The landing is bumpy. I cry in my parents’ arms at the airport like a child. It’s only been two years, but it feels like a lifetime.
A “Welcome Home BeBe” banner is strung across the mantel over the fireplace. There’s a hospital bed in the living room, which throws me for a loop.
“But, Dad, you’re walking.” He smiles a sad, apologetic smile that brings new tears to my eyes.
“He’s been having trouble with the stairs, and the couch is too hard,” Mom says by way of explanation. She heaves while trying to drag my oversized suitcases up the staircase.
“Mommy, I’ve got them. Dad, go sit down, get off your feet.”
I take two deep breaths in my room to steady my nerves. I wish Asa were here.
“I can cook tonight. I’ve learned a thing or two about pasta!” I holler as I come down the stairs. Mom and Dad are whispering, likely about something they don’t want me to know. Everyone in my family is always trying to protect me from the evils of the world, but I’ve grown up while I was away, so I just have to prove it to them.
“How’d you get that crazy thing in here?” I ask, gesturing to the high-tech bed.
“Weston,” my dad says. He smiles proudly because Weston is his other son. All the fine hairs on my body stand to attention at his name. Well, he’s in town—he’s still coming around. There’s the answer to that question.
We eat dinner, the three of us around the kitchen table. Without Asa and Weston, our interactions dim. I fill up all the holes in the conversation with babble about Milan and dresses, Italian food and architecture.
“Do you really have to start classes tomorrow, honey?” Dad asks.
“Well, classes start tomorrow. They probably don’t want me to start next week.”
“What are you taking?” Mom asks. She’s eaten everything on her plate, and I’m glad because they both could stand to gain some weight. I pour them both more wine from one of the three bottles I brought home with me.
“Just all the generals, you know, to get them out of the way.”
“BeBe, you should call Weston and meet him for coffee on the hill. I know he’d love to catch up. From what I hear, he lives up there now. They’ve got him teaching a full course load.”
After I kiss my dad goodnight, my heart breaks watching Mom do the same. My parents have always been lovey-dovey, and it’s probably killing them to sleep apart. It feels like my sweet little universe has been consumed by chaos. My bedroom looks small and like it belongs to a young girl who doesn’t exist anymore.
7
Weston
Nothing irks me more than getting a late start. I’ve had this car overhauled twice, but I’m starting to feel like giving up on it might be the only solution. I’ve got oil on my button-down shirt from lifting the hood, essentially pretending I know what I’m doing. Asa’s the one who can fix an engine, while I’m the one who can cite random stanzas of poetry.
The coffee burns my tongue as I put the car in reverse and back out of the driveway. I slam on my brakes to avoid hitting a squirrel who decides to make a run for it right as I head for the street. We’ll see if I make it to school alive today.
My teaching load is heavy, to say the least. It’s easy to see how and why the tenured professors hand off some of the course load to the TAs. They’ve taught most of these courses a hundred times and have no patience or tolerance left in their repertoire for freshman bullshit.
I’m a walking pile of loose papers and overflowing notebooks, trying to manage my heavy briefcase without spilling my still-steaming black coffee. It’s rush hour in the halls and the first day of classes to boot. I nod to colleagues and former students as I try not to drop anything and read some illegible, handwritten memo that says Elizabethan Poetry Seminar is so full that they’re breaking it into three sections, two to be taught by adjunct professors, one by yours truly.
At the breakfast kiosk, I stop and root in my pocket for dollar bills and procure an apricot Danish. I’ll eat healthy next semester, I tell myself as I bite into it and snag a tall standing table to try to organize my life for three minutes before class. But when I look down at my watch my father gave me, I realize it’s already three minutes past.
Who doesn’t love to run into a class late, with all of the prospective students judging your capabilities and efficiency? Dr. Conrad Blowers looks cool as a cucumber and annoyed that at least one adjunct walked in later than all the students.