Page 16 of Saint Céline
“But most people only say they don’t want something after they believe they’ve already lost it,” I said. “You’re not most people. You’re grieving, and it would be unfair to let that cost the lab a project of real value.”
Her eyes flashed once before she buried it. I liked that too.
“I’m sorry if this causes any inconvenience,” she said.
A retreat into manners. Expected.
“It doesn’t. Orientation for accepted students is on Friday at four. My office is in Westgrave Hall, third floor.” I paused. “Don’t be late.”
I turned and walked away before she could answer. People like Céline were used to shaping the endings. A soft smile. A final word. A look that left the other person feeling forgiven or chosen or dismissed. I gave her nothing to hold.
By the time I reached the stairwell, I was smiling again for the students who passed. It was easy. A young man from the pre-med track stopped me on the second floor to ask about recommendation letters. I answered patiently. A girl from last semester’s lab section thanked me for an article I had sent her. I told her I was glad she found it useful.
Professor Moreau.Friendly. Available. Kind.
Back in my office, the rain had grown heavier against the cliffs. I shut the door, removed my coat, and opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. Behind a stack of old evaluations sat the narrow black box. Inside were small things. Nothing important to anyone but me.
A wine cork from a faculty dinner where Dean Waverly had lied beautifully to a donor. A torn corner of a lab notebook from a student who had falsified data and cried for twenty minutes before admitting it. A silver button from a coat left behind after a confession that should never have happened. Fragments. People were rarely honest in whole form, but their discarded pieces told the truth.
I took out the memorial card from Katherine Montgomery’s funeral. Cream cardstock. Black lettering. Her photograph printed in soft focus.
Katherine Anne Montgomery.
Beloved daughter, scholar, and friend.
Friend.
I ran my thumb over the word, then placed the card back inside the box and closed the lid.
On my desk, Céline’s proposal waited open beneath the lamp.
“Céline,” I said aloud, softly. The name sounded like an invention.
I sat back in my chair and looked toward the rain-dark window. She would come on Friday, because beneath all that fear, she had felt it too. Relief. Relief that she got away with a lot.
The first thread of surrender always looked like relief.
6
Selena (Past)
Katherine came to the cottage three days later with a stack of books pressed tight against her chest and a look on her face like she had spent the whole walk down the garden path arguing with herself about whether she should turn around.
I spotted her from the kitchen window before she even reached the door. She stood out there in a navy coat that looked too thin for the damp wind coming off the cliffs, her dark blond hair lifting around her cheeks in little strands. For a second, she just stared at the cottage door, lips pressed together, like knocking on staff housing took more courage than she knew what to do with.
My mother was upstairs changing the sheets on my bed even though they were already clean. She had started doing small things like that since we moved in, cleaning what did not need cleaning yet, as if she could keep the new life spotless by staying one step ahead of any mess. I think it gave her something steadyto hold onto after all the years of never knowing what the next hour would bring back in Portland.
The knock came soft, almost hesitant. I opened the door before she could change her mind and walk away.
Katherine looked straight at me. I looked back at her while neither of us said a word. Then she held out one of the books.
“You looked bored yesterday,” she said.
I stared at the hardcover.
The Secret Garden. The edges were worn soft from reading, and her name sat inside the front cover in careful handwriting.
Katherine Anne Montgomery.
