Shaking my head, I padded barefoot into my room and opened the closet, revealing three rows of professionally tailored pants and shirts in muted colors hanging neatly on velvet lined hangers.
After college, most of my fellow graduates had gone out and purchased brand new wardrobes to match their brand new jobs at fancy law firms and prestigious schools and wealthy investment firms. I hadn’t needed to buy a thing. My taste in clothes had always run more on the traditional side. While my peers had worn everything from pajama pants to short shorts to class, I’d stuck with the classics: dark jeans, trousers, silk blouses, and button-ups.
This morning I selected an outfit similar to the one I had worn yesterday: dove gray slacks and a pale blue cashmere sweater that felt heavenly against my skin.
After drying my hair I drew it back in a low ponytail and secured any stray wisps with a few strategically placed bobby pins. Small pearl studs, a few dabs of clear lipgloss, a sweep of mascara, a quick spritz of perfume, and I was ready to go.
Overall, I felt calmer today. There were still a few butterflies in my stomach, but now that I had established a routine they were resting quietly.
Rhythm and repetition, I told myself as I grabbed a banana out of the fruit bowl in the kitchen on the way out to Roo. Rhythm and repetition are the keys to perfection.
I knew some people (Whitney being a prime example) who thrived on disorder and chaos, but I wasn’t one of them. I liked - I needed - to know when and why things were going to happen. It was one of the reasons I’d wanted to be a teacher. With a syllabus, there were no surprises. No ‘what ifs’. Everything was clearly laid out. Everything was planned.
Exactly the way it should have been.
* * * * *
The faculty parking lot was all but empty when I arrived. I wasn’t surprised. As the newest professor on staff I’d been given the hours and the classes no one else wanted to teach. I didn’t mind. How could I, when I was finally doing what I’d always wanted to do? If they’d asked me to teach at two in the morning I would have done so gladly, although I doubted my students would have shared in my enthusiasm.
I looked left and right as I followed the main walking path into the heart of campus, admiring the beautiful landscape and classic New England architecture. Built on land donated by a wealthy benefactor in the eighteen hundreds, Stonewall was the oldest college in the entire state of Maine. Her age showed in the dorms built of plaster and the ancient oaks that were as much a part of the campus as the buildings themselves. All of the roofs were pitched and gabled. The gardens vast and wandering. The paths immaculately tended.
Walking under a brick archway covered in ropy vines of dark green ivy, I used my brand new white plastic keycard to let myself into the Wilson English Center, so named for Jacob Wilson, the second president of Stonewall and a veteran of the Civil War. My sensible two-inch heels clicked sharply on marble tile as I made my way up to my office on the third floor. Someone - the custodian, perhaps - had left the windows open overnight and a cool breeze met me at the top of the stairs. In the summer months I imagined the third floor would be unbearably hot and stuffy, but with autumn right around the corner it was pleasantly cool and smelled faintly of flowers. Shedding my jacket, I greeted the secretary before unlocking my office and closing the door behind me.
Boasting white walls and a single window overlooking the quad, my office was small and plain with barely enough room for the mahogany desk I’d had shipped up from Pennsylvania. But, I thought with the same tiny thrill of excitement I’d experienced yesterday when I first walked through the door, it’s mine.
Built in shelves painted a bright, robin’s egg blue covered the back wall from floor to ceiling. Pleased with the rapidly growing reference section I had started from scratch, I added two more books I’d brought from home before sitting down behind my desk and booting up the computer that had come with the office: a wheezing old desktop that had the tendency to freeze up at the most inopportune times. It really needed to be replaced, but I wasn’t about to start making demands during my very first week.
Glancing up at the black plastic clock I’d hung above the door, I noted the time (7:16, right on schedule) and got to work reviewing the lecture notes I’d spent all summer preparing. I was so consumed with the formative years of Shakespeare I didn’t hear the first knock on my door, or the second. When the third coincided with the door being opened I finally looked up, squinting a bit as my eyes transitioned from computer screen to natural light.
“Can I help you?” I asked, mouth hovering in a polite smile as I studied the man standing in the doorway. Tall and broad shouldered, he was well dressed in an oxford blue shirt and maroon tie. He looked vaguely familiar, but with his brown hair and brown eyes he could have easily met the description of three dozen people I’d glimpsed walking around campus yesterday.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, gesturing at my computer. “I just wanted to pop in and officially introduce myself. John Hainsworth.”
I may not have recognized his face, but his name certainly rang a bell. John Hainsworth was the director chair of the entire English department. We’d spoke on the phone and corresponded through email, but had never met face to face. In my mind I’d imagined him to be much older.
“Imogen Finley. It’s very nice to meet you, sir.” I stood up and crossed the room to shake his hand. His grip was firm, his skin warm and slightly dry.
“Call me John,” he said with a warm smile. “I can’t say how excited I am to have a scholar of your caliber on staff. I know you must have received job offers from all over the country, and just wanted to say on behalf of the entire English department how thrilled we are that you chose Stonewall.”
