The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 21: MARCH 1995

I wake up on a beautiful spring morning, weeping. I’ve been crying every morning without fail for the past three weeks. There is something almost religious about it, like saying morning prayers. And I don’t mind it, really, because the tears remind me that I haven’t died as a result of Will’s rejection. I’ll only allow myself fifteen minutes and then I’ll force myself to get out of bed, eat, go to class or the library, and interact with the world in the way that other normal, living people do. I don’t smile much, or laugh these days, but exams are coming up, so there’s not a lot of levity in the library stacks anyway, and no one notices that I’ve become a hollowed-out husk of my former self – other than A.J., that is, who keeps asking if I’m sick. I tell him I’m not, but I wonder if I’m right. The condition of my heart, broken as it is, won’t be fatal, but it seems likely that it could be debilitating, chronic and lifelong.

I have only myself to blame. After a glorious week in which we got out of bed only to eat, watch movies and visit his grandmother in the hospital, I was lulled into an insane belief that our relationship lacked permanence and stability only because we had failed to give words to it; whereas I can now see, too late, that it was nothing more than a hopelessly fragile bubble of sexual satisfaction that would vanish the second we tried to define it as something more. Which is, of course, exactly what I did.

It’s a conversation that I have on an endless loop as I work my way through box after box of tissues: my head on his shoulder in this very bed, his arm curved around my back. I can tell by his breathing that he is about to fall asleep. I’ve restrained myself all week, but A.J. will be back tomorrow, and we need to agree on a common strategy. If it were up to me, I’d have Will take A.J. aside, as I imagine men do, and explain that we can no longer deny our attraction to each other, and that we hope he won’t be uncomfortable with our new bedtime arrangements. But Will may have his own ideas on how to tell A.J., and I don’t want to make things awkward for him.

So I say: “We need to tell A.J.”

To which Will replies: “Tell him what?”

“About us, obviously. About this.”

“What about this?”

I push myself up on my elbow so that I’m looking down at him. “He may not be the most observant guy in the world, but I think he’s going to notice if his two roommates are sleeping together.”

“I’m sure he would,” says Will.

“So are you going to talk to him about it?”

Will sits up, swings his feet over the side of the bed and starts to pull on the clothes that are scattered on the floor next to it. With his back to me, he says “No. I’m not.”

“You want me to do it?” I cringe at the thought.

“No.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “If we’re seeing each other, I think we should tell him.”

“We’re not.”

“We’re not telling him?”

Will stands, dressed now, and looks down at me with an expression that I can’t interpret, but that makes me want to cover myself with the sheet. “We’re not seeing each other,” he says. “Sophie, we’ve had a lot of fun this week, but we can’t be …” he seems to search for a word, shrugs and then says, “We need to stop now. We live together. We aren’t going to tell A.J. because there won’t be anything to tell him. We need to go back to the way things were.”

There are tears streaming down my face and I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just shake my head. There is nothing in Will’s declaration that I accept. What he is suggesting violates everything that I believe about the nature of love. I’ve read my way through the literary pantheon devoted to unrequited love, but fundamentally, I’ve never truly believed that love can catch fire without an answering spark from its object. Can he really think that we could go back to the way things were before? Is it possible that I could have been altered so completely in the past week, reinvented as a person whose deepest purpose is to love and be loved by Will, while he has emerged unsullied, able to slip back into his life as if returning from vacation? Based on the way he’s looking at me now, a soul-shriveling combination of pity and horror without a visible scrap of inner torment or regret, it appears that the answer is yes.

“Will,” I croak, “I – ”

He holds up a hand to ward me off. “Don’t, Sophie.” And he crosses the room in a few short steps and is out the door before I can say “I love you.”

I’ve said it since, many times. Whispered it in the dark, sobbed it into my pillow, but never to him. A.J. is confused about our relationship after all, but not because of any inappropriate affection; he can’t understand why our necessary interactions are fraught with strained civility. Our family dinners are all business now, with either Will or me leaving the table at the earliest polite opportunity. It’s desperately uncomfortable, and all of us are finding excuses to study later at the library in the evenings. Every day brings a new, searing wave of loss; Will has clearly decided, perhaps with good reason, that I will interpret even the most innocent gesture of friendship as evidence of deeper emotions, and so he keeps his distance. He pours himself a coffee without offering one to me, I have to ask him to pass the arts section of the paper, and he leaves the house without checking to see if I want to walk to campus with him. Each omission is a fresh rejection.

The telephone is ringing, but I don’t answer it. It’s a long distance ring, so it’s either my parents or A.J.’s parents, and I’m in no state to speak to mine. Someone else in the house picks it up eventually, and after a long while I hear footsteps padding along the hall and a knock at the door.

My adrenaline spikes: is it Will? But I hear A.J.’s voice instead. “Sophie? Can I come in?”

“Just a sec,” I say, wiping my face and blowing my nose, sliding out of bed and wrapping myself in a bathrobe in a few economical movements. “Come on in.”

