it."

"Oh," I said. Bowzer started sniffing around the bag, and I bent over to pick it up. "Thanks. But you know, I can pick up a bagel whenever I want at the dining hall, and it's right on my way to cla.s.s. You should save your money."

She was still out of breath, not saying anything, but I could tell, just from her face, that I had said the wrong thing. My cell phone rang. I took it out of my bag and looked at the screen. My mother was calling, or not my mother, because she was standing in front of me looking miserable and humiliated. Jimmy. I closed my phone and put it back in my bag.

"Thank you, though." I opened the bag and pulled out the bagel with strawberry jelly bleeding out. "This will save me time." I already had my coat on, my bag over my shoulder.

"Your hair looks nice," she said. "But I like it curly, too."

"Thanks." I smiled. She was standing between me and the door.

"You'll be gone all morning?"

I nodded. I couldn't tell if she registered this news as good or bad. She appeared to be making calculations, maybe adding up hours in her head.

"What...uh..." I kept my voice light, unworried. "What are you going to do today?"

She slid past me, farther into the room. "I'm not sure yet. I've got to go find a KC Star. KC Star. I'll go somewhere and read the want ads." I'll go somewhere and read the want ads."

I said nothing. She took off her coat and draped it over her arm.

"Do you want to hang that up?"

"I don't see a hook," she said. "You've got one for your coat, but..."

I took her coat from her and opened my closet door. I had another hook inside the door for my robe. I took my robe down, tossed it on my bed, and hung her coat on the hook.

"Oh...you didn't have to do-"

She s.h.i.+fted her weight, but continued to stand in front of the door. I didn't want to ask her to move so I could leave. She already seemed so uncomfortable, like anywhere she stood would be wrong.

"Anything you want me to do before I leave?" She looked around the room. "I could sweep or something. I could clean the windows. It would make it brighter in here."

"They're fine," I said. "You don't have to do anything."

She looked at me. "I don't work until Thursday."

"Oh," I said. "Okay."

"My supervisor gave me some time off." She pushed her hair behind her ears. "I worked on Sat.u.r.day, after I had to pack up everything in the van." She was speaking quickly, and rolling her eyes as if bored by her own story. "I was late, of course, and then when I got there, I guess I looked a little...unkempt." She reached into the bag for the other bagel. "That was her word, my supervisor's. She's a little bit older than you are. Or maybe younger." She paused to smile. "Lindsay. She suggested I take several days off." She tore off a piece of bagel, leaned over, and held it out for Bowzer. "I don't think I was allowed to say no." She suggested I take several days off." She tore off a piece of bagel, leaned over, and held it out for Bowzer. "I don't think I was allowed to say no."

Bowzer turned his snout away from the bagel. She frowned, looked at the piece he'd rejected, and popped it into her own mouth.

"Anyway..." She chewed politely, her hand covering her mouth. "Don't worry. I'll go somewhere for the day, a coffee shop or something. I'll get out of your hair. I won't come back until late." She frowned. "You know what, though? I think I've lost my phone. Maybe it's in one of the bags. Could you call it for me?"

I took a bite of my bagel, holding up one finger to tell her to wait while I thought of something to say. It would do no good to tell her Jimmy Liff had her phone. She would be better off just thinking it was lost until I could get it back to her. Also: if I started to tell her the whole story, I would never get out of the room.

"You can just call it from that," I said, nodding toward the landline on the wall. "I've got to catch a bus."

"Sorry," she said. "I don't want to make you late."

I wrapped my scarf around my neck and walked quickly to the door. When I opened it, there was Marley Gould. She was wearing her ruffled nightgown, but she also had on pink lipstick and blush. She moved her head, trying to see over me.

"Is your mom still here?"

"NO," I said, stepping in front of her. "MY MOM IS GONE. SHE ISN'T HERE ANYMORE."

Behind me, I heard my closet door open and the jingling of Bowzer's collar. I kept my eyes on Marley's, my smile wide, until I heard the closet door shut.

"Oh." She looked at my door. "Who were you talking to?"

"I was on the phone. Do you need something?" She already had her hair braided for the day, a pink ribbon tied around each end. She smelled faintly of orange juice. I wondered if she had already gone down to breakfast. Some people made the trek in nightgowns and pajamas, as if they were still living at home, just traipsing downstairs for pancakes with their parents and not to an inst.i.tutional dining hall that served four thousand people a day.

