Fall Semester (20 page)

“I may not be able to do it,” he said, his face clouding.

“What do you mean?” They had reached the stairs, and she stopped to listen to him.

Malcolm’s brows knit, and frustration bowed his mouth.

“I may not be able to secure the rights. The church has to give its permission, and her bishop wants to see if they can find a Guatemalan or someone from the church to do it.”

“Oh, Malcolm,” she murmured. She knew without another word how disappointing this would be for him. It also seemed grossly unfair.

Malcolm stared at her a moment, and his eyes seemed to heat as he did.

“You’re the first person I’ve told...about the roadblock, I mean.”

Maren reached for his hand then because she had to touch him. She squeezed his fingers, and he squeezed back, sending a thousand sparkles up her arm to her heart.

“I’m glad you told me,” she whispered. Maren wanted to wrap her arms around him and plant kisses from his ear to his collar bone, but she held herself still and tried to press as much love as she could into the fingers she held in her hand.

“Thank you, again, for being here today.”

Those green eyes still held heat, but he narrowed them as if he ached to tell her something.

“Of course.”

He squeezed her hand again before dropping it and continuing their descent on the stairs. Although the day was sunny, the wind was cool, and Maren buttoned her jacket as she approached her bike.

“You don’t have a helmet,” Malcolm said, disapproval clear in his voice.

Maren rolled her eyes with a smirk.

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s not safe.”

“I don’t go very fast,” she reasoned.

“Yes, but cars do,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“They’re ugly.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at her.

“And head trauma is fetching?”

Maren sighed.

“I can’t possibly win this argument. I’m not even going to try,” she conceded as she unlocked her bike. “I hope you have a lovely weekend, Malcolm.”

“It’s all downhill from here,” he said under his breath.

Maren straightened and looked him square in the eye.

“It doesn’t have to be,” she said, softly.

Malcolm frowned.

“Yes, it does.”

This was an argument she could not win either. For now. She sighed again, placed her bag in the bike’s basket, and mounted.

“When you figure out that you’re wrong about this, let me know.”

And she rode away from him.

She admitted to herself that she was frustrated and even a little angry with him again, but Maren recognized that perhaps progress had been made. Maybe he would not hide from her now. Maybe they could talk again, at least. She loved him, but she would not chase him.

Maren was glad for the bike ride home so that she could try to clear her head. The chapbook project was now behind her, and Malcolm was at least speaking to her again. She had a ridiculous amount of work to do over the weekend, including on the introduction to her thesis, and she wanted to get as much done as she could during the afternoon so that her time at her parents’ house on Sunday would not be rushed. Her father was being very brave, but everyone could see that he had grown much weaker—so much thinner—and that pain management was a constant struggle. Laurel was picking her up in the morning, and Maren wanted to spend the better part of the day helping and comforting where she could.

At home, she locked up her bike and entered the kitchen to find Tuva—sporting an apron—standing at the stove before a sizzling pan. The house smelled like salted caramel and roasted potatoes.

“Hallo!” Tuva sang, beaming—as usual—at Maren.

“Mmm! That smells divine! What is it?”

If possible, Tuva’s smile grew.

“It is our lunch! Sugar-browned potatoes and
inkokt lax
. And it is almost ready.”

Maren moved closer to the inviting pan and studied the caramelized red potato wedges with eagerness.

“Where’s the ink-oak locks? Is it in there?” she asked, pointing to the potatoes. Tuva chimed with laugher.

“No!
Inkokt
lax
is cold salmon with a vinegar and sugar dressing. It is in the refrigerator.”

Maren gazed at her roommate with undisguised adoration.

“Tuva, you are an angel! No, a goddess! I worship you!” she gushed, hugging her laughing friend in gratitude.

“Well, you said you would be home around noon, and I was homeseeck for some Swedish flavors, so there you are!”

“I can’t wait to try some Swedish flavors. What can I do to help?” she asked.

“Oh, just get us some plates and forks.”

