When they reached the front steps, Mira held him for the second time that day. “Connected.”
CHAPTER26
Two weeks after Lenny’s memorial service, Mrs. Fitzgerald retired. She left in a silent hurry, saying farewell to no one save Sandrine, and that was delivered with all the formality of a military salute. If Sandrine and Arnold and other members of the faculty were upset over her abrupt departure, Colin could not detect it. Instead, he had the distinct impression they were all quietly satisfied to close that particular chapter and start another.
That last week in August a new head of Sojourn House was named. Consuela Dupree was a cheerful, rotund woman with eyes that found delight in everything she saw. The difference between her and Mrs. Fitzgerald could not have been greater.
Consuela had three young children of her own. There was no mention of her moving into Sojourn House. Instead, two mornings after the announcement, Arnold and Sandrine led him into the ground-floor apartment and said, “What do you think?”
Colin continued to feel partly disconnected from theworld. So many things appeared abruptly, without warning. Almost in tandem with the way he had felt about adults in his early years. “About what?”
“About what, the man says.” Arnold swept his arm around. “Moving in. What do you think?”
The words seemed impossible to join into a coherent thought. “I don’t understand.”
Sandrine tugged on his arm, pulling him over to the sofa lining the side wall. Brown and leather and punctuated with tight brass tacks. Colin had never seen anyone sit there. It proved to be as uncomfortable as it looked.
“You cannot imagine the impact you had on Lenny. We were all so worried about him. He never seemed to communicate with anyone unless it was about his studies. He was not just withdrawn. He lived inside a shell, he never …”
Colin watched as Sandrine came within a hairsbreadth of breaking down. He saw Arnold seat himself on the sofa’s arm next to her. Wrap her in his arms. And hold her until she managed to regain control. It felt strange and yet immensely gratifying to know he was not the only one who ached, who struggled every time he thought of the absent youth.
When her lips uncrimped and her tremors ceased, she straightened and swiped at her eyes and tried her best to smile. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
She liked that enough to reach for his hand. “Have you ever heard the wordprefect?”
“Somewhere.”
“It’s fallen out of fashion. But in times past, a prefect was an older student who held a position of responsibility within a house or dorm. They served as a bridge between the students and the faculty.”
“A lot of the students here are older than me.”
“In years, yes. That’s true. But I’m not sure that will matter.”
“Everyone here knows you’re studying at uni,” Arnold pointed out. “That sort of thing might erase the age issue.”
Sandrine said, “Plus, where we really need your help is with the younger students.”
“I don’t know if I can. Or if I’d be any good.”
“It’s a huge transition, I know. Will you give it a try?”
“If you think … Okay, I guess.”
“Excellent.” She rose to her feet and offered an over-bright smile. “I assume you won’t mind if we do a bit of remodeling.”
They were still working on the apartment when school began. Colin remained upstairs in his room, though the confines had never felt more restrictive. Mira had started at UVA while Lucas was now at Georgetown. Colin’s communications with his dearest friend had become limited to brief phone chats and text messages. She was both overwhelmed and thrilled. Her relationship with Lucas was going through another difficult patch, and she often complained about feeling as though they were separated by a pair of bipolar worlds. Which made no sense, of course, but Colin knew what she meant and liked how she was trying to include him in this ongoing trauma. Her world was defined by a roller coaster of conflicting emotions. He wanted to be part of that.
Three weeks into the new term, his grandmother died. Roger Eames sent official notification that he wanted Colin to attend the service. Celeste brought the news. He was so very grateful she had not brought Arnold or Sandrine along. She more than anyone else understood just how conflicted he felt.
The next day, he folded clothes into his backpack, being careful to include things he could not afford to forget, like matching socks and hairbrush and belt and tie. He walked down the road to the club, listening to the birdsong andfeeling a faint brush of coolness, a whisper of a different season ahead. He swam his twenty laps, five hundred meters being his new normal. Careful, steady strokes. Ten laps crawl, five backstroke, five breast. He was by far the youngest of the club’s regular morning swimmers. The adults knew him now, some even greeting him by name. Afterward he showered and donned his formal gear, then stopped by the coffee shop for a smoothie and a banana. Colin was standing under the front awning when Celeste pulled up.
The service was held in the Rocky Mount Memorial Park’s chapel. Celeste spent much of the drive laying out precise instructions regarding Colin’s behavior. She spoke in a stern manner, as if expecting him to protest. In fact, Colin was almost soothed by the clear line of action. It framed a way he could move through this experience in safety. He hoped.
As the dark-suited congregants gathered, Colin entered the chapel. Celeste followed at a discreet distance. Now that they were here, neither felt any need to speak. A man he did not recognize handed him a heavily embossed page, almost like a menu card. Beneath a dark banner was his grandmother’s name and the dates of her birth and death. Colin walked up the central aisle to where his father and new family were seated on the front left row.
On one hand, the physical sensations that accompanied him were taken from the multitude of nightmares where his father played a major role. His heart raced, his body felt clammy, the chapel’s frigid air could not stop him from sweating. And yet Colin viewed it all from a safe distance, as if the legal structure defining his life had become a physical barrier.
