She wanted to go to him, to offer condolences and comfort and to put her arms around his neck. She wanted to smooth his hair and tell him that she was sorry. She imagined briefly what it would be like to wipe tears away from those expressive sapphire eyes and see them look at her kindly.
She thought about giving him a gentle peck on his cheek, just to reassure him of her sympathy.
But watching him cry as if his heart was broken momentarily froze her, and so she did none of those things. When she finally realized where she was, she quickly disappeared back behind the door, blindly pulled a scrap of paper from her knapsack, and wrote: I’m sorry.
-Julia Mitchell
Then, not quite knowing what to do, she placed the paper against the doorjamb, trapping it there as she silently pulled his office door shut.
Julia’s shyness was not her primary characteristic. Her best quality, and the one that defined her, was her compassion, a trait that she hadn’t inherited from either of her parents. Her father, who was a decent man, tended to be rigid and unyielding. Her mother, who was deceased, had not been compassionate in any way, not even to her only child.
Tom Mitchell was a man of few words, but was well-known and generally liked. He was a custodian at Susquehanna University, and the fire chief of Selinsgrove Borough, Pennsylvania. Since the fire department was entirely volunteer, he and the other fire fighters found themselves on call at all times. He inhabited his role proudly and with much dedication, which meant that he was rarely home, even when he wasn’t responding to an emergency. On the evening of Julia’s first graduate seminar he called her from the fire station, pleased that she finally decided to answer her cell phone.
“How’s it going up there, Jules?” His voice, unsentimental but comforting nevertheless, warmed her like a blanket.
She sighed. “It’s fine. The first day was…interesting, but fine.”
“Those Canadians treating you right?”
“Oh, yes. They’re all pretty nice.” It’s the Americans who are the bastards.
Well, one American.
Tom cleared his throat once or twice, and Julia caught her breath.
She knew from years of experience that he was preparing to say something serious. She wondered what it was.
“Honey, Grace Clark died today.”
Julia sat upright on her twin bed and stared into space.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes. Yes, I heard.”
“Her cancer came back. They thought she was fine. But it came back, and by the time they found out, it was in her bones and her liver. Richard and the kids are pretty shaken up about it.”
Julia bit her lip and stifled a sob.
“I knew you’d take the news hard. She was like a mother to you, and Rachel was such a good friend of yours in high school. Have you heard from her?”
“Um, no. No, I haven’t. Why didn’t she tell me?”
“I’m not sure when they found out that Grace was sick again. I was over to the house to see everyone earlier today, and Gabriel wasn’t even there. That’s created quite a problem. I don’t know what he’s walking into when he arrives. There’s a lot of bad blood in that family.” Tom cursed softly.
“Are you sending flowers?”
“I guess so. I’m not really good at that sort of thing, but I could ask Deb if she’d help.”
Deb Lundy was Tom’s girlfriend. Julia rolled her eyes at the mention of Deb’s name but kept her negative reaction to herself.
“Ask her, please, to send something from me. Grace loved gardenias.
And just have Deb sign the card.”
“Will do. Do you need anything?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Do you need any money?”
“No, Dad. I have enough to live on with my scholarship if I’m careful.”
Tom paused, and even before he opened his mouth she knew what he was about to say.
“I’m sorry about Harvard. Maybe next year.”
Julia straightened her shoulders and forced a smile, even though her father couldn’t see it. “Maybe. Talk to you later.”
“Bye, honey.”
The next morning Julia walked a little more slowly on her way to the university, using her iPod as background noise. In her head, she composed an e-mail of condolence and apology to Rachel, writing and rewriting it as she walked.
The September breeze was warm in Toronto, and she liked it. She liked being near the lake. She liked sunshine and friendliness. She liked tidy streets free of litter. She liked the fact she was in Toronto and not in Selinsgrove or Philadelphia — that she was hundreds of miles away from him. She only hoped it would stay that way.
She was still mentally writing the e-mail to Rachel when she stepped into the office of the Department of Italian Studies to check her mailbox.
Someone tapped her on the elbow and moved out of her periphery.
She removed her ear buds. “Paul…hi.”
He smiled down at her, his gaze descending some distance. Julia was petite, especially in sneakers, and the top of her head merely reached the lower edge of his pectorals.
“How was your meeting with Emerson?” His smile faded, and he looked at her with concern.
She bit her lip, a nervous habit that she should stop but was unable to, primarily because she was unaware of it. “Um, I didn’t go.”
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He groaned a little.
“That’s…not good.”
Julia tried to clarify the situation. “His office door was closed. I think he was on the phone…I’m not sure. So I left a note.”