Fall Semester (30 page)

When had she started drinking tea?

The women talked for a few minutes, and when the kettle whistled, Laurel filled their cups and provided sugar, milk, and spoons.

“It’s best if you let it steep for at least five minutes,” she explained. The rich aroma was like cocoa, and it added a coziness to the afternoon that made Maren smile.

“What is that?” Maren asked, taking her cup and inhaling the fragrant steam.

“It’s chocolate maté,” Laurel said, smiling with self-satisfaction. “It’s made from a South American tea, the yerba maté, and cocoa, so it’s full of antioxidants, but it also soothes the stomach. But I drink it because it tastes
so
good!”

Maren and Jackie both imitated Laurel as she added a spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk to hers. Maren took a sip, and for the first time in what seemed like ages, she relaxed.

“Mmmm...” she hummed, nodding. “This is wonderful.”

The three of them were on their second cup when Maren’s mother came home around 2 o’clock. She and Jackie embraced, and though their eyes glossed with tears, none fell. Laurel quickly prepared a fourth cup while Erin checked on their father. She returned after a moment.

“He’s still sleeping soundly,” she said, peeling off her jacket and stepping out of her heels. “Thank you, Laurel.”

Maren smiled again. It was just the way to be greeted on a cold day, a hot cup of delicious tea and a full kitchen. Maren gave her sister a grateful nod across the island.

The teakettle had been filled and emptied again when there was a knock at the front door. Erin frowned and rose.

“Who could that be? Hospice shouldn’t be back until 5:00.”

Maren got up, deciding that the cozy visit needed to come to an end so she could do some school work. She set her tea cup into the dishwasher as voices came from the front of the house. Her mother sounded surprised, delighted even. Maren turned to the sound of approaching footsteps as Erin re-entered the kitchen with a brilliant smile and a meaningful look at her while a burly, middle-aged man with a round belly and a red apron followed. He was carrying a sizeable tray of poboy sandwiches.

“There’s another tray of chicken wings and a chocolate pie,” the man said, setting his tray on the island in front of the. “I’ll be right back.”

“Yum! Joey’s!” Laurel cheered, seeing the red and white label of the local deli/specialty food store. “Oh my God. There’s shrimp and oyster poboys! Mom, did you order this?”

“Not me,” she said, coyly, winking at Maren. “We have one Malcolm Vashal to thank for this.”

Maren felt her eyes widen.

Holy shit.

“Who’s Malcolm Vashal?” Aunt Jackie asked, scanning the three other faces in the room.

“He’s Maren’s boyfriend, but he’s totally in the doghouse right now, so this is probably penance food,” Laurel blurted, wickedly.

Maren’s mouth gaped.

“He’s definitely
not
my boyfriend,” Maren snapped, heat coming to her face.
Not after yesterday.
“And he’s a fool if he thinks this is going to put him back in my good graces.”

The delivery man returned bearing the promised tray of fried and spicy chicken wings and one divine looking chocolate pie.

“The wings are still a bit hot, so be careful. And the pie should chill until you’re ready to serve it,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Please, let me give you something for your trouble,” Erin said, heading for her purse.

“No, thank you, ma’am. Dr. Vashal took care of the gratuity and then some. He made it clear that I couldn’t accept anything else,” he said with emphasis. Maren could just about imagine how clear he’d made it. “But he asked me to say that he hoped you would all enjoy the food. Y’all have a nice afternoon, ladies.”

Erin walked him to the front door while Laurel and Jackie just stared at Maren.

“Stop it,” she said, humorlessly. Both women looked away, smiling.

“Well,” Erin said, returning to them. “I think I’m going to have some wings.”

“Me, too,” Jackie said.

“I want a poboy,” Laurel said, jumping up from her stool and grabbing a stack of plates from the cabinet. “Maren, you love shrimp poboys. It doesn’t mean you forgive him if you eat one.”

Maren’s stomach growled insistently. The food smelled wonderful.

Of course, he’s not forgiven.

