“Philo took time out of a very busy day to be here with you today.” I speak to him in French.
“So what?” he mumbles in French.
I go to crouch down in front of him, but my belly stops me. I find a folding chair and bring it over to sit next to Alain.
“Didn’t you want to be here today?” I ask since all of the children had to apply and explain why they were interested in the field.
“No.” He shakes his head, but it feels more of a defiant response than the truth.
“Then who filled out the application for you?”
He’s quiet for a beat. When I think he’s going to ignore me, he says, “My mom.”
It’s the way his voice cracks on the word mom that a painful memory comes rushing back to me.
A few weeks after my parents’ death, my grandmother and I had gone over to my old house before selling it. I checked the mail and there was a big envelope with my mom’s name on it.
The university name was familiar since my mom had let me in on her entire process of applying to Ph.D. programs. As a teacher turned principal, she always stressed the value of education.
The first word in the letter was ‘congratulations.’
I burst into tears.
That sorrowful emotion is exactly what I hear in Alain’s voice.
I don’t need to ask if his mom died because there’s a deep, innate knowing inside of the pit of my stomach that answers the unasked question.
“My mom died, too,” I say the first and only thing I can think of.
For the first time since I’ve stepped into the hallway, Alain lifts his head to look at me.
“How?” His voice is smaller, the anger diminishing, being replaced by grief.
“Car accident.” I manage to choke the words out. “My dad, too.” I keep the fact that I was also in the car to myself.
He lowers his head again, but not in a dismissive way. “I didn’t know my dad. Mom said he didn’t want a family.”
My chest tightens and I force myself to breathe past it.
“Mom got sick.” His voice is barely a whisper.
“It sucks so much,” I say without thinking. When I start to believe I should’ve come up with something more profound to say, Alain raises his head to look at me again. There are tears in his eyes, but the faintest smile on his face.
After removing an unused tissue from my pocket, I pass it to him. He uses it to wipe his tears away.
“My dad loved science. He taught high school chemistry. Did your mom like science?”
He takes a beat before answering.
“I told her I wanted to learn to build the cars I saw on TV,” he says in an almost whisper.
“She helped you apply for this program?”
“Yes.” He turns his head to look toward the closed door. “Now she’s not here.”
“But you are, Alain.” I scoot forward, sitting on the edge of my seat. “It hurts a lot now, but you’re still here and your mom wanted this for you.”
He wipes a tear that falls with the tissue.
