Confucius Jane (15 page)

“He wasn't cruel, exactly. Or at least, I don't think he was trying to be. He was just totally insensitive. And I've always had trouble showing my work to other people, so when I knew I'd have a hostile audience, I just … couldn't. At first, I stopped writing altogether. By the spring, I was composing poems again, but I couldn't force myself to give them to him.”

Jane shrugged, shooting Sutton a sidelong glance in an attempt to gauge her reaction. Would Sutton think her a coward? “So that's why I haven't finished my degree. All of my coursework is done. It's just my thesis that's left. Aunt Jenny and Uncle John have been nice enough to give me a place to live and a job while I figure things out.”

Sutton didn't say anything right away, but the steady rhythm of her fingers along the backs of Jane's hands never faltered. Comforted by the soothing touch, Jane felt her tension begin to ebb away. The dull ache of fatigue moved in behind it like a cold front after a thunderstorm.

“I'm sorry you had to go through that,” Sutton said quietly. “I can see it's a difficult time to talk about. Thank you for trusting me.”

“Thanks for listening.” Jane blinked her gritty eyes, fearing she had tested Sutton's patience. “And also, thanks to you, I think I have enough lines to finish the poem.”

“I'm glad I could help. What will you do once it's done?”

“There's a fellowship in Anders' name that I'm planning to apply for, and I want to include this poem.” Her self-consciousness returned in a rush. “We'll see. It'll be stiff competition.”

“I'm tempted to tell you that you're a shoo-in, but I hate when people tell me that about matching.” She punctuated her words with a light squeeze of Jane's hand. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“I should make my way to my parents' house.” When Sutton pulled away, Jane felt as though the world had suddenly grown dimmer. “We have a standing tradition of Sunday evening family supper.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It would be nicer if my father didn't usually insist on inviting one of his friends or political allies.”

Jane fell into step with Sutton as she moved back toward the concourse. “Awkward conversation, I take it?”

“Not for them,” Sutton said dryly. “By now, I've refined my coping mechanism. Every time I feel the urge to comment, I take a sip of wine.”

“Is it good wine, at least?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Very expensive.”

Sutton's frustration with her parents was clear, and Jane felt a pang of homesickness for her own family. Perhaps she would call them once she returned home. Sure, they'd had minor disagreements, but nothing like the major ideological differences to which Sutton had alluded.

“How are you getting home?”

“I think I'll walk. I don't feel like getting back into the subway.” Sutton slipped on her gloves in preparation for the chill.

“Do you mind if I walk with you?” Jane held her breath, hoping Sutton would say yes. She was being greedy, but she wanted just a few more minutes.

“I'd like that.”

Her shy smile sent a surge of warmth into Jane's chest and banished the lingering ache there. She jumped to hold the door for Sutton and took the outside position on the sidewalk as they turned uptown. The first few blocks passed quietly as she racked her brains for a lighter conversation topic.

“So,” she said, suddenly remembering one of their exchanges during the parade. “Have you had a chance to think about my question?”

“Your question?”

“You know—which part of the brain is your favorite?”

Sutton laughed. “That's right. And this time, I have an answer: the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex.”

“Gesundheit.”

“Very funny. You can call it the DLPFC for short.”

“I'm not sure that's much better,” Jane said. “Why is it your favorite?”

“It's one of the most important areas of the prefrontal cortex, which is the most highly evolved part of our brains. It's connected to every other brain area, and it's instrumental in helping us make choices and decisions.”

Jane thought about that for a while, tucking her chin into her hoodie as a particularly cold gust of wind sliced across her path. “So … it's the site of free will?”

“Some people think so.” Sutton paused at a crosswalk and turned east when the light changed.

“Do you?”

“I suppose I do, though some neuroscientists have actually questioned the existence of the will.”

“Why is that?”