“She’s absolutely right,” Jackie chimed in. “Whatever he did, he’s obviously got a lot more groveling ahead of him, but why wait for it on an empty stomach.”

“I’m not waiting for it,” Maren muttered. But when Laurel popped the lid off the sandwich tray and helped herself to a shrimp poboy, she took one, too. And a handful of chicken wings. “I’m taking this upstairs. I have work to do.”

She pretended not to see her mother’s wry smile as she left the room.

The poboy was delicious. The wings were amazing. And they didn’t soften her to Malcolm. Not one bit.

She tried to work for a few hours. Maren was supposed to be reading Keats’ poems and letters. Dr. Sheridan’s assignment was to prepare a list of questions that the poems asked the reader, but poor Keats. Such a sad, short life. It was hard not to be pulled into a depression just thinking about him, trying on his life through his words.

Maren thought idly that it would be nicer if Perry had come home with her. His warm little body settled in her lap or curled against her thigh would have comforted her. She vowed to herself that she would find some time over the weekend to head home and bring him back with her. He might not be able to have the full run of the house while she was out, but he could stay in her bedroom.

“I cannot exist without you — I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again — my Life seems to stop there — I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I were dissolving... I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion — I have shudder’d at it — I shudder no more — I could be martyr’d for my Religion — Love is my religion — I could die for that — I could die for you. My creed is Love and you are its only tenet — You have ravish’d me away by a Power I cannot resist.”

Maren pushed the book away. She could hear hints of Malcolm’s voice in Keats’ words, and she wanted silence. The way he wrote about and wrote to his beloved, Maren could not imagine that John Keats had ever abused the trust of Fanny Brawne. He’d likely never willfully revealed her most volatile secrets after she’d
clearly and repeatedly
stated that they were never to be shared. Maren was sure that Keats hadn’t ever gone behind Fanny’s back because she wasn’t living her life the way he thought she should.

Still, if Keats had failed Fanny, Maren couldn’t blame her for believing in him. The urgency of his words would have been enough to fool her, Maren thought. She had been likewise fooled.

Mi diosa.

Mi todo.

My love.

Memories assaulted her. She pushed herself off the bed where she’d been working.

Yes, you were fooled. But he tried to warn you.
His words, different words, came back to her.

I’m a rotten human being, and I can’t bring anyone happiness. The best you would get from me would be regret and disappointment.

“Oh, God,” she muttered, wanting to cry. He had been wrong, of course. Regret and disappointment weren’t the best she’d gotten from him. That was the problem. The best she’d had from him was so very good. He’d made her love him. He’d treated her like a treasure.

Mi tesoro, in this relationship, you will not be the one to cause trouble.

Had he sabotaged them on purpose? Was his a self-fulfilling prophecy? She was torn; she wanted to interrogate him, accuse him. At the same time, she never wanted to speak to him again.

Liar.

The room was too small. Maren opened the door and made for the stairs, but she nearly crashed into her sister, who was wide-eyed.

“Maren, come down.” Her voice quivered. “The nurse is here, and Dad’s not waking up.”

It was then that she heard voices raised. Her mother and Jackie were calling his name, panic warping their words. Maren grabbed her sister’s hand, and they ran down the stairs. They found both women bent over the bed, gently shaking her father, while the nurse in light blue scrubs shined a penlight in his eyes.

“His pupils are not responding,” she said. She took one of his hands, grabbed his index finger, and appeared to squeeze his nail bed.

“What are you doing?” Erin asked, stepping closer.

“I’m checking for any pain response,” the nurse said, never taking her eyes from the patient. “So far, I don’t see any.” She gently put his hand down across his middle and turned to them, a look of compassion in her eyes.

“It appears as though he’s slipped into a coma. I can try a few other simple tests, but he’s not responding to sound, movement, light, or pain....And given the stage of his disease, this is not uncommon.”

Maren heard a roaring in her ears that followed the word “coma.”

Oh, God. This is it.

“Is he in any pain?” Erin asked, wincing.

“There’s really no way of knowing for sure, so we’ll keep administering his pain medicine to make sure he’s comfortable,” she said, softly.

