I go into the library. My brother’s telephone number is still scribbled on a pad by the phone. I’ve left a few messages on a generic voicemail. Archer hasn’t returned my calls.
Not at all surprised. For my mother’s sake, I call again. “Archer, it’s Dean. The surgery seems to have gone well. Mom thought you’d be back by now. Call her.”
I leave our mother’s number, not that he needs it, and hang up. Then I turn to the computer and log in to my university email.
There’s a message from Frances Hunter, the chairperson of the history department, in response to my letter about the grad student Maggie Hamilton needing to seek a new advisor.
Professor West,
I received your letter (copy attached) and have forwarded your concerns to both the registrar’s office and the Office of Judicial Affairs (OJA). I need to inform you that the student in question, Margaret Hamilton, has approached me with some concerns of her own as to the appropriateness of your professor-student relationship.
While Ms. Hamilton has NOT made any formal accusations, I have an obligation to you both to investigate the matter further. Please let me know when you expect to return, and we can set up a convenient time to discuss this.
Regards,
Dr. Frances Hunter
I can’t make sense of what I’m reading. I understand the words, the sentences, but they don’t form a coherent whole. They’re fragments, puzzle pieces, clues. Concerns… appropriateness… accusations… investigate… professor-student relationship…
What the fuck?
A surge of nausea burns my throat.
My hands shake. I hit the reply button and hammer out a response. Frances, tell me what the fuck this is…
I take a breath. Delete the string of words and retype.
Professor Hunter,
Thank you for your message. Please explain Margaret Hamilton’s “concerns.” I will be in California for the next week and would like this matter settled quickly.
Send.
I shove away from the desk. My brain spins with disjointed thoughts. She wouldn’t… no fucking way… even if she did…
I can’t finish any of them.
A bell rings. For a second, I don’t know what it is.
Another ring. Doorbell.
I stride to the foyer. Open the door to find Helen standing there.
“I brought you a few more groceries.” She holds up a canvas bag. “Give you one less thing to think about with the surgery and all.”
She eases past me and goes into the kitchen.
“Thanks.” I follow her in, grateful for the distraction.
“Just happy I can be there for Paige and your mom.” She starts putting the groceries away. “They were always there for me during the rough times.”
She doesn’t have to elaborate what rough times she’s talking about. She shuts the freezer door and rolls up the canvas bag.
“Paige said the surgery went well,” she remarks.
“Yeah. So far, so good.”
“I’m glad. This was all such a shock.”
She crosses her arms and leans against the counter. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Her eyebrows draw together.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.” Formal accusations? “Uh, you want some coffee?”
“Sure.”
Not the answer I was expecting. Helen smiles faintly and moves to the coffeepot.
“I’ll make it,” she says.
“I can—”
“Sit down, Dean. I know this has been tough on you, too.” She grinds the coffee beans and fills the coffeemaker with water. When it’s done, she pours two mugs before sitting across from me at the table.
“So,” she says. “You’re happy?”
Not the question I was expecting.
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I swallow some coffee. Stop thinking about that email. Stop. “You?”
She looks at her mug. “With my work, yes. I’ve traveled a lot over the years, met interesting people. My career is fantastic. So are my friends.”
“But?”
“Oh, you know, Dean.” She runs her hands through her short hair. “I’ve always been sorry it didn’t work out between us. Always thought you were the one for me. And I still haven’t found someone else who actually is.”
I have no idea how to respond to that. There might’ve been a time when I’d fooled myself into thinking Helen was also the one, but after Liv came along, I knew there had never been anyone else for me. There never would be.
“I guess you found someone, though,” Helen says, breaking the sudden silence.
Once again, no idea how to respond.
“Liv seems nice,” Helen continues. “Sweet.”
“She is.”
“Paige said you met at a university?”
“In Wisconsin.”
I don’t want to discuss Liv with Helen. Something about her probing tone sets me on edge even more than I already am.
“How long had she been attending?” Helen asks.
“Couple of months.”
“Was she your student?”
Christ. What if Liv had been my student? We’d never have gotten together. I wouldn’t have pursued her, no matter how much I wanted to.
“No,” I tell Helen. “She was a student, but not mine.”
She was mine in a totally different way.
“And what does she do now?” Helen asks.
“She volunteers at the Mirror Lake Historical Museum.”
“What else?”
“She helps out at a friend’s bookstore. And she’s learning how to cook.”