She wipes her face with her sleeve while I dig into my purse to see if I can find a tissue. There’s a crumpled one in the corner, but it’s clean, and Joanna gratefully takes it.
“He really liked you,” she says in a soft voice. “You guys could’ve made a great couple, but maybe it’s better that you didn’t fall in love with him.” Her face collapses as the grief she’s been holding at bay swamps her. “Then you wouldn’t be a mess like I am.”
Without a word, I guide her to the table, drag an empty chair next to mine, and then sit beside her while she cries. A few of the other patrons give us weird looks. I return their nosiness with a death glare.
Fortunately, Joanna composes herself in no time. Soon she’s blowing her nose and casting me a chagrined look out from under the veil of her hair. “Fuck. I hadn’t cried all day,” she mumbles. “It was a new record.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t even get out of bed.”
“I did that for the first couple of weeks, and then I woke up and thought, Beau would kick my ass if he saw me shitting my life away. So here I am, trying something stupid and new.”
“Doesn’t sound so stupid to me.” And it doesn’t anymore. Joanna is young. If pursuing a different career in music is her dream, better to chase it now than later.
“You really believe that?”
“Of course I do.”
She stuffs the tissue in her coat pocket. “Beau always said you were so driven. I figured this was the sort of thing you’d look down on.”
I frown. “You make me sound like a callous asshole.”
“No. I didn’t mean it that way. It was a compliment.” She pauses. “I was the same way. I had everything planned out—I’d get a degree in performing arts, get a fantastic role in a Broadway play, and ride my star to the top of the marquee. Then Beau died and all of it just seems unimportant now, you know what I mean?”
I think I might.
“Anyway, I better get going.” She leans forward and hugs me again. This time her grip is surprisingly fierce. “Take care of yourself, Sabrina. I hope you live your life making yourself happy.”
Yeah. If only I knew what path that required.
*
The next day, I find myself in front of my advisor’s office. Professor Gibson has her head bent over her desk, grading papers. I knock softly so I don’t startle her.
“Sabrina, come in.” She waves me forward with a welcoming smile. “How’s your last semester going?”
“Easy. I know how to take a test now.”
“Or you’ve trained yourself to think more critically and be able to parse through scads of information to find the simple tenets that underpin all theories?”
“Or that.” I laugh as I take a seat.
“Are you excited about Harvard this fall or looking forward to summer break?”
“Harvard, definitely. I’m going to miss this place.” I take in Professor Gibson’s cozy office with its oversized stuffed chair that she gets recovered every four years, and the towering stack of books that threaten to tumble over at any second but never do. She has pictures everywhere—with her students, with her husband.
And it hits me. The reason I’ve never thought about having kids is because from the minute I met Professor Gibson, I wanted to be her. She’s smart, successful, kind-hearted, and so well respected. Everywhere she goes, people look up to her. And for a kid like me, from the South Boston slums, that sort of admiration was a dream—one that I’ve pursued relentlessly here at Briar.
I don’t know any female with a child who’s as successful as Professor Gibson. Which I know, intellectually, is wrong, because there are thousands of mothers who are doctors, lawyers, bankers, and scientists. Even Hope and Carin talk about motherhood, someday. But that someday is in the nebulous future for them, whereas it’s right fucking now in my belly.
“Do you wish you had kids?” I blurt out as I stare at the picture of her and her husband standing in front of some ancient castle.
Professor Gibson narrows her eyes, and somehow, she knows. I can see it in her face.
“Oh, Sabrina.” There’s a question implicit in her sigh.
I nod.
She closes her eyes, and when she opens them, all traces of judgment are gone. But I saw that initial flicker of disappointment, and it stings.
“Sometimes,” she says in response to my question. “Sometimes I do, and sometimes I’m glad that I don’t. I’ve been the special auntie to my brother’s three kids, and that’s filled most of my mothering instincts. I have my students, and that’s tremendously fulfilling, but I won’t lie and say I haven’t wondered what it would be like to have a child of my own.”
“Do you think I can do it? Have a kid and make it through Harvard?”
She makes a small, sad sound at the back of her throat. “I don’t know. Your first year is time-consuming and overwhelming, but you’re very smart, Sabrina. If there was anyone who could do this, it would be you. But it may mean sacrifices. Maybe you don’t graduate summa cum laude—”
I wince, because being at the top of my law school class is definitely one of my goals.
“Or Law Review—”