“Can he still hear us? I’ve heard that patients in comas can still hear conversations,” Jackie asked. She had grabbed a corner of the bed sheet, and she was worrying it between her fingers.

“He may be able to. I’d definitely encourage you to talk to him if you want to,” the nurse said, nodding. Then her eyes softened even more. “Every patient is different, of course, but I don’t think it’ll be much longer. A few days at the most....But it will be very peaceful.”

Maren’s knees felt spongy, and she grabbed the foot of the bed to steady herself. Laurel started weeping beside her. Jackie followed. Maren watched as devastation slowly collapsed her mother’s features.

“Maren, please call your brother and tell him to come as soon as he can,” she said, lowering herself back into the chair at the bedside and laying her head on her dying husband’s chest.

Chapter 28

Malcolm

F
uneral services will be held for Mark Andrew Gardner, 46, on Tuesday, Nov. 14 at Martin & Castille Funeral Home. Mark, a loving and devoted husband and father, was a native of Lafayette and died Sunday morning at his home, surrounded by family. He is survived by his wife Erin Gardner, formerly Erin Marie Landry; his daughters Maren and Laurel; his son Lane, and his sister Jacqueline Gardner Phillips of Austin, Texas....

Malcolm let the paper fall to his kitchen table.

You really fucked it up, Vashal.

She had not called. Her father died yesterday, and she had not called.

Except for nearly running her over outside the department office—with Terrence at her side, no less!—Malcolm had heard nothing from Maren after she’d texted him to stay away from her. He’d stayed away, but he hadn’t left her alone.

Not that it had done him any good. He’d sent her texts on Friday night, Saturday morning, and Sunday morning—apologizing again each time—but she had not responded. He’d called nearly as many times. And he’d sent meals. Joey’s Deli on Friday. 2 Paul’s barbecue on Saturday. Pimon Thai on Sunday.

He would have a significant credit card bill for the first time in years.

It did not matter. As long as she knew that he was thinking of her, wanting to take care of her. As long as she knew he was trying to make amends.

He kept hoping that she would forgive him. And in the back of his mind, he treasured the fantasy that if she had not done so already, when her father died, she would reach for him, allow him to comfort her.

Of course, he was wrong.

It was a shock. He had never doubted that he would lose her eventually, but to lose her like this....Malcolm had expected that she would tire of him, want more than he could give, grow weary of his brooding—all the reasons J.J. had left. He would never have guessed it would come from his attempt to save her.

In that way, he was unprepared for it. Unwilling to accept losing her.

Besides, it hurt too damn much.

Malcolm looked at his watch. 7:36 a.m. It really was too early to call. Still, on any other day, Maren would be getting ready to go to class. Given the circumstances, she likely was awake. He picked up her phone and tapped her contact.

It rang. Malcolm pictured her holding the phone in her hand, debating about whether or not to answer. At least he hoped she was debating it. Then he might just have a chance.

“Hi...You’ve reached Maren....I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

He’d heard the outgoing message now half a dozen times, but he still caught his breath at the sound of her voice, nearly fooled each time into believing she’d picked up.

“Maren, my darling....,” he began, closing his eyes and praying that she was still his darling. “I just read the paper....I’m so sorry....I want to be here for you....You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to, but please let me be by your side....Just call....”

He hung up.

Disgusting.

Malcolm hardly thought that pleading was romantic. It would likely only repulse her as well, but he did not know what else to do.

But he had meant what he’d said. Even as heartsick as he was, as much as he missed her, he worried about how she was doing. Surely, she was in much better hands—surrounded by loved ones—than he had been when he’d lost Charlotte; Malcolm had always been a loner, but nothing had prepared him for that loneliness. Still, he found himself thinking of the night he’d met Mark Gardner and the heft of his words.

If you care for her as you say you do, please be there for her through what is coming.

Malcolm had promised him that she wouldn’t be alone. How could he keep that promise if she refused to even return his calls?

He sighed, checked the time, and knew that if he did not leave now, he’d be late for class.