After Tuva loaded up their plates, Maren carried them to the table, and Tuva produced what she described as Swedish tartar sauce, mayonnaise, onions, dill, and seasonings.

Maren wasn’t sure what she would think about sweet and sour cold fish, but her first bite was surprisingly good, tender, full-flavored, and enticing.

“Mmm. Very good. How did you cook the salmon?”

“In Sweden, you traditionally boil it with vegetables, but at Pete’s I see the cook grill or broil salmon, so I tried it his way,” she said, proudly, forking a bite. “It is just as good, and faster, too!”

Maren dipped a piece of fish into the mayo.

“Do you work tonight?” Tuva waited tables at Pete’s Bar and Grill a few nights a week and usually closed on Saturday nights.

“As usual,” Tuva said, nodding. “Try a potato, Mahreen. They are from heaven.”

Without hesitation, Maren speared a golden-brown wedge with her fork and brought it to her mouth.

“Oh my God...” It was like sunlight and sugar all in one. The warm, savory potatoes mixed with the near caramelized sugar to compose a complete text of taste. “Where have these been all my life? I would eat this for breakfast! Every day!”

After lunch, Maren insisted on doing the dishes. Tuva relented and settled herself in the living room to study. Washing dishes always made Maren feel at peace; the warm water, the suds, and the ultimate reward of a clean kitchen gave her to a Zen-like calm. But lately, washing dishes made her think of Malcolm and the night he brought her gumbo and did the dishes in her kitchen. As she stopped the sink, turned on the hot water, and squirted in the dish liquid, she thought of the morning at the lab and the surprise of his arrival. It made her smile, his protectiveness, his obvious care for her. No matter what he said or thought, he made her feel so safe, so cherished.

And she had been able to touch him today. She had held this hand. Twice. Every cell in her body had registered that he had held on just as tightly. There was no mistaking that. Details that her mind had recorded came back to her, like the base of Malcolm’s throat at the bottom of his open collar. She would love to kiss it, peel the collar back and run her tongue along his collarbone, nibble his neck.

Too soon for Maren’s fantasies, the last dish was clean. Time to work. She joined Tuva on the couch with her iPad and wireless keyboard and opened the Google Doc that contained her growing thesis introduction. Perry trotted in from the kitchen and observed the two women on the couch. Seeming to ascertain that they’d be settled for some time, he hopped on the cushion between them, twirled a few times for good measure, and nestled down for a nap.

When Tuva left for work just before 7 p.m., Maren decided that she had to go for a run before she sprouted roots from her behind and became permanently attached to the couch. The sun had already set, so she put on her reflective windbreaker over her running attire and strapped on a blinky armband for good measure. The tucked her phone into one of the zippered pouches and popped in one ear bud, stuffing the other in her sports bra so that she could keep one ear out for traffic.

Outside, she located satellites on her Garmin, stretched, and tapped her running playlist. She hit the road to Grouplove’s “Tongue Tied,” and her mood immediately lifted. It was dark, so she couldn’t fly and risk wiping out in a pothole, but she quickly found a fun, speedy pace. Her poems and the struggle to explain them in a critical context lifted out of her head like helium balloons. She ran up St. Thomas to St. Landry and tucked into Calder Street with some of her favorite houses, 1940s beauties that had been bought up and refreshed by hip, young couples who weren’t afraid to live between the university and downtown.

Metric’s “Help I’m Alive”
kept her company as she ran up to Amelia and doubled back on Brashear. It was a cool night, but there was plenty of bike and foot traffic—people heading downtown for Art Walk, dinner, or drinks and music. It had been a while since she’d gone out. It seemed as though in the last few weeks her life had narrowed down to school and family, especially now that Helene and Jess were so officially involved.

Maren smiled at the memory of her friend’s texts.
Tonight is THE night.
At least one of them was getting some action. Maren counted back in her mind, back to Ben, back to Denver and before her dad had been diagnosed. June? Six months with no sex.

Well, no sex without batteries.

