After the Leaves Fall

by Nicole Baart

  We left study sessions as exhausted as if we had just run a 10K. Parker would squeeze my hand at the door of my building and give me a tired kiss on the cheek. I was always too numb to even register his touch, and I would wave good-bye and stumble to my room, where I crashed, utterly spent, on the bed. However, as I fell asleep, the thought would often cross my mind that these days with Parker had made me care for him more than dinner dates with getting-to-know-you conversation and my hair done just so.

  The day of the test, Parker was behind the podium in the lecture hall giving stoic instructions. I tuned him out and went over the formulas that I had worked so intently to cram into my mind. Parker had sent an e-mail to the entire class earlier in the week outlining exactly what we could expect the test format to be, what we could take into the exam, and what would be required of us. I memorized the information as if it were a Bible verse from my youth and without every word in its proper place I would not receive the coveted gold star sticker. Needless to say, I felt the few minutes before Parker handed out the test were best spent mentally reviewing.

  I was at the end of a row, and when he handed me a stack of tests to pass down, Parker gave me an almost imperceptible suggestion of a smile. I saw it. It was enough.

  The test was one sheet with three problems on each side. Every problem contained a drawing of a different stationary system and arrows indicating where force was being applied at various points in each system. It was my job to calculate the forces acting on the system and answer the handful of questions that accompanied the problem. I had practiced a dozen of these over the course of the last few days alone. I was ready. Taking a deep breath, I opened my blue book and began to write.

  I was the last student to leave the room. As I gathered up my belongings and descended into the theater to hand Parker my test, I decided that being last wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. I had been meticulous in my attention to detail. I had done well. I told myself that I had passed with flying colors.

  When Parker took my test, he gave me a hopeful smile and a wink.

  I smiled back to show him that all was well and I was confident. He didn’t say anything and I didn’t either. It felt too strange to be consorting with the teacher’s assistant after an important test. He must have agreed because he turned to add my paper to the stack neatly collected in a printer paper box and didn’t turn back.

  I wasn’t offended and in fact nearly floated out of the lecture hall because I was becoming more and more convinced that I had done just fine. The conversation that I had had with Parker a few days ago suddenly seemed less threatening, and I felt my shoulders straighten as I thought, I can do this. I will be an engineer. I just need to apply myself a bit more. With each step, the ground felt more stable beneath me.

  Becca was flopped across her bed with a book when I walked in. Although I couldn’t make out the title to know for sure whether she was reading for school or pleasure, I thought about teasing her that this was a rare sight. But I bit my tongue because I wanted her to ask me how the test had gone, and I figured a mild insult—no matter how accurate—was a poor way to initiate a conversation. Instead, I said a cheery “Hello,” and she grunted a response as she continued reading her book.

  Wanting to talk, I sat down at my desk chair with a weighty sigh and crossed my right ankle over my knee to unlace my hiking boots.

  Becca, only a few feet away, ignored my obvious plea for attention.

  Pulling off the boot, I sighed again.

  Becca turned a page.

  When my hiking boots were side by side on the floor, I tried another tactic. “Are you hungry?” I asked talkatively. “’Cause I’m starving. I think I’m going to microwave some popcorn—you want some?”

  Becca looked up at me for the first time since I entered the room. “Huh? Popcorn?” It clicked. “Yeah, sure, popcorn sounds good.” And her gaze dropped back to her book.

  We weren’t allowed to have microwaves in our dorm rooms, so I stepped into my slippers and padded down the hallway to the little community room. It was empty except for the girl who had done my hair the first day of classes. I cursed myself silently for not remembering her name. She was reheating a plate of something in the microwave, and she smiled when she saw me clutching my flat little packet of popcorn.

  “Hi, Julia. I’ll be just a minute,” she said. “I haven’t seen you around for ages.”

  “I’ve had tons of homework,” I replied almost apologetically. Her genial smile made me regret that I had so little time to pursue friendships.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said, and her eyes got just a tad rounder. “You’re an engineering major, aren’t you?” The way she said engineering made it sound as if I would single-handedly do something miraculous and life changing for all mankind. Either that or sprout a third eye. I gave a slightly uncomfortable nod, and she continued. “You guys are so beyond me—I could never do what you do.” She laughed good-naturedly. “I still count on my fingers!”

  The microwave pinged and went dark. Turning away from me, the girl pulled the door open and stuck a finger in a plate of lasagna that looked like leftovers from an expensive restaurant. As if reading my thoughts, she glanced over her shoulder at me and said, “My boyfriend took me to Mario’s last night. I told him it was too nice, but—” she shrugged—“he insisted.”

  “I’m sure you’re worth it,” I said, liking the fact that her smile broadened with my poor attempt at a compliment.

  She collected her lasagna from the microwave. “It’s hot enough. The microwave is all yours.”

  I tossed the popcorn bag in and waved good-bye.

  She was almost gone when she suddenly hooked an arm across the doorframe to poke her head back in. “Hey, a bunch of us are having a movie night in my dorm room tonight—some chick flick I’m sure,” she said, arching her eyebrows. “You can come if you’d like.”