A.J. opens the door slowly. He’s still dressed for bed too, in a college tee-shirt and loose cotton pants, but there’s nothing sleepy about him. His jaw is tight, his brow furrowed and he stands in the doorway as if he would give anything to be somewhere else.

He clears his throat. “You need to call your mom,” he says. “There’s been an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“It’s your dad,” he says. “You need to go home. I’ll drive you.”

“What happened?” I say.

“Just call your mom, Sophie.”

I find that I can see everything in the room very clearly. There’s dust swirling in the shafts of light from the gap in the curtains, and I think that it’s been too long since I vacuumed in here. The specks whirl around me as I take four steps towards the door until I’m standing right in front of A.J., and I say: “Tell me.”

He straightens his shoulders, steeling himself, and says, “There was a car accident. He hit a patch of ice.”

“Is he going to be OK?” I know the answer already but I want to hear A.J. say it. With his rumpled pajamas and messy brown hair, he is reassuringly solid. I know that whatever he says will be true.

“No,” he says, and I feel the cold wash through me. A.J. steps in, reaches out; he’s afraid I’ll fall.

“I need to tell Will,” I say.

“I’ll tell him,” says A.J. “I’m going to borrow his car. You get dressed and pack, OK? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“I want to see Will.” I’ve held myself back for weeks, crushed myself into a tiny box of good behavior, and now my whole life has exploded, shattering all of my self-imposed boundaries. I don’t care if I embarrass myself or Will now, and it’s almost liberating.

“That’s not a good idea, Sophie.”

“You don’t know anything!” The scream surprises both of us, but I can’t seem to stop once I’ve started. “Get out of my way!”

He swallows hard, and then moves back so he’s blocking the door completely. “Sophie,” he says, “You don’t want to see him right now.” He closes his eyes briefly. “He’s not alone.”

“Oh,” I say, and then I begin sobbing, great wracking sobs that relieve the need to look at A.J. or think about Will, because all I can do is concentrate on gasping for air so that I don’t die. I’m vaguely aware of voices in hallway and then my door closes and Lil appears next to me, wraps her arms around me and sits me down on my bed.

“That’s it,” she says, stroking my hair. “Let it all go.” And I do. I cry for all of the dreams that Will has disappointed – proposals and weddings and babies and a whole future together – and for all of the dreams that my mother realized and has now lost. I cry for all of the conversations that I never had with my dad, for the week that I should have spent with him and spent with Will instead, and for the knowledge that my memory of our time together, the pinnacle of my romantic life, is now fatally tainted with regret. I cry for all the ways in which my selfishness disgusts me: that I can even think about Will when my father is dead; that I haven’t yet picked up the phone to call my devastated mother; that I screamed at A.J. who has been nothing but generous and dutiful; and that I’m channeling even a tiny fraction of my distress into the fact that Will has another girl in his room right now. I cry until I’m too tired to cry anymore, and then I say, “What will I do now?”

“Now you’ll take a shower, which will prove to you that you are capable of feeling better than this.” The certainty in her voice reminds me how much Lil has lost in her long life. “And while you’re in the shower, I’ll lay out some clothes for you, and then we’ll pack them together and then A.J. will drive you home in my car.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” says Lil. “But it’s the best advice I can give you. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and at some point, you’ll realize that you feel less awful. That’s the goal.”



On the morning of my father’s funeral, I sit in the front pew next to my mother, listening to the rustling and creaking of people filling the seats behind me. I keep my head down in an attitude of prayer to deter anyone from speaking to me. My legs feel thin under my black skirt, which I’m grateful to Lil for packing. Through my lashes I watch the blocks of colored light from the stained glass stretching across the stone floor, and I grip the folded papers in my lap. I’ve agreed to give the eulogy. My mother is a mess, my brother has never been much for verbal communication, and my dad’s friends are all strong, silent types. The minister could do it, but we all know that my father didn’t have a religious bone in his body. I’m not sure I can get through it.

The minister calls the congregation to order and we all stand for a hymn. I close my eyes. My mother shakes with silent sobs next to me. The music stops and I’m called up to the pulpit. I’ve asked to speak first. I settle my papers in front of me and adjust the microphone. I have to look up, but I can’t bear the sight of my mother’s grief, so I pitch my gaze out towards the back of the church and catch my breath. The room is full, so full that people are standing up in the aisles near the exit. So many of my parents’ friends and neighbors are here, of course, not just from Port Alice but from the city, and so are Mike’s friends, and mine; for some reason this is unexpected, and painfully moving. It makes the whole experience achingly real: if all of these people have come to mourn, my father must really be dead.

I fight the choking tears in my throat and remember Lil’s advice – one foot in front of the other – and I begin. “On behalf of my mother, Mary and my brother, Mike, I want to thank all of you for being with us today. My father was taken from us much too young, and all of us feel robbed of the many years of his advice, companionship and love that we assumed we would have. I want to thank everyone who has supported us since the accident. Many of you have come by the house to see us, or bring us food, or have sent beautiful letters telling us what Dad meant to you, and we are grateful for all of these acts of kindness.” So far, so good: the church is quiet. I brace myself to depart from the safe formality of the first paragraph. I stick to my text and don’t look up.

