December 26
1:04 PM
Dear Sam,
Merry Christmas, a day late. Did your mother love the painting? I keep imagining her unwrapping it and bursting into tears. I ran into a professor of yours at a party last week (Christopher…something). We were both going on and on about how talented you are.
Hope your family had a great holiday. Ours was a shit show. But after everyone left last night, I finally opened your present for Gil. It was the perfect thing. xx E
P.S. You did NOT have to get that bottle of wine for Andrew and me. You’re too sweet. It definitely came in handy last night…
December 26
7:49 PM
Hello from Logan Airport!
So sorry to hear about your Christmas. What happened???
Yes, my mom loved the painting. Yes, she cried. Ha ha. I think you must mean Christopher Gillis, and I’m shocked he said nice things about me (or even knows who I am!). I’ve had him in class twice, but he never seemed to notice me. He has a reputation for being kind of a creep. There are always rumors about him and some student.
I’m glad you liked the Mozart cube! I hope the wine tasted okay. It’s definitely not as nice as what you’re used to. I LOVE the sweater you gave me, and I’ve been wearing it constantly, as my dad is one of those dads who refuses to turn the heat up above 65, even when the temperature is below freezing.
I’ll see Clive in just a few hours! I’m excited. Though every time we meet again it’s almost like I don’t know him. I get all nervous and tongue-tied. Then I get over it. Wish we could somehow fast-forward to the getting over it part.
Sam
December 27
2:01 AM
S—
Drifting off to sleep, but wanted to say quickly—the wine was great! Thanks again! Safe travels. xx E
P.S. I’m jealous of your family. They sound so nice and NORMAL.
December 27
9:37 PM
You’re funny. My family IS pretty nice and normal, I guess. Possibly too normal? They just expect everyone to follow a certain script. No one wants to hear about Clive, which makes me feel bad. My cousin brought some guy she’s been dating for three weeks home for Christmas, and everyone was falling all over him because he goes to Notre Dame.
Clive wanted us to spend Christmas together, but I couldn’t picture him at my parents’ house, opening presents in the morning with the rest of us. And I didn’t want to be apart from my family.
I wish I cared less what they think/what people think of me in general. My sister Caitlin is thirteen and she’s so much more confident than I will ever be. She still climbs into my mother’s lap, without worrying what anyone will say. She does that, AND she dyed the tips of her hair hot pink. She’s an amazing artist. Much better than I am.
I made it to England! Clive’s family has an annual Boxing Day celebration at his mother’s house in the country. This year they pushed it back a day so I could attend, which was nice, but I wished they hadn’t, as I would have rather spent my first full day here alone with him.
During lunch, I tried to cut into an undercooked carrot and sent it shooting across his mother’s dining room! She definitely saw, as did Clive, and his brother. The worst part was no one said anything. I want to die just thinking about it.
Our niece and nephew, Freddy and Sophie, make everything better. I know they’re not technically my niece and nephew yet, but they call me Auntie Sam. When I’m here, we spend as much time together as we can. They’re family now. It amazes me that you can go somewhere new and a whole life will grow up around you.
Hope you’ve recovered some from Christmas,
Sam
December 28
7:18 AM
I laughed out loud while reading about the flying carrot. Then I remembered it hours later, and started laughing all over again. No one said anything?? It would have been so much better if somebody made a joke! Dying to know: Did you retrieve the carrot, or leave it there?
They say in-laws and money are the two things couples fight about most. I myself am currently embroiled in battles on both fronts. Aren’t relationships fun? xx E
P.S. I somehow doubt your 13-year-old sister is a better artist than you are. You’re too modest.
December 31
10:04 AM
Definitely just left the carrot. It’s probably still there, on the rug beside the china cabinet, a monument to my awkwardness.
Happy New Year to you guys! Clive and I are having dinner at our favorite Indian place, and then we’re supposed to meet up with his friends at a club. (Ugh. He thinks they are my friends too, and that they’ll all be dying to see me. False, but sweet of him, I guess.) Today we walked around the city, and had so much fun. I love London. Didn’t realize how much I missed it.
January 4
4:51 PM
Hi there,
Happy New Year! Counting down the days until you get back. Gil is a madman right now. Sam, he’s crawling. He is into EVERYTHING. I’ve called Poison Control twice in the past three days. (He ate some diaper cream, and then a handful of Miracle-Gro from that potted plant in the living room.) Soon I think they’ll be able to recognize me by my voice.
I took him to the art museum yesterday. They had this gorgeous collection of Madonna and Child paintings. It got me thinking that this could be a great project for the piece I want to commission from you. Featuring Gil as the child. And maybe, if you don’t think it’s too strange, YOU as the Madonna. You have that gorgeous curvy figure that I am sadly lacking. Since you worked off of a photo for the piece you made for your mom, I thought maybe I could snap some shots of you holding Gil in that classic pose. Also, what if the finished Madonna looks like a blend of the two of us, you and me? It feels fitting, since we’ve cared for this baby together in his first year of life. Andrew thinks it’s super bizarre of me to ask you this, but you’re an artist, so I think you’ll get it. Let me know. xx E
January 5
2:19 PM
I love that idea. Let’s do it! Also. Exciting news. I was in Waterstone’s yesterday and they had a copy of your first book. The UK edition! I had to buy it, of course. I told the guy at the checkout that I know you, ha! I have read 100 pages and I’m hooked. You’re so talented. Now I feel proud knowing that while I’m at your house reading Where’s Spot? for the fourteenth time in a row to your adorable baby, you’re writing your next masterpiece.
