I sit in my desk chair. “Of course it’s Felicity. You’re the one who called me, remember?”
My mother’s still in France. It sounds windy on the other end of the line; I imagine her on a yacht off the coast of Nice, wearing a beige sundress and ordering the staff to bring her more drinks. It’s still November, even in Nice, but I can almost imagine my mother’s money going so far as to buy good weather, God herself susceptible to Morrow bribes.
“Oh, right….Well. Dr.Ortega thought it might be a good idea if I checked in on you, now that the semester’s getting on….”Almost overis what she means. Dr.Ortega probably told her to call me weeks ago.
I stay silent. Another gust of wind, loud through the speaker.
“So how have you been, honey?”
My mother has never in her life used pet names.
“Fine. Everything’s fine.”
“You’re sure? I just mean, Dr.Ortega said you haven’t been checking in with her like you were supposed to.”
So my mother is still in contact with Dr.Ortega. I can’t decide if I’m more surprised—my mother has never taken such a close interest in my well-being before—or irritated.
“I’ve been busy,” I say. “I have a lot of work to do, actually, I should—”
“Are you coming home for Thanksgiving? I should be back stateside by then.”
I make the decision on impulse, even though I have nowhere else to stay, even though campus will be closed over the holiday. “No. I’m going home with a friend.”
“Oh? Which friend?”
“You don’t know her.” I hook my ankles around the legs of my desk chair. “But you’re always welcome to come and visit next semester. If you want.”
She doesn’t want.
A long pause drags out behind my words. My mother would love to prove me wrong, but even Cecelia Morrow can’t deny her nature. “Maybe….I’ll be quite busy in the spring. I’ll have to check my calendar.”
“You do that.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? You sound a little…” She doesn’t seem able to find the word. My mother has never been much of a poet. “Have you been taking your medication?”
“I told you, I’m fine. I have to go, actually. I’m meeting my friend to work on our final project.”
“Is this the same friend you’re visiting for break?”
“Yes. Same friend. She’s right here; I have to go. I’ll talk to you later. Tell Dr.Ortega to stop worrying about me.”
I hang up before my mother can say anything else or demand to speak to the imaginary and impatient friend.
I drop my phone behind my bed and sink lower in my desk chair, turning my face toward the ceiling. I’m still like that, eyes half-shut, when someone knocks at my door.
It’s Kajal. “There’s a visitor downstairs for you,” she says. I recognize the dubious edge to her tone and frown.
“Who?”
“Some little third-year girl. She kept asking if Ellis was here, too.”
Hannah Stratford.
“Did you tell her I was gone?”
Kajal’s mouth twists into something that is almost but not quite a smile. “I told her you’d be right down.”
I sigh and follow Kajal down the stairs to the entryway, where Hannah Stratford stands in the foyer, bowed under the weight of a massive brown box.
