That was a couple days ago, and now I’m packed, just some clothes and a whole bunch of books. I move tomorrow morning. And I attended classes these last three days. Thank you for the cab money. I have savings and could have paid for it myself, but I didn’t think of it. Your foundation’s check reminded me that I have options. I’m not a total victim, despite how I feel. Thank you for that too.
I said good-bye to my Buckhorn Boys this afternoon. I think most felt relief that I won’t tutor anymore. I’ve been a more regular academic influence than most of their teachers. Only Jaden, I think, might miss me.
“Sam, I only got to division. There’s lots of math left.”
“You’ll be fine, Jaden. You’ve got a sharp mind. Keep at it.” I hugged him. I hugged all of them, whether they wanted it or not.
Hannah laughed at me. “Is that more hugging than you’ve ever done in your life?”
She meant it as a joke, but it stopped me cold. I don’t like hugs. I don’t like physical contact much. I have few childhood memories of it being gentle.
Hannah looked horrified by her comment. “Sam, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I didn’t think.”
“No. It’s okay. I guess it’s a disadvantage to be so guarded. You miss out, don’t you?” Maybe I’m more like Jane Bennet than I thought . . .
Hannah pulled me back. “Wait here, I’ve got something for you.” She ran to the office. When she returned, I plastered on a quick smile.
“I hope you like it.” She handed me a small, wrapped package.
I tore the paper and found a soft blue leather journal with beautiful, thickly-lined pages. At the top of every few pages was a quote by Jane Austen. I flipped through and found my all-time favorite:I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun. Mr. Darcy spoke those immortal words in answer to Lizzy’s question about falling in love with her. I sighed and showed Hannah the page.
“I don’t know the book like you do, but those are the best words ever.” She sighed too.
“Does Matt say such things to you?”
“He’s not that eloquent, Sam. But I can tell he feels them. Someday you’ll have that. And knowing you, you’ll hold out for that one guy who not only feels them, but can say them.” She gave me a tight hug. And I didn’t pull away.
I didn’t think it’d be so hard to leave, Mr. Knightley. Maybe the Great Beat-down (humor keeps fear at bay) made me more emotional, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because this time I know it’s permanent. There’s no turning back. Grace House has been good to me: “I have lived in it a full and delightful life, momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified . . .” Lately Jane Eyre’s melancholy and complex emotions resonate strongly within me.
It’s my last night here and, in many ways, I feel the same apprehension Jane felt before her marriage to Mr. Rochester. She had nothing to fear—she didn’t yet know about the crazy wife in the attic. But like Jane, I too “look with foreboding to my dread, but adored, type of my unknown future day.”
Always ready for dread, but
hoping for adored . . .
Sam
NOVEMBER 10
Dear Mr. Knightley,
You must know what I’m typing on. Thank you so much. I’m still trying to process all this. I am completely stunned and need to start at the beginning. You may need to write me a letter, Mr. Knightley. Why did you do all this? And that’s only my first question . . .
I arrived here late this morning. I thought I’d feel so free and independent embarking on this journey, but I felt small and scared. More mouse than lion. By the time I reached the Conleys’ house, I was bug-eyed.
Have you ever seen the homes along the lake north of Chicago? They are huge and lovely. The lawns are deep green and manicured like golf courses. The Conleys’ house is no exception. Mrs. Conley met me at her door and walked me around to the garage. She said they built the apartment last year for her husband’s mother, but she’s not ready to move in yet.
“This is an adventure for us. We hadn’t thought to rent it until Father John called. I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely. I’m so appreciative.” I felt stiff, and my words came out stilted. Everything is more formal when you’re nervous—at least for me.
She left me at the stairs to see it alone. “Call me up when you’re ready. That way you can see it for the first time without feeling like you have to compliment it. You may not like it.”
I loved it at first sight. It has hardwood floors, a bedroom and bathroom and a tiny kitchen that opens onto the living room. Huge windows let in the dappled sunlight and made a dance of light and shadow across the floors. It’s perfect and it’s mine. And it’s yellow. The way pale yellow should look, like sunshine and butter, mixed with hope and cream. I watched the light shine through the bright clean windows and my mind flashed back to that first apartment with Cara. That place scared me, made me feel hopeless; this one invited me in, soothed and healed—all with light and super-clean white trim.
And the furnishings are comfortable with a hint at bold. Exactly how I want to be. The bedroom has a queen bed with a wooden frame and headboard, a huge dresser, and two wooden bedside tables. And there’s a big fluffy armchair with flowers embroidered in the fabric. The living room has a red-and white-striped couch with huge pillows featuring embroidered sunflowers. I’ve also got a big desk in front of the bay window and a small table with two chairs over by the kitchenette. And there’s a huge television on the wall—my very own TV.
I called to Mrs. Conley, and she came up and started going through everything with me, as if I had the power to complain.