As they continued uptown, Jane was treated to a lecture on the intersection of philosophy and neuroscience. Enjoying the chance to see Sutton in “doctor mode,” Jane listened raptly as she explained how several recent experiments suggested that some human actions began in the unconscious rather than the conscious mind. Jane was tempted to ask how attraction fit into the picture, but decided that might be a bridge too far.

They turned east again, this time onto a cross street that practically screamed “upper crust.” Large trees rose from tidy beds set into the sidewalk, their barren branches reaching for the slate-gray sky as though pleading for the advent of warm weather. Jane could picture how beautiful this block would be only a few months from now, their large leaves spreading out to shade passersby and fill the urban air with the green scent of growing things. Every building they passed was a well-kept residential townhouse, and Sutton slowed to a halt in front of the most impressive one yet. A curving stone stoop led up to a narrow porch extending the length of its cheery, red-brick façade. The black door was garnished with an elaborate golden knocker, and matching gold trim surrounded the bay windows that jutted out from the second floor.

“This is me,” Sutton said. When she looked up through those long, gold-tipped eyelashes, Jane shoved her hands into her pockets to keep herself from reaching out. “I had a great time today. Thank you.”

For one terrifying moment, Jane had no idea how to respond. She didn't want to come on too strong, but on the other hand, she wanted Sutton to know how much their time together had meant to her.

“Well … thanks for making the choice to come with me.” She tried out a grin. “Or should I thank your DLPFC?”

When Sutton laughed, Jane didn't feel so bad about sounding like a huge dork. And then Sutton suddenly rested one hand on Jane's shoulder, raised herself up on her toes, and brushed her lips across Jane's cheek. The fleeting contact felt as though the ends of a live wire had skimmed her face. Every nerve stood at attention as the heat of Sutton's mouth lingered on her chilled skin.

“I'll see you.” The promise in her words was almost as sweet as the kiss.

Jane managed to raise one hand in a wave before Sutton turned and jogged up the stairs. Blinking slowly, her every cell incredulous, she watched as Sutton disappeared behind the door.

“What on earth was that?” she murmured, turning her fingers to brush against the spot that still burned despite the cold. As the wind picked up again, rattling the trees, the jumble of sensations resolved into something she hadn't felt since first glimpsing the Goddess in Glasses all those months ago.

Hope.

*   *   *

SUTTON WANTED TO LOOK
back. She wanted one more glimpse of Jane's dazed, happy expression. The knowledge that she had been the one to put it there was addicting. She wanted to see it just one more time.

Beneath the welcome confidence she'd found in Jane's reaction, a small, panicking voice was shrilly insisting that this was all a terrible mistake. Sutton tuned it out. That kiss had been instinctive—the product of a perfect storm of attraction, sympathy, and her innate desire to heal anyone in pain. She may not have planned it, but she'd be damned if she was going to regret it.

But now, as she stood on the doorstep of her parents' home, she needed to regain her composure. Resolutely, she forced herself not to turn around. It took two tries before she managed to slip her key into the lock, but when it clicked open, she pushed inside without a backward glance.

“Dad? Mom? I'm here.” She turned and stopped in her tracks at the sight of her father standing before one of the front windows. By the stiff set of his shoulders and the expression on his face—as though he had sipped sour milk—she knew that he had witnessed her moment with Jane.

She suddenly felt as though she were ten years younger, and he had just caught her doing something illicit. Except she had never done anything forbidden as a teenager, and she certainly wasn't doing anything wrong now. As he turned to face her, she squared her shoulders and reminded herself that she had more advanced degrees than he did.

“Sutton.”

“Hi, Dad.”

He cocked his head and looked at her the way he looked at his patients—like there was something inside her he wanted to remove. “I wasn't aware that you were seeing someone.”

“It's fairly new,” Sutton said matter-of-factly as she made her way down the foyer. She wasn't about to confide her uncertainty in him. He would only try to use it against her. “Her name is Jane,” she said as she passed him, knowing he wouldn't ask.