She re-crossed St. Landry and cut through the parking lot of Martin & Castille funeral home to the little bridge that spanned the coulee before Parkside. Unbidden, she found herself wondering when she would have to be back there, dressed in black. She pushed the thought from her mind and focused on Of Monsters and Men’s “Mountain Sound.”

She ran down Myrtle Street, past the pretentious gated community, Myrtle Square, past Governor Blanco’s house and the architectural hodgepodge of Acadian, Victorian, and the odd Frank-Lloyd-Wright-inspired homes from the 60s. Maren made a U-turn at Congress and ran her way back across St. Mary and onto St. Louis.

“Heartbeats” by Royal Teeth, a local band Maren had followed for a while, caught her with its lyrics.
One night to push and scream...and then release.
Maren sighed, even as she ran, unable to keep Malcolm from her thoughts. She took a left on Howard, crossed St. Joseph and slowed her pace a little as she crossed St. Patrick. She wouldn’t let herself run down his block, but she could see his lights on down the street, his car in the driveway. He was there, and although it only made her ache for him more, she felt relieved to know he was home.

Maren zigzagged through the Saint Streets for another 20 minutes before heading home. She fed Perry, started a load of laundry, and made herself a sandwich. Rather than sit in her sweaty clothes on the couch, Maren ate at the table and read her English Romantics assignment for another hour.

At 9:30 she gave herself permission to stop. She switched her clothes to the dryer headed to the bathroom for a shower. The hot water was not the strong pair of hands that had gripped hers that morning, but she luxuriated in it anyway. As she rinsed out her conditioner, she sent up a prayer that Malcolm would see himself with clear eyes before she started going gray.

He stayed on her mind—of course—while she dried her hair. She found his red soccer sweatshirt and her black yoga pants. If she couldn’t be with him, she would at least curl up in something that had surely held his body.

Maren decided that she would allow herself the rare diversion of turning on the TV. Until she got sleepy. She grabbed her phone off the kitchen table on her way to the living room and stopped in her tracks.

“Oh shit!”

Six missed calls. Four text messages.

Dad!

Before Maren could even check her call history, the phone rang in her hand. Laurel.

“Laurel! What’s wrong?” she answered.

“Maren! Thank God!” Laurel sounded hysterical, speaking through sobs. Maren’s heart was thundering in her chest, and she felt her hands start shaking. “We’re at the hospital. Dad started having seizures and wouldn’t stop. Come now. Can you come now?”

“Laurel, where’s mom? Is Lane there?” She was frantic. Lane could come get her if he wasn’t already there.

“Mom’s at the admitting desk. We just got here, and they took Dad,” Laurel sobbed again, her voice almost unintelligible. “Lane’s in Houston. He’s trying to get back. Maren, please come now. Please hurry. I’m so scared!”

Oh, Fuck.

“Laurel, I’m coming. I’ll be right there,” she said, trying to sound calm. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Maren, you should have seen hi—” Her little sister’s voice broke into a wail.

“Laurel, listen. I’m coming. I just have to get a ride, but I’ll be there soon. I have to go. I’ll call you as soon as I’m on my way. Okay?”

“Oh, God, Maren. Please hurry.”

“I will. I will. I have to go.” Maren hung up and swore. Being without a car suddenly seemed like the stupidest thing in the world.

With shaking fingers, she opened Google on the third try and searched for taxis, tapping the call button on the first Lafayette number that came up.

It rang.

And rang.

And rang.

“Fucking Christ!” she yelled into the phone.

Tuva was at work and would not be home until after 2:00 a.m. Maren thought about calling Helene, but Helene was at Jess’s. And even if she answered her phone—and God only knew if she could even hear the phone—how long would it take?

Malcolm.

The name came to her like a flare in the darkness. She bit her lip, prayed he would answer, and pressed “Call”.

Chapter 22

Malcolm

A
t 10:37 on Saturday night, Malcolm squinted with bewilderment at the ringing phone in his hand. He had turned out his light a half hour before and had managed to will sleep to come after a day of such frustration. Clarity pierced his confused brain when he read “M.G.” on the screen, and he bolted up in bed. Something was wrong.