To their credit, the stalwarts of his Survey of American Literature class needed very little supervision from him as they discussed the trout fishing chapters in
The Sun Also Rises.
Admittedly, it was one of his favorite parts of what was one of his favorite American novels. The promise of self-sufficiency. The potential to enjoy peace even when your heart had been shredded. Malcolm had thought that the character of Bill hadn’t been all that necessary—at least if he had been in Jake Barnes’ shoes—Bill wasn’t really much more than a sounding board, a thin kind of foil.

“What do you mean? Bill’s his most likable friend, Dr. Vashal,” said, Margaret Billeaud, one of his more feisty sophomores.

“Yeah, he’s the only one there for him when Brett really screws him over with Robert Cohn. Bros before hos, man,” Drew Abshire said. A few of the other boys nodded, while most of the girls raised their brows or rolled their eyes. Drew’s contributions were not always the most refined, but at least the boy read.

“Yes, thank you for that colorful and eloquent observation, Mr. Abshire,” Malcolm droned.

“I think what Drew means, Dr. Vashal,” Margaret began. “Is that Bill is Hemingway’s vehicle for showing the importance of not just male bonding, but the value of friendship in the face of loss. Bill is there to witness Jake’s suffering and to offer him words of comfort and a safe buffer from the rest of the world.”

Her words stung, leaving him momentarily speechless.
The value of friendship in the face of loss. Words of comfort and a buffer from the rest of the world.
Malcolm desperately wanted to be that for Maren—and more.

He continued to lob questions across the classroom, but in his mind, he was reliving the night he’d taken Maren to the hospital, remembering how terrified she had been, how much she had clung to him, how she had seemed to gain strength from his touch. What if she needed that now but was too angry to ask for it? What if she needed it now, and his foolishness had robbed her of it? Malcolm suppressed a shudder.

After dismissing his class, he headed for his office with even more self-loathing. Before he could turn down the corridor, Helene Coulter came around the corner from the bullpen. Malcolm could not resist intercepting her.

“Excuse me,...Ms. Coulter,” he stammered. “I...I saw in the paper this morning that Ms. Gardner’s father passed away....I...was wondering...how she was doing.”

Clearly, he’d caught the girl off guard. Her blue eyes regarded him curiously for a moment before they shot open in shock.

“Oh...My...God...” she whispered. “You’re him!”

Holy shit
.

Malcolm froze. Then he dissembled, putting on a quizzical look.

“
Him?
I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, trying to tap his most superior tone. He regretted it the moment her face changed from shock to outrage.

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean,” she accused, straightening to her impressive full height and glaring at him. Helene was no longer whispering. In fact, her voice had risen considerably. “She wouldn’t say who, but it’s written all over your face. You hurt her, you bastard. She said she couldn’t trust you.”

Malcolm felt stripped naked. Skinned, in fact. He gulped at her, wide-eyed, panic threatening, and he did the only thing he could. He grabbed Helene by the wrist and hauled her to his office without a word.

“Hey!” she protested. As they turned down the corridor that led to his office, Malcolm felt at least a dozen pairs of eyes on them. His heart raced, and his forehead and hands had gone clammy.

Holy shit.

How would he explain this? What if Sheridan had seen them?

He dropped her wrist outside his door and hastily unlocked the office.

“Please come inside, Helene. I must speak to you.”

She looked at him like he was mad, like she was about to turn on her heels and run, screaming
Rape!
, but he wasn’t about to have anyone see him forcibly pull her into his office. He looked into her eyes and pleaded.

“Please, I beg you.”

Helene blinked her utter shock and shrugged.

“O-Okay.” She followed him inside, and he shut the door behind her, keeping his hand on the knob and his back to her for a moment so he could mop his brow and compose his thoughts. When he finally turned around, she was studying him, with no little malice, arms crossed in front of her chest, hip cocked.

“What did you do to her?” she spit out.

“I made a mistake. I—”

“She said she couldn’t trust you,” Helene repeated. The words stabbed him. “Did you cheat on her?”