Going to keep reading until Clive gets home from work. I just woke up from an afternoon nap. At school, I nap every day. Usually right before dinner. It’s the best. I appreciate it so much now because I won’t be able to do it much longer. Soon I’ll have a job, and adult responsibilities. I feel like I have to savor my freedom, since I know it can’t last.
January 6
7:02 AM
Ahh yes, I know that feeling. When I was pregnant with Gil, my doctor’s office was a few blocks from Central Park. After every appointment, I’d go there and sit on a bench by the sailboat pond and marvel at how no one in the world knew or cared where I was. A few more months and I would never be truly unaccountable again.
Thanks for the kind words, but Sam, this is an order—never ever pay for one of my books. I will give you copies if you want them. Don’t be too proud of me, either. That masterpiece-in-progress you mentioned is usually a blank page. Still waiting for my brain to return in full. I wonder if it ever will…xx E
January 12
5:57 AM
Hi Elisabeth,
I hope you don’t mind, but I’m sitting here crying, the only one in the flat awake, and I’ve decided you’re the best person to ask about this. None of my friends have the life experience to understand. I was up all night. I’m so upset. At dinner last night, Clive asked if I wanted to start thinking about where
in the city we should live next fall. I sort of clammed up, and then I felt bad. I felt all this pressure barreling down on me, even though this IS what I want. Then, later, I got an email from school letting me know that I’m being considered for Phi Beta Kappa, but in order to be eligible, I need to take a classical language class. Latin or ancient Greek! I thought I’d met all my requirements already. So I was stressing out, because language classes at the college meet EVERY DAY. Which would mean there’d be no way I could visit Clive for a long weekend next semester. (Don’t worry, it wouldn’t affect my work schedule—language classes meet early in the morning!) That started a fight between Clive and me. He said I’m achievement obsessed, that it’s very American of me, and kind of silly, to want this title. He told me not to be so swotty, whatever that means. He’s probably right. I don’t even know why I want it.
How did you know Andrew was the one? That you were ready to cut off all other possibilities in order to pursue that relationship fully? Feel free to ignore me if this is too personal a question, or if you’re too busy. Thanks for any words of wisdom. Sam
P.S. Give Gil a kiss for me. I can’t believe he’s crawling!
January 12
1:19 AM
Dear Sam,
Good thing I’m an insomniac and can thus reply instantaneously. I’ve had so many nights like the one you’ve just been through. Wish I could give you a hug. We are both the sort of people, I think, who always want to do the right thing. But in matters of the heart, it’s not always clear what the right thing is. How did I know A was the one? I’m not totally sure I did, but I was at that point in my life when I was ready to make the leap. So much of this stuff is about timing, which sounds dreadfully practical, but it’s true. Has to be the right guy AND the right time. Does that make sense? I know how painful these things can be, but you have so much ahead of you, truly. I’m here if you want to talk, anytime. xx E
P.S. PBK is a huge deal. I’m proud of you. You’re so close.
January 16
10:08 AM
Dear Elisabeth,
Sorry I took a few days to respond. Our Internet here went out, so I had to wait until I could sneak off to the library. Things are better. Clive and I had a big talk. He totally gets it. I feel ready to make the leap, as you said. I guess no one can ever feel 100% sure, can they? I promised Clive that I will move back to London for good as soon as I have my diploma. We can work out the details then. We picked out dish towels for our future place today at this cool shop called Kitschen Sink. (I’m excited about dish towels! Could I be a bigger nerd?)
I told my adviser that I’m not going to take the extra language class. I don’t care that much about Phi Beta Kappa. There wouldn’t be any guarantee that I’d get it, even if I did take the class. I feel a huge sense of relief now that that’s settled.
Please give my love to Andrew and to George, and especially to Gil. I miss him! I hope he remembers me when I get back. Can’t wait to see you all.
Love, Sam
14
Sam
THE ARRIVAL OF A PACKAGE in the campus mail was signified by a bright green slip of paper in your mailbox. To claim it, you had to wait in line at the window and present the green slip to the student working on the other side. Despite all knowledge to the contrary, whenever Sam twisted her mailbox key and opened the door to find such a notice, she imagined the package would be something incredible, life altering. Before meeting Clive, she dreamed of flowers from her ex-boyfriend, and a card begging her to take him back. Now she pictured Clive surprising her with an extravagant gift he could never afford—a designer dress; a first-class ticket on a flight to Morocco, leaving that afternoon.
She always opened a package as soon as she reached the post office lobby, unable to wait for the privacy of her room. Inevitably, it contained something underwhelming, like a jumbo bag of cough drops her grandmother bought two-for-one at Walgreens, sending one to Sam and the other to her brother.