Terrence, you fucker!

“Are you alright?” he answered, snapping the light on and reaching for his glasses.

“Malcolm?” Her voice was wounded, broken. A murderous impulse gripped him. His hand formed a fist as he pictured Rob Terrence touching her.

“What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“Malcolm,...I’m at home....It’s my dad.” He heard her draw a jagged breath. “Could you please give me a ride to the hospital? I’m so sorry to ask y—”

“I’m on my way.”

He was out of bed and pulling on jeans over his boxer briefs with the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder.

“Oh, God, thank you, Malcolm,” she said, breaking down completely. “I’m so sorry to call so late.”

“Nonsense,” Malcolm said, shoving his feet into the sneakers by his bed. He grabbed his keys and wallet off the valet and flew through the house. “I’ll be there in one minute, Maren.”

He ended the call and plucked his leather jacket off the coat rack before dashing out the door, not even bothering to lock the house on his way out.

Malcolm gunned the Accord down St. Patrick and left tread marks on the corners of St. Thomas and Louisa. Maren stood in the drive, bag over her shoulder, clutching herself in distress.

“What hospital?” he asked as she got in.

“General,” Maren said, trying to compose herself and drying her eyes on her sleeve.

My sleeve
, he realized with wonder.

“Put your seatbelt on,” he said. Once she did, he threw the car into reverse and took off. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maren fumble with her phone before putting it to her ear. She took one slow deep breath while the call connected.

“Laurel, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in 10 minutes...” Maren managed to sound much more composed as she spoke to her sister. “In the E.R.?...I’ll find you. Okay...I’m coming.”

She ended the call and gave a long sniff. Malcolm reached across her, opened the glove compartment, and dug around, finding the small package of tissues he’d stashed there the last time the ligustrums had bloomed.

“Here,” he whispered, handing them to her.

She took them and looked at Malcolm as if seeing him for the first time that night.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you for coming to get me, Malcolm.” Her lip quivered, and her brown eyes filled again, and Malcolm thought that his heart would break just looking at her.

“Of course,” he said, softly. She helped herself to a tissue, drew her legs up onto the seat, and hugged her knees.

She’s so young.

Malcolm turned his eyes to the road as they approached the intersection of St. Julien and Johnston. At the red light, Maren spoke.

“I’m not ready for this yet,” she said, her voice closing down again.

As if it had been only a day instead of 15 years, Malcolm felt that hollowed out ache, and he grabbed Maren’s hand tightly.

“You’re not supposed to be ready. There’s no such thing,” he said, hoarsely.

Her wide eyes searched his.

“Malcolm, I’m so scared.”

He released her hand, wrapped his arm around her, and pulled her to him. He kissed the top of her head. He felt the sobs shake her shoulders as tears soaked his shirt. The light turned green, and he veered onto Johnston, keeping his arm around her.

As they drove, Malcolm witnessed a shift in Maren’s composure. The tears and sobs gave way to a tightening, a bracing in her posture. He could feel it in her body, her resolve to be strong enough to shore up everyone else, to carry the weight for everyone.

She was like a live wire, practically vibrating in her seat when they pulled into the hospital’s drive.

“You can just drop me at the E.R. entrance,” she said, eyes focused out the windshield.

“No way,” he said, pulling into Visitor Parking. “I’m coming with you.”

Maren turned to him frowning.

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m coming with you.”

She shook her head.

“You don’t have to, Malcolm. It’s so late.”

He found a spot close the entrance, pulled in, and killed the engine. Malcolm faced her so that she could see that this was non-negotiable.

“Maren, I am coming with you.”

Maren studied him for a moment, blinked rapidly, and nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s go.”

Malcolm jumped out of the car so he could meet her on the passenger side. His only thought was to show Maren that she did not have to bear it all on her own. Nothing in the world could have stopped him from going with her. He took her hand and squeezed it as they walked to the entrance. She said nothing but gripped his hand as though it was life itself.

Maren paused at the automatic doors and bit her lip.

“I’m afraid of what’s in there,” she said, softly.