“No! Of course not!” Malcolm shot back, the very idea repulsing him. “What did she say?”

“Just that you screwed up,” Helene leveled, eyes narrowing. “And I’m not the least bit surprised.”

“I made a mistake,” he repeated, not wanting to commit his crime again by revealing Maren’s secrets to anyone else. Helene’s certainty that he was to blame ransacked what remained of his hope. He felt desolate.

“Oh my God. Did you
exploit
her?”

“God, no!” His voice broke on the words, their implication was so horrible. He felt strangled. Did Maren feel exploited? He was a professor and her lover, and he used what he knew about her to force her to do what he wanted....

“Then, what—”

“I love her!” He nearly shouted the words. They were out before he even thought to stop them. His most fragile truth bared before Helene Coulter. To complete his humiliation, tears sprung to his eyes. He raised a hand to his brow and regarded the floor while he swallowed against the lump in his throat. The one that had formed at the suggestion that he’d exploited her, at the dawning comprehension that perhaps he had.

Helene appeared to have been stunned. She looked at him like he’d turned into a wild animal. She was cautious. Curious. But she no longer appeared ready to strike him. Helene took a steadying breath.

“I believe you,” she said, finally. Her words allowed him to take a full breath of his own. “Explain what you mean. You made a mistake how?”

Malcolm looked at the floor again and chose his words carefully.

“I...tried to meddle in her life,” he managed.

Helene gave him a skeptical look.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” he added. “I did something she told me not to do, but I’m not saying any more. If you want details, you’ll have to ask Maren.”

Saying her name soothed him. It made her seem not so far out of his reach.

“How is she?” he asked, and he could hear the longing in his voice. It was shameful. He scarcely cared.

Helene’s eyes softened.

“I saw her last night. It’s hard, but she’s strong.”

One side of Malcolm’s mouth lifted in a smile as he pictured her in all her righteous glory.

“Yes, she’s very strong,” he agreed, half whispering. His eyes focused on Helene again. “Did you go to her house? Was she at home or at her parents’?”

Helene’s gaze narrowed again.

“Why? Are you going to stalk her?” she asked.

“No...I...I’ve been sending food to her parents’ house where she was staying last week,” he said.

“Aah. That was you! I should have guessed.” Helene was smiling again, highly amused at being in on the secret. “Thanks for the Thai noodles. Those were awesome.”

Malcolm ached to ask if Maren had eaten any, if she had accepted his offering, but he managed to maintain that shred of his dignity. The fact that the meal had been shared with guests was a good sign.

Feeding her is touching her,
he reminded himself. He had already decided that tonight he would send Alessi’s meatball spaghetti and fettuccine alfredo. Perhaps he could bring it over himself....

“Wow. You’ve got it bad,” Helene said, waking him from his reverie. “Who would have thought?”

Irritation flared.

“Will you keep what you know to yourself, or should I prepare for the worst?” he asked, struggling and failing to keep his tone even.

She gave him her own irritated look.

“Maren is my friend. I’m not about to hang her out to dry,” she sneered.

Their meeting was decidedly over.

“Then I thank you for your time,” he said, stepping away from the door and opening it for her.

Helene made to walk out, then stopped, and turned back to him.

“Maren’s a smart girl,” she said in a low voice. “So she must see something redeeming in you, but hell if I know what it is.”

Malcolm bit his tongue until he’d closed the door behind her.

“This from the girl who is currently screwing Jess Dalton,” he said to his empty office.

One thing that Malcolm felt sure of was that Helene would tell Maren about their encounter. About his profession of love, no doubt. The thought both terrified and thrilled him. He wanted her to know. Of course, he did. Malcolm wanted her to know that she claimed all of his love, more than he ever thought he could feel. He also knew that allowing himself to tell her would double it, triple it, give it rein to grow stronger than himself. Engulf him. And when she didn’t return it, how would he find his way out?

Still, if she heard it from Helene, might it touch her? Might she take pity on him and forgive him? He decided that there was only one way to find out.