“Rather cruel to her, isn't it?” He followed her into the kitchen.

Sutton poured herself a glass of water and focused on keeping her cool. “What do you mean?”

“You're about to begin a surgical residency at Columbia. You'll never leave the hospital.”

“She's aware of my situa—” Sutton cut herself off as her father's words finally registered. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears and she grasped the edge of the counter with one hand. “Am I to take that to mean you've heard something?”

“I had lunch with Neal today. He confirmed it. Off the record, of course.”

Neal Bowers was the Chief of Surgery at Columbia University Medical Center, and one of her father's close friends. Ultimately, he was the one responsible for approving all new resident hires. Which, apparently, included her.

“He and his wife will be joining us for dinner tonight,” her father continued. “So if you have any questions, I'm sure he will be happy to answer them.”

“I…” Sutton carefully set her glass back on the counter. She had always imagined that learning her match would be a watershed moment—the ultimate relief after so much time spent building the best possible application. Residency was the true beginning of one's career, and such a prestigious match was not only a feather in her cap, but would also help her down the line.

So why, instead of triumph, did she feel a vague sense of unease? Analysis had always been her best defense mechanism, and she turned to it now, picking apart the strands of her discomfort. Once the news broke on Match Day, some of her peers would be genuinely happy for her. The rest would call her entitled and impute her match to nepotism. Most of the time, she paid no attention to the jealous whispers. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shake her insecurity. Was she riding her father's coattails, or her own? She would never know. And that was part of what made her research so appealing—the certain knowledge that she had crafted every hypothesis, performed every experiment, and crunched every piece of data herself.

“Thank you for letting me know,” she said finally, knowing it was a lame response. But her father didn't even seem to notice. He moved across the kitchen in long strides and gave her a brisk hug.

“We're proud of you for this accomplishment, Sutton. You should go see your mother. She's in the sitting room.”

“All right.”

Sutton took the stairs up to the second floor slowly. The entire world felt surreal—as though she were looking at it through a very fine mist. She had matched. The wait was over. And yet she couldn't tell anyone for another ten days. As the secret pressed in on her mind, claustrophobia constricted her chest.

And then she flashed to Jane's face and felt a surge of relief. True. She could tell Jane. Jane would understand the complexity of the situation, and would celebrate her success while also understanding how complicated the future might become. But before she could share the news, Sutton had to get through a tête-à-tête with her mother and a dinner with her prospective future supervisor.

The sitting room was one of her favorites in the townhouse. Its canary-yellow walls always improved her mood, and its scent—a mixture of pine and books—never failed to comfort her. As she took a deep breath, she turned to face Priscilla St. James, who was sitting in a Louis XIV armchair with her back to one of the inset bookshelves. Dressed immaculately in a navy skirt suit, pearls bedecking her cream-colored blouse, she fulfilled the stereotype of high society wife in every way but one.

“Hello, Sutton.” With a slowness unbefitting her age, her mother rose from the chair, leaning heavily on both armrests as she stood. Sutton met her near the coffee table, and as she was pulled into her familiar embrace, she inhaled the scent of Chanel No. 5.

“Hello, Mom. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, a little tired today.”

That, Sutton had learned, was code-speak for “not very well, but not awful enough for me to complain about it.” She frowned and stepped back, taking in her mother's pallor and the smudges beneath her eyes. It didn't look as though she had been resting well. Mentally, Sutton worked backward. If she were having a flare-up, it had come sooner than usual. Was her condition changing?

“Your father and I are so proud of you,” she was saying as she returned to the chair. “We always knew you would achieve greatness.”

In that moment, Sutton wanted so badly to unburden herself to her mother—to tell her about all her professional uncertainties, her lingering attraction to Jane, her fears about the future. But she couldn't. Her mother didn't want her to be human. She wanted to have raised a success story.

“Thank you, Mom,” she said quietly.