Malcolm wrapped his arm around her and tucked her to his side.

“I’ve got you.”

She looked up at him, fear widening her eyes.

“What if I’ve already lost him?” she whispered.

Malcolm exhaled a sigh, feeling the sadness that floated under her fear.

“What if you haven’t yet? What if you still have some time?”

He watched resolve strengthen her features, and she strode forward.

They had only just entered the waiting area when a weeping girl with dark curls launched herself into Maren’s arms. Malcolm took a step back to give them room, but he kept a steadying hand on the small of Maren’s back. He wanted to remind her that he was there—for her.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” Laurel wailed into Maren’s shoulder. “They won’t tell us anything!”

Maren clutched her sister, and Malcolm watched her fight to control her emotions, to appear strong and unassailable. He thought it an unfair burden to put on herself, but he admired her effort.

“Shhh, Laurel. It’ll be okay,” Maren soothed. “Where’s Mom?”

Laurel pulled back and scowled in the opposite direction, roughly wiping her eyes.

“She’s still in Admitting verifying insurance,” Laurel said with disgust.

When she stepped back, Malcolm resumed his post at Maren’s side. Looking at Laurel, he could see the resemblance. She was shorter than Maren, perhaps not as lean, and her head was covered in a fury of dark curls, but their faces shared an echo of likeness.

“Hi...?” Laurel said, taking in Malcolm’s proximity to her sister.

Malcolm felt Maren’s arm take hold around his waist.

“Laurel,...this is my friend Malcolm,” she said, looking at him with an enigmatic smile. Malcolm extended his free hand to Laurel.

“Hi, Laurel.” The younger girl took it slowly and studied him with a bemused look. Maren took advantage of her momentary distraction.

“Let’s go sit down, and you can tell me what happened,” Maren said, guiding them, her arm still around him, to a bank of chairs in the corner of the waiting area.

Laurel complied and sat down on the edge of her seat across from Maren and Malcolm, and Maren clasped her sister’s hands.

“I was upstairs studying, and I just heard Mom yelling for me,” Laurel’s eyebrows drew together. Malcolm thought this made her look even more like Maren. “She sounded terrified. I ran down, and she was already calling for an ambulance.”

Her voice broke as her eyes unfocused, lost in the memory.

“Dad was in their bed, convulsing...he was all rigid and...just not there.” Tears leaked out of her eyes, and Maren wiped them away.

“How long did it last?” Malcolm heard himself asking. Maren looked at him, somewhat surprised, but then she drew her left hand away from Laurel’s and placed it in his.

“The first one stopped right before the paramedics got there, but he had another one while they were checking him out, and that’s when they rushed him here,” Laurel said, fear crimping the corners of her eyes.

Just then, their mother approached. Malcolm knew it was their mother because she was lovely, with eyes like Maren’s and hair like Laurel’s. With grief in her eyes, she went to Maren, who stood at her approach, and Malcolm watched them embrace.

“Hello, darling,” the woman whispered.

“Mom.”

Malcolm watched as both women silently cried in each other’s arms. Witnessing Maren’s helpless suffering made him shift in his seat with agitation.

Maren pulled back from her mother’s arms and hastily dried her eyes.

“Mom, this is my friend Malcolm Vashal,” Maren said, managing a smile as she introduced him. Malcolm stood and again offered his hand.

“Hello, Mrs. Gardner.” He registered the surprise in her eyes as she took him in. She must have been doing the same mental math he ways. Mrs. Gardner looked to be in her mid-40s. Roughly as many years separated her from Malcolm as separated him from Maren. He swallowed in embarrassment.

“Oh!...Hello. Please, call me Erin,” she stammered, shaking his hand. Yes, she was surprised, and although Malcolm searched for disapproval in her look, he found none. In fact, he may have detected relief.

“I take it you drove Maren here. Thank you very much,” she said, warmly.

“I was glad to do it,” he replied.

Erin patted his arm before turning back to her daughters.

“Have either of you heard from Lane?”