  The invitation was so thoughtful and out of the blue that I struggled to find the right thing to say. I took too long.

  “Oh, it was mean of me to even ask, wasn’t it?” she murmured with a sad shake of her head. “You are way too busy, aren’t you? I’m sorry. I know you engineers have it way worse than us early childhood development majors. We shouldn’t rub it in.”

  I forced a smile as she disappeared, hurt not by what she had said but by the sincerity with which she said it. This distinctiveness that I longed to wear as a mantle of my own importance and worth seemed arrogant and cheap when someone so kind looked at me with admiration that I had done nothing to deserve. I decided the world would be a better place with a few more of her and a few less self-important professionals.

  My mood had sunk a bit by the time I headed back to my room with a steaming bag of buttered popcorn. But I was still excited about the test and ready to share my enthusiasm with someone, even if it was only Becca, who wouldn’t understand and probably wouldn’t care. I tried to shake off the dusting of remorse that had settled over me after my community room encounter and marched into my room determined to have a nice chat. We had been able to talk in the beginning; there was no reason why Becca and I shouldn’t be able to have a pleasant conversation now.

  When I walked in the door, Becca was slipping into her coat.

  “Oh!” I couldn’t stop myself from sounding surprised. “I thought we were having popcorn.”

  “Sorry, Julia. I have to go out.” Becca pulled a knit hat over her auburn spikes and gave me a rueful half smile. “But, hey, I’ll take some for the road.” She grabbed a cup off her desk and dug it into the bag of popcorn, spilling a blond shower of kernels on the floor at my feet. “Oops!”

  I didn’t say anything as I watched her sling her backpack over one shoulder and grab the door handle.

  “Have a good afternoon!” she called. “Oh, and your grandma phoned. I wrote the message on the marker board because it didn’t make any sense to me.” The door swung shut.

  I spent the next fifteen minutes lying on the bed and eating popcorn. When the
popcorn bag was decimated and my mouth sore from too much salt, I finally felt I had enough energy to read Grandma’s message. Swallowing a rush of self-pity and trying to remind myself that I was above Becca’s petty jabs, I pulled myself almost groggily from my pillow and stepped over the pile of popcorn that she had left scattered across the floor. I ticked off Parker, Thomas, and even the girl from the community room in my mind and counted them as friends. I didn’t need Becca and her moody self-sufficiency.

  The marker board hung next to the mirror by the door, and Becca had used up the majority of it to scrawl: R U coming to Thanksgiving on Sunday? The Walkers want to know. … Beneath it she had offered her own commentary: Julia, does your g-ma know that turkey day is two weeks away?

  Although her comment would normally have rubbed me the wrong way considering the mood I was in and the way I currently felt about my less-than-affable roommate, all Becca’s foibles were forgiven as I read and reread Grandma’s message. Thanksgiving. I had completely forgotten. It was like receiving the best kind of present: an unexpected one.

  The Walkers had been celebrating Thanksgiving two Sundays before the actual holiday weekend for as long as I could remember. Once I had overheard Mrs. Walker explaining to my grandmother that she got sick of cooking two turkeys only six weeks apart every year—Mr. Walker was Canadian and wanted to celebrate Thanksgiving with his fellow countrymen in October; Mrs. Walker was American and insisted on observing the November holiday. Somewhere along the line she put her foot down, declared a Walker family Thanksgiving, and from that point on devoted her oven to a fifteen-pound bird only once a year.

  When Dad died and Grandma and I lost all semblance of a family structure, the Walkers had enfolded us in their unusual tradition with graciously open arms. Actually, it was hardly a matter of charity—Grandma became the official baker for the event and brought baskets of her homemade rosemary rolls and fresh pumpkin, pecan, and Dutch apple pies. Everyone was better off because of our inclusion.

  And now, thinking of hot apple cider and the noise and bustle of the Walker house as we got ready to feast, I almost cried with homesick relief. I hadn’t grasped how much I missed my grandmother. It was a bittersweet, nostalgic feeling to hold her in my mind and come to terms with the fact that I had not seen her since I left for college. I suddenly missed my attic room in the tiny farmhouse with an almost painful ache, and I remembered the smell of our kitchen and the way the wind hummed in the living room windows as if I were standing in my home this very instant. Home. The word was warm and thick and comforting in my throat even though I could not make myself pronounce it. I wanted to go home.

  It was Wednesday, and I had two more days of classes before I could leave. With the assurance of something so sweet and familiar dangling in front of me like an unfulfilled promise, two days of classes seemed like an eternity. The thought flitted across my mind that I could just go home now, e-mail my professors and tell them that I was sick. After all, I hadn’t skipped a single class yet. But just as quickly as I considered it, I dismissed it. As excited as I was to go home, I hadn’t completely forgotten the victory of today. I wanted everyone to be able to see me as a successful engineering major. I wanted to be thriving and blossoming and … whole.