There was a very specific reason I’d chosen Stonewall. A reason I’d moved to Maine. A reason I’d turned down Harvard and Brown and Yale for a private liberal arts college in the middle of nowhere. But those reasons were my own, not to be shared with anyone else, least of all my new boss.
“Thank you very much,” I said. “Stonewall is a beautiful campus.”
“I know it’s probably a lot smaller than you’re used to, but I like to think it has its own unique charm. I’m a transfer myself, you know. Born and bred Kentuckian.” He sighed and raked a hand through his short, neatly trimmed hair. “My mom still hasn’t forgiven me for becoming a Yankee.”
As I recalled the last words my mother had spoken to me, my smile became strained and brittle. Thankfully, John didn’t seem to notice. “We have something in common, then.”
He propped a shoulder against the doorframe and rubbed his chin. “Are you settling in well so far? Is there anything you need? How was your first day?”
“I’m settling in quite well. Everyone has been very welcoming and kind.” By far, the biggest struggle had been my first class with the football players, but since then everything had gone surprisingly well and I was looking forward to meeting more of my students.
“I would hope so.” John grinned, revealing an immaculate smile that must have made his orthodontist very proud. Staring at his perfect teeth I couldn’t help but compare him to another man I’d met recently. A man with a slightly crooked incisor and the most captivating grey eyes I had ever seen.
Daniel Logan.
He’d left so abruptly last night I never had time to ask him what he did, where he lived, who he was. The entire experience had been so surreal I almost would have thought he was something my mind had conjured up to counter the stress of the past few weeks, except I still remembered, in vivid detail, what his hand had felt like on my thigh and the bright spark of attraction that had jolted through my body when his arm brushed against mine.
It was nice to meet you, Imogen Finley.
As his parting words echoed in my mind I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d meant them. Probably not, I decided with an inward shake of my head. After all, men like Daniel Logan weren’t exactly lacking for female companionship. I sincerely doubted I’d been anything more than a nov
elty to him; someone to pass the time between the charming and beautiful women he usually hit on. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he didn’t even remember my name. So why was I remembering his?
“...after your last class today?” John’s expectant smile jolted me out of my thoughts. Chagrined to realize the entire time John had been talking to me I’d been daydreaming about Daniel like some insipid schoolgirl lusting after a boyhood crush, I bit the inside of my cheek and waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t, I knew there was only one thing I could do in an attempt to save face.
“Um… yes?” I said hesitantly without any idea what I was agreeing to.
“Great. We can meet back here if you’d like. There’s a little coffee shop within walking distance of campus.” He smiled. “I think you’ll really like it.”
I slowly exhaled the breath I’d been holding. Coffee. I’d agreed to meet him for coffee. All things considered, it could have been worse, even though I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of socializing with my boss outside of work. John seemed like a nice enough guy and it made sense that we should get to know each other, but I’d never been well adept at the smalltalk that seemed to occur so naturally between colleagues.
“That sounds lovely,” I said.
“Great,” he repeated. “Well, I better get going and leave you to it. Have a good second day.”
“Thank you.” Waiting until after he’d left, I shut the door behind him but I didn’t return to my computer. Instead I went to the window, the edge of my palms pressing down on the wooden sill as I looked out over the tree-lined quad.
Students were beginning to move sluggishly around, most of them still in their pajamas. One girl moved faster than all the others. Already fully dressed, she kept her head down as she cut a brisk path down the walkway, heading for the science building. Unlike the other students, she walked alone.
Just as I had.
Was that what I looked like at Harvard?
Determined.
Distant.
Alone.
Even with Whitney as my roommate and Justin as my boyfriend, I’d always been so alone. Or at least it had felt that way. Driven to succeed, wanting to please the one person whose opinion mattered most, I’d been the first one in the classroom and the last one to leave it. While others relaxed on the weekend, I studied. When they went home on vacation I stayed at school, enrolling in extra credit courses and attending open lecture seminars.
I knew most people went to college to find themselves, but I’d done the opposite.
I had lost myself.
Accepting a position at Stonewall had been my first step of self-discovery. I wanted to find out who Imogen Finley was. What she liked. What she didn’t. What she did in her spare time. But as I was quickly discovering, it wasn’t that easy to change yourself. Old habits, particularly those ingrained from birth, were hard, if not impossible, to overcome. And the guilt I felt certainly didn’t help matters.
Guilt for going against my mother’s wishes.
Guilt for ruining her dreams.
Guilt for leaving home.
Declining all of the ivy league job offers that had come my way immediately following graduation and moving to Maine had been the only time in my entire life I had ever openly defied her. Which most likely explained why she hadn’t spoken a single word to me in over four weeks.
That doesn’t matter now, I told myself as I turned away from the window and began to gather what I would need for my first class. You’re doing what you want. She’ll come around. She can’t ignore your phone calls and emails forever.
Except knowing my mother, that’s exactly what she planned to do. Barbara Finley did not suffer fools lightly, and right now there was no one she considered a bigger fool than her only daughter. I remembered our last conversation in vivid detail. We’d been standing in the rose garden with the sun shining down, illuminating the frown on my mother’s face and the tears on mine.