“Yes,” Maren said. “He can’t catch a flight back until tomorrow, but he’ll be here first thing.”

Malcolm pictured the curly-haired youth whom he’d mistaken as a boyfriend. Though he knew it was selfish, he silently thanked Maren’s brother for being out of town on this particular night. Malcolm knew that if the boy had been around, she would not have needed him.

Do I want her to need me?

The answer was an unequivocal yes. It was wrong, and he knew it, but that changed nothing. He was glad that she’d needed him, and he was grateful that he had been able to come to her aid.

“I wish they’d tell us something,” Erin said, her worried eyes seeking the double doors that separated the waiting area from the emergency room.

“Mom, sit down,” Maren directed. “We might be here awhile.” Maren sat and tugged Malcolm’s sleeve so that he sat next to her.

Erin and Laurel followed suit. Without a thought, Malcolm tucked his right arm around Maren, and her body answered by leaning into his.

It felt good. Not maddening, the way her kisses had harnessed him, driven him, but warm. Her closeness, her body against his was a balm that radiated through him. He looked down at the sweetness of her face, and he understood that there was nothing in the world that he cared about more.

“Are you comfortable?” he whispered. “Is there anything I can do?”

She brought her eyes to his and gave him a shy smile.

“You’re doing it, believe me,” she whispered back. Then her smile grew as she eyed him. “So,...glasses, huh?”

Malcolm had forgotten he was wearing them. He laughed lightly.

“Yeah, I take out my contacts at night, so I wear these before bed and right when I wake up,” he said. “I’m pretty blind without them.”

“They look good on you,” she said, grinning. Then she reached up to his face. “May I?”

He raised his brow at her but leaned forward indulgently. She slid the glasses from his face, and the world went fuzzy, but she was close enough to see as she peered through the lenses.

“Wow, Malcolm. You
are
blind.” Instead of handing them back, she slipped them onto her face and blinked at him. “How do I look?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m blind, remember?” But even blurry, she was unbelievably cute in his glasses and sweatshirt. He could not imagine finding her more captivating.

“How long have you two been seeing each other?” Laurel asked, breaking him out of his reverie. Maren handed him back his glasses, and he replaced them to see a serene smile on Erin’s face and a look of amused curiosity on Laurel’s.

“We’re friends, Laurel,” Maren said.

Erin frowned doubtfully, but Laurel rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, right,” she muttered. “Keep telling yourselves that.”

“Laurel!” Erin hissed, but with good humor.

Laurel’s question needled him. It meant that he could not hide how he felt any more than Maren could, but he decided to let it go. He had a hard enough time trying to explain to Maren why they could not be together; he didn’t want to take on the job of explaining it to her whole family.

“
Pido disculpas por mi hermana,”
Maren whispered.

Malcolm had forgotten that Maren spoke some Spanish. He felt the effect of the reminder along his spinal column.

“Yo te perdonaría cualquier cosa, mi belleza,”
he said, swallowing against the thrill.

Te amo más que a nada,
his heart added.

She frowned, trying to catch all the words, and he waited for her to ask for clarification when a female doctor in scrubs approached.

“Mrs. Gardner?” she asked.

Erin shot out of her chair, and they all got to their feet. Malcolm felt Maren cling to him, her muscles straining with tension.

“I’m Dr. Guidry. Your husband has been taken to ICU. We were able to stop the seizures with medication, but I suspect that they indicate that metastasis in his brain is worsening,” she said, grimly. “We can run a few tests in the morning to know more if that is what you would like to do. I understand that you have medical power of attorney.”

“Is he conscious? Can we see him?” Erin asked, holding Laurel who had started to cry again.

The doctor nodded.

“He is conscious, but we’ll also be managing his pain with morphine, so he won’t be very alert just now.”

“He’s been on Tramadol for pain,” Erin said.

“I’m aware of that, Mrs. Gardner, but my examination indicated that the Tramadol is not as effective at this point. We can explore other options if the sedating effects of the morphine affect his quality of life and his time with his family, but I wanted to make sure he could rest well tonight after this ordeal.”