  I resisted the urge to pack a few things—to lay out a sweater or two on my desk to remind me that I would be going home soon—and convinced myself to work hard for a couple more days. My calculus and chemistry homework was done for Thursday, and since there had been a test in statics, there was no assignment for Friday. That left philosophy and psychology, and I almost laughed out loud because for once my load was fairly light. I decided my two gen ed classes could wait awhile before I gave them attention, and I grabbed my laptop to e-mail Parker my happy news.

  I found an e-mail from Thomas instead.

  For a moment, I was shocked that he hadn’t even crossed my mind when I thought about the Walker Thanksgiving. After all, Thomas had once been the most important Walker family member in my life. With Parker becoming so much more than I ever imagined he would be and Thomas continuing along a silent path that all but erased him from my everyday thoughts, I hadn’t needed to hold my old friend in that place in my heart that seemed ever vacant. He was slowly fading from my life. However, as I opened his message, I smiled with a hint of wistfulness and realized that everything was behind us now. I looked forward to seeing him—I would actually be able to talk and laugh with him like we were the dear friends of long ago instead of the fumbling, what-might-have-been strangers of today.

  Thomas’s e-mail was benign and ordinary, and as I read the first paragraph, my heart rose because all was well in the world. Parker was mine, I would be an engineer, and Thomas was my friend again. When I got to the last few lines, I had to reread them three times before I accepted that I was truly reading them right.

  Are you coming to Thanksgiving? I know we’ve been e-mailing, but it would be great to see you in person. We have a lot to talk about. If we were younger, I’d make you cross your heart and hope to die, stick a needle in your eye. But I guess now that we’re old and mature I’ll just say please. Please come, Julia.

  Looking forward to seeing you …

  Thomas

  I couldn’t begin to assess his motives. Had he written anything like this only weeks ago, I would have run all the way home without even pausing to put on my coat. Now I found myself wanting to turn back the clock, to forget that I had ever read such a baffling message. Surely Francesca would be there, lighting up Thanksgiving as she had for the previous two years. What could Thomas possibly want to say to me that was important enough to run along the lines of begging? What could he want to talk to me about with his perfect Francesca at his side?

  I knew that I was being ridiculous, that something inside me was reading far more into the situation than I should have, but I couldn’t help seeing a little too much intensity in his words. A little too much emotion. He wanted me home too ardently, and it made me hope for things I had given up hoping for long ago. I wished that I could close the lid of the laptop and pretend I had never read his words.

  Maybe I could go home and do exactly that: pretend I hadn’t seen his e-mail. I could be normal and happy and even evasive, making sure that I was always around the family and letting Thomas know that there was nothing he could say to me that would make any difference in my full, successful, and content life. Maybe if Thomas saw me so independent and assured, he would abandon whatever it was that he so desperately wanted to talk to me about.

  Even as I thought about the ways I could put off Thomas, another part of me was stirring to the memory of what I had wanted for so long. This was Thomas. My confidant, ally, protector, savior. He knew me better than anyone had ever known me, including my own father. Thomas had been with me when Dad and I finally accepted that Janice wasn’t coming back. More significantly, Thomas had been with me when I finally accepted that my dad wasn’t coming back. We had history. I half hated myself for thinking it, but whatever he wanted to talk to me about was obviously charged enough to carry the weight of many emotions. Maybe the significance of all we shared was enough to change things between us now. Now— because I was a woman instead of a child.

  But I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe Thomas wanted to consult me about various romantic schemes for his proposal to Francesca. Perhaps they were past that point already and would clutch hands lovingly as they asked me to perform some contemptible rite in their wedding like standing by the guest book or handing out little silver vials of bubbles as everyone gathered around their getaway car. I cringed just thinking it. And then, I reminded myself, the most logical scenario was that he only wanted to reminisce with the friend who knew him better than anyone else ever had. Sometimes you just need to be known.

  With a deep, intentional breath, I steadied my furiously tilting mind and determined to put Thomas aside. I would take things as they came when I was home for Thanksgiving. I would stop obsessing about something I could never predict or know
and focus on the good that was right in front of me.

  Clicking on New Message, I stopped myself from replying to Thomas and instead wrote Parker a flirty note thanking him for his help. I’ll be gone this weekend, I typed, not bothering to explain why. What are you doing Thursday night? I was already looking forward to seeing him.

  Homecoming

  PARKER ACTED A BIT STRANGE when I told him I was going home for Thanksgiving. At first I wondered if he was hurt because I wasn’t extending him an invitation. I almost giggled when I thought of bringing Parker home to meet my grandmother—I had a hard time envisioning that scenario even months down the line. It only reaffirmed for me that I was not ready for it now, and I never once seriously considered asking him to come.

  However, with or without an invitation, I was confused and disappointed that what had been so comfortable between us as we studied together had once again become a bit timid and halting. I had expected it from myself—I still felt small and undeserving beside Parker—but I had not expected it from him. Parker had seemed so at ease with himself—and, more to the point, with us— that I had thought we were past the awkward introductory stages of our fledgling relationship. But on Thursday night, somewhere between the takeout kung pao chicken and the fortune cookies we had ordered from the Ginger Garden, it became clear that I had misread Parker’s curious behavior.