"I just thought I heard your mom," Marley said. "I guess you sound like her." She stared at me intently. "I met her last night. She was really nice. She asked me all about music. Did she tell you?"

"She mentioned it," I said. I pulled up my coat sleeve and looked at my watch. A normal person would have seen this as a signal to move aside.

"She's pretty, too. I can't believe she's your mom." She shook her head and pulled one braid over her eyes. "Not 'cause she's pretty, I mean. I mean she looks young."

I stopped trying to get past her. I leaned back against my door frame, my arms crossed, still barring entry. But I smiled, more or less inviting her to keep talking. "Yes!" I said, my voice just a little louder than normal. "I agree. She is pretty. And she does look young!" I was still anxious to leave for the library, but I could picture my mother, well within earshot, crouched beneath my clothes with Bowzer. If there was ever a time she might need to overhear something good about herself, I guessed it was pretty much now.

Marley seemed pleased by my sudden enthusiasm. "She's funny, too!" She nodded at me, as if I had just convinced her of something. "She played the saxophone when she was in junior high. I'm sure you know that. But she was making fun of herself-I guess she used to get in trouble with her teacher for bulging her eyes when she played?" Marley pantomimed playing a saxophone with bulging eyes.

I said nothing. I did not know that my mother had ever played the saxophone.

"She was out here for a long time," Marley added. She tried to look over my shoulder again. "Waiting. Were you late or something?"

"No."

"Hmmm." She stepped back, studying my face. I took advantage of the s.p.a.ce between us to step into the hallway. My mother had gotten whatever ego boost she was going to get from Marley, and it was time for me to go. I turned, shut my door, and searched my bag for my keys. Configuration refers to the three-dimensional orientation of atoms around a chiral center. It can be designated R or S. Configuration refers to the three-dimensional orientation of atoms around a chiral center. It can be designated R or S.

"She lives close by?"

"What?" I looked over my shoulder. "Yeah. In Kansas City."

"Oh, you're lucky. I bet you get to see her all the time."

I had to laugh at that, a low, self-pitying chuckle. I wasn't sure if my mother had heard. If she had, even in her present situation, she might think it was funny, too. Only Marley wasn't in on the joke.

"I'm not laughing at you...," I started.

When I looked up again, she was already walking away, her slippers silent on the floor. She disappeared into her room without another word.

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 gla.s.s, the gift of some generous alumnus. Wescoe, on the other hand, was short and squat, concrete gray; the first two floors were bas.e.m.e.nts. The upper floors were okay-they put in a lot of windows, and the cla.s.srooms 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 during my conference with my English professor that morning, I felt an urge to breathe deeply. I had just come from the science library, where I'd spent the last two hours under the high ceilings staring at molecules and trying to flip them around in my head. Actually, I'd spent maybe an hour looking at molecules before I fell asleep right there at a study table under all that beveled gla.s.s and beautiful sunlight, my head cus.h.i.+oned by my forearms. I woke with drool on my book, a page stuck to my cheek, feeling stupid in many ways.

But now, right next door, in Wescoe's dreary bas.e.m.e.nt, 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 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 cla.s.s 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 dest.i.tute. There was no reason to a.s.sume 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. A talent for this. Genuine enthusiasm. I stared into the falling rain, vaguely aware that I was smiling. 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s 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 f.u.c.king problem that I can't get to cla.s.s 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 cla.s.ses? 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 cla.s.sifieds 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s, 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 wis.h.i.+ng she could help, I lost the will to ask anyone else.

On the way back up to my room, I leaned my head against the back wall of the elevator and closed my eyes. My heart was still pounding, but I could already feel myself calming, sweat cooling under my sweater, my skin clammy beneath. It was a relief, really, to just give up, to admit there was nothing more I could do. I reached into my pocket and turned off my phone. Jimmy would call soon, and he would call later. For now, I just wanted to go to sleep. My mother would be gone all day, and I would have my room to myself. I was only putting off misery; but all I could think was how good it would be to lie down in a dark room by myself for a while, and not worry about what was coming.

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.