“Dad was immensely talented in obvious and also unexpected ways. He was a brilliant student who became a brilliant lawyer. Many of his friends and colleagues were mystified when, almost a decade ago, he moved to Port Alice to become a small town solicitor. There were those who thought he’d thrown his talents away. But Dad never doubted his decision. He was the most self-aware person I’ve ever known. He knew what he wanted and he was utterly unmoved by considerations of public opinion.” I risk a glance up and see Lil sitting on an aisle; the seats beside her are empty. She smiles at me, and it strikes me that my dad would have gotten quite a kick out of her. The thought makes me sad.

“Dad believed that the most important things in life were simple – love of family, investment in community, self-respect, and the reward of good work done with integrity. For him, these things came into focus much more clearly when he was out of the city. He was at home in the country. He was in his element here.”

Almost done. I take a final breath and launch into the last paragraph. “Of all the things my dad valued, he treasured his family above all. His love for us – my mother, my brother and me – was uncomplicated and unconditional. He wanted nothing more than our happiness. He taught us so much about how to live.” And now my voice cracks as I fight to hang on, and I manage to squeak, “We’ll carry him with us always,” and I run down the stairs, crash down in the pew and bury my face in my hands, as my mother whispers in a thick voice: “He would have been so proud of you today.”



The rest of the service passes mercifully quickly, and soon we’re spilling out onto the front lawn. Few people linger; the pale sunlight doesn’t cut through the harsh wind, and most of the guests are planning to come to our house this afternoon anyway. But Lil is standing at the bottom of the stairs, a little off to the side, surrounded by A.J., Will and Zoe. I promptly burst into tears again and throw myself into Zoe’s arms. I’m so happy to see her that I almost forget for a few seconds how incredibly wretched I feel, and from the expression of satisfaction on Lil’s face as she watches us, I wonder if she’s responsible.

“How did you know?”

“Lil called me,” Zoe confirms. “She tracked me down somehow and got me on a flight.”

“Thank you so much,” I say to Lil and give her a hug.

“You’re welcome, sweet girl,” says Lil. “You were very brave in there.” Tears well up in my eyes again and I see Will and A.J. shrinking back collectively.

“Will you come back to the house?” I ask.

“No, my dear. The boys and I are going to head home. But Zoe’s going to stay with you until tomorrow if you want her to.” Lil shivers. “I’m going to wait in the car, boys.” She squeezes my hand. “I’m so sorry, Sophie. I’ll see you when you come home.”

A.J. moves to follow her, but I stop him. “Wait,” I say, “I never thanked you properly for everything you did for me the other day. You were a really good friend.” And before he can deflect me I reach up and give him a kiss on the cheek. He blushes scarlet, mumbles his condolences and rushes after Lil, leaving Will and Zoe and me in a tight huddle. I haven’t been this close to Will in weeks, and as thrilled as I am to see Zoe, I want her to vanish for five minutes.

“Zoe,” I say, pointing to the waiting black limousine. “Can you let Mike know that you’re coming with us?”

“Sure,” she says, giving me an odd look, but complying.

I’m getting colder by the second, and my family is waiting. Today of all days, my pathetic drama with Will should be banished from my mind. But he’s here, on the worst day of my life, and if he won’t take me in his arms, he’s not climbing back in the car without giving me something more than a pat on the shoulder. “You came,” I say.

“Lil thought you’d want me too. Was she wrong?”

“No,” I say, trying not to be hurt that his presence here is not entirely his own doing. I remind myself that excessive emotion, like hospitals, makes him squeamish, and smother a fleeting sense of irritation. “It’s good to see you.”

“I don’t know what to say, Sophie,” he says. “I’m sorry about your dad. I’m sorry about everything.”

“Me too,” I say. And then, knowing that he won’t deny me anything today, I say, “You owe me a conversation. I want to talk to you about what happened between us when I come back. Promise me.”

He looks down at his shoes. “I promise,” he says. I wonder, uncharitably, if he has his fingers crossed behind his back, and before I can say anything else, Zoe sprints up, panting.

“Your mom wants to get going, Sophie.” She tucks an arm through mine. “Come on. It’s freezing out here.” She pulls me away from Will, toward the car.

“See you, Will,” she calls over her shoulder. He waves at her, but his eyes are on me.

“Take care, Sophie,” he says.

“You poor baby,” she says. “I missed a lot this year, didn’t I?” I sniff, and she says hastily, “Listen, I’ve got an idea. I want you to come and stay with me in Paris this summer. Come for your birthday. You’ll love it there and it will give you something to look forward to. Sound good?”

I smile at her, and I think: this is what Lil was talking about. Someday, maybe in Paris, I’ll be able to smile without finding it strange that I still can, without feeling the corners of my mouth turn up and wondering at how the muscles move of their own accord. “It sounds perfect,” I say.