“I will not allow you to throw your life away,” she’d said, her cold blue eyes flashing with disapproval. “This little rebellion of yours stops now, Imogen. Do you understand?”
“I’m not throwing my life away!” I’d exclaimed, throwing my arms out in frustration. Two mourning doves who had been nesting in the tree above us took flight, their wings beating frantically against their tiny brown bodies as they swooped low over the manicured lawn before gathering enough momentum to fly up and out of sight. “I’m trying to live it the way I want.”
What would it take for my mother to see me? To hear me? To listen to me? I knew when she looked at me she didn’t see who I really was: an intimidated young woman desperate to prove her own worth. Instead she saw a younger reflection of herself, someone to be molded and sculpted into her version of perfection.
It was my fault it had come to this. I should have taken a stand years ago, but I’d never possessed the temperament for confrontation. So I’d gone along my mother’s wishes, with her demands and her rules, because it had been easier than fighting and, because for a very long time - too long, I was coming to realize - they’d aligned, more or less, with my own.
I wasn’t ungrateful. I knew that without her influence I wouldn’t have graduated high school at fifteen. Wouldn’t have been accepted at Harvard. Wouldn’t have graduated with top honors in less than four years. Wouldn’t have gone on to achieve a master’s degree before most people my age were done with their bachelor’s.
For my entire life, I’d obediently checked all the boxes my mother put in front of me. Until this morning, when I woke up and looked in the mirror and saw her reflection instead of my own.
“Are you doing this because of a boy?” Her mouth flattened. “Is that it, Imogen?”
“No.” I wanted to yell. I wanted to yell and scream and throw something, but I knew the effort would be wasted on my mother and so I held everything inside, just like she’d taught me to do. “I’m not doing this for anyone other than myself. I know it’s not what you wanted-”
“No,” my mother cut in, “it certainly is not. You are going to regret this, Imogen.”
I squared my shoulders and met her unflinching stare. “I’ll regret it more if I don’t.”
“I did not waste all of my time and money for you to teach at some backwater college!” When her voice went shrill, she paused and took a deep breath, nostrils flaring ever-so-slightly. “You’re better than that. You’re smarter than that.”
“Being smarter doesn’t make me better anymore than being born into wealth does, and it might have been your money, but it was my time. I did everything you wanted. Everything,” I repeated as my eyes filled with more tears. “Why can’t that be enough? Why can’t you be happy for me? I know Stonewall isn’t where you had hoped I would begin my career, but it’s a respectable college. Whitney and I have already found a house to rent. I think you’d like it very much.”
“Whitney.” She said my best friend’s name as though it were a foul curse. “I knew that girl had something to do with this. She’s always been a bad influence on you. I never should have allowed you to choose your own roommate. A foolish mistake on my part.”
“There’s a rosebush in the backyard,” I continued, trying in vain to appeal to my mother’s sentimental side. “I thought if you came to visit you could-”
“Visit? No. There will be no visiting, Imogen.” Her gaze cut straight through me. “If this is to be your final decision, you will not have my support, personally or financially.” She paused. “I trust you understand what that means.”
“Yes.” Deep down, had I ever expected anything more? No, I thought miserably. No I hadn’t. Which is why I had made arrangements two weeks ago to take enough money out of my savings to pay my bills for the next six months before all of my accounts were frozen and my trust fund revoked. “I do.”
She studied me for a moment and I waited, breath held, for a flicker of emotion to reveal itself in the frigid depths of her blue eyes. I should have known better.
“I must say, I am very disappointed in you Imogen.”
“I know you are, and I’m sorry.”
“You will come to your senses soon enough.” The way she said it - a statement of fact instead of a question - made my teeth grind together, but I didn’t argue with her. What would be the point? Her mind was made up. In her eyes, I was making the wrong decision and nothing I said would make her see it was the right one. The only one.
“Is there anything else you would like to discuss?” she asked, her tone short and clipped, as though she were speaking to the serving staff instead of her only daughter.
“No.” My shoulders slumped in defeat. “No, that’s it.”
Courtesy of the woman standing in front of me, I’d learned at an early age it was impossible to have everything you wanted. I knew most people on the outside looking in at our luxury cars and fifty-acre-estate and oodles of money would think we had the perfect life, but the one thing money couldn’t buy - and the one thing my mother couldn’t give - was her unconditional love.
It didn’t make her a bad person. That was another lesson I’d learned. But it did make her someone I struggled to relate to. Someone I struggled to understand.
Life - the one she’d had before she married my father - had made her hard, but love had made her bitter. Love given and never received. Love taken and never returned. Part of me hoped she would have changed after my father died, but if anything his death had made her even more determined to achieve the perfection he’d always demanded of her when he’d been alive.
The same perfection she was now demanding of me.
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning. Probably before you get up. I want to beat the traffic.” Biting the inside of my cheek, I step towards her, arms extended. My mother jerked back, looking at me as though I’d suddenly sprouted a second head.
Learning to Fall Page 4