On Valentine’s Day, before she even opened her eyes, Sam told herself not to expect anything. Clive was arriving on Wednesday, four days from now. It would make no sense for him to have something delivered today. Anyway, he thought Valentine’s Day was a manufactured holiday, designed to put money in the pockets of florists and greeting card companies.
He sent her two or three love letters a week. Since they shared their day-to-day on the telephone and over Skype, the letters were mostly declarations of how much he adored her and missed her, coupled with detailed descriptions of what he’d like to do to her were she standing in front of him. Reading them, Sam felt a rush, and yet she could not help playing out a fantasy in which she died prematurely and her grieving mother discovered the words Clive had written, causing her to die also, of mortification.
Sam kept the letters stacked in the drawer of her nightstand, the blue airmail stickers in the upper-left corner giving her a boost whenever she saw them.
But there would be no letter today, if she knew Clive. He had strong opinions. When it came to Valentine’s Day, he said he refused to participate in anything that cynical masquerading as romance.
Today, Sam told herself, would be a Saturday like any other. In the morning, she went to the art building to work. In the dining hall at lunch, there were heart-shaped sugar cookies dyed a pale pink and a giant bowl of conversation hearts. When Sam went upstairs after she ate, she found that Isabella had placed three of them on her pillow:
OH BABY
HOT STUFF
CRAZY 4 U
In the afternoon, she procrastinated; she watched TV.
She avoided the mail until five, when her curiosity got the best of her.
On the off chance Clive had sent something, she didn’t want to miss it, not mention it, and potentially hurt his feelings.
Sam felt a burst of elation upon seeing a green slip in her box, like she had unwrapped a Wonka bar to find a Golden Ticket. The line at the window was twice as long as usual. She watched each student present her slip and walk off with a vase of red roses or a large box wrapped in brown paper.
There was a charge in the air, not unlike the one that emerged in grade school when a second-tier holiday like this rolled around. All those silent expectations knocking up against one another, creating a new kind of energy. It was the case even though campus on this day could be divided into the small faction of women who had dates in town and the far greater number who would be attending The Vagina Monologues. Sam had agreed to babysit.
To pass the time in line, she read the notices on the classifieds board. A new club called Knitting for Social Justice was meeting every Tuesday in Reynolds House; a Take Back the Night vigil would be held on the quad this coming Thursday. There were index cards tacked up by people seeking rides to New York City or Philadelphia or to the airport. Sam was grateful that George had offered to take her to get Clive on Wednesday.
One notice stood out from the rest. It was printed on neon-orange paper, and at the top were the words WAKE UP. Sam made eye contact with the woman behind her in line, to indicate that she’d be right back. She went closer, so she could read the smaller print on the page. It was a letter to the student body, signed by seventy-five adjunct professors from various departments, warning that if working conditions didn’t improve, they would soon boycott.
Apparently only tenured professors were making more than minimum wage and receiving benefits. Sam thought of all the instructors she’d had here. She couldn’t say who had tenure and who didn’t. Except for a few old guys who definitely had it and, as a result, completely phoned it in in the classroom.
She thought right away of the Hollow Tree. She snapped a picture of the letter with her phone to show George the next time they met.
Elisabeth and Andrew believed George was abnormally obsessed with the Hollow Tree, but Sam agreed with him that once you started looking, you saw exampl
es of it everywhere. And as George said, the terrible treatment was never going to stop until the people demanded it.
It was what had inspired Sam to write a plea of her own.
On the last day of the semester, just before she went home, Sam found Gaby crying to Maria in the dining hall. Gaby wiped the tears away when she saw Sam there, but when Sam asked if she was okay, Gaby told her that the cousin who watched her daughter while she worked had found a job and couldn’t take care of Josie anymore.
“Day care is so expensive,” Gaby said. “I’ll never be able to move out of my mother’s place if I have to pay for it.”
“What about the College Children’s Center?” Sam said. “My friend Rosa works there part-time. It’s supposed to be really good.”
Maria and Gaby gave her identical looks.
“What?” Sam said.
“That’s not for support staff, it’s for professors,” Maria said.
“Are you sure?” Sam said.
“Technically it’s open to everyone. But the place costs a fortune,” Gaby said.
“I thought it was free if you worked here,” Sam said.
She remembered an English professor who talked about it once in class, how she had chosen to take her position because the college was so family-friendly.
“Uhh, no,” Gaby said. “It’s only free to professors who are full-time.”
“So it’s free for the highest-paid people and no one else?” Sam said.
“Exactly. Plus, it opens for the day at eight, no early drop-off. But everyone in housekeeping and dining has to be at work by six-thirty. Get it? That’s not by accident.”
“Maybe I could help you in the mornings,” Sam said, even as she cringed at the thought of being up that early. “I could watch Josie from the time you get here and walk her to the Children’s Center when it opens.”
“No,” Maria said. “She’ll figure something out.”
The more Sam thought of the situation, the angrier it made her. She kept recalling the sight of Gaby, usually so tough and composed, reduced to tears. There had to be something she could do.
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