Page 74 of Given Our History

“—or showed even a modicum of responsibility.”

We finish at the same moment, only half hearing what the other said because we both wanted to say our piece. It takes me a few seconds to process the bits I did hear, but when I do, I look at her with fresh eyes. “Sylvia Plath,” I say, disbelieving.

“What about her?” Reagan snaps.

“You wrote the essay for the, which one”—I snap my fingers—“the Lizette Woodworth Reese Award.”

She makes a sound that’s probably meant to be a sarcastic laugh, but it comes out a little strangled. “That’s a mouthful.”

I’m not laughing. “Did you write it?”

She seems to hesitate, jiggling her leg. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you,” she mumbles finally. “Since you’re on the panel or whatever. They told me I’d be disqualified if you knew.”

I nod to myself, bracing my hands on the kitchen counter, coming to a fast realization. I’ll have to step down from the scholarship committee. No official decisions have been announced yet. If I step down now, I remove myself from the equation. Goodman would temporarily succeed me as chair. At least until they could find someone else for the job. And in the meantime, they’d probably still grant the scholarship to Reagan, without my input.

I cast her a sideways glance, guilt creeping over me. “I’m sorry for shouting,” I mumble.

She stares at the floor. “I’m sorry, too.”

I know better than to press my luck by asking her for a hug right now, but I make a mental note to hug her more often.

I slap cables on my tires before driving into the city early Saturday morning to grab Izzy from the airport. Perhaps too early Saturday morning—traffic’s cut in half on the weekends, and I arrive with a whole hour to spare, so I pull over to the curb and search on my phone for the nearest coffee shop with a decent rating. Hot Off the French Press. I set it as my destination and drive a couple blocks over, parking on the street and feeding some change from my cupholder into the meter. It hasn’t snowed yet in Baltimore, but it’s drizzling. The café is part of an old strip, gold peel-and-stick letters affixed to the window beneath a scalloped black-and-white awning.

Wait a second. I glance up and down the narrow one-way street, déjà vu washing over me. I’ve been here before. I remember the old-fashioned awnings, the comic book store next door, the Chinese restaurant just past it. And if I kept walking, just another door down …

Still, I’m not about to waste time driving around to find a different coffee shop, so I pop inside. It’s cramped inside, but the coffee smells amazing, rich and earthy. An espresso machine hisses and trickles, steam rising from somewhere behind the counter. I order two black coffees to go, stop by the self-serve station to stuff a couple creamers and stir sticks in my pocket, and then I’m back out the door. I wait at the curb for a semi-truck to amble down the narrow road and then I walk around to the driver side, setting the coffees on the roof of my car so that I can unlock the door. I’ve really got to look into buying a new car—one with a working key fob, for example.

“Clara?”

There’s that déjà vu again.

I peek over the top of my car. A woman stands on the sidewalk, car keys in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. She’s got the hood of her raincoat thrown over her head. “Sorry. I knew I recognized that car.” When I only gape at her, she points at herself with the keys. “Mindy Schooner.”

Time stands still on the quiet side street. There’s something surreal about seeing her here, now, just a few doors down from the sandwich shop. “I didn’t think you still lived in Baltimore.” It comes out sounding more accusatory than intended.

“I live just over that way. Wyman Park. Been in the same apartment for years.”

I realize that I’m standing in the middle of the street and I move a little closer to the curb.

“I was craving a turkey melt”—she lifts the bag—“and nobody does it like Augie’s, so…”

We stand there for a moment, the silence so thick you could almost reach out and swipe it away, like snow collecting on a windshield. “It’s nice to see you,” I say. “You look great.”

By this I mean: you look healthy, happy. But it comes out sounding, at least to my ears, like you look different. Mellowed, somehow, and I wonder whether that’s because of the years spent around Teddy or just getting older. It occurs to me for the first time that they might’ve been good for each other, in a way—not as life partners, but as life lessons, the sort of people who help you learn and grow, even if they don’t stick around for good.

“Well, happy holidays,” she says awkwardly, and she marches to her car a few meters away, unlocking it with a beep. A little shaken up, I start to climb into my car before realizing that I left the coffees sitting on the roof. I retrieve them, but not without glancing back at Mindy. She’s bent across the front seat, her yellow coattails sticking out of the driver side door.

“Hey,” I say, fully aware that I should probably just shut up, but I can’t help it.

She straightens up.

“I’m sorry if I wasn’t exactly friendly toward you in college. I’ve thought about it a lot since then and I think I might’ve been a jerk.”

She laughs under her breath. “A lot of us were jerks in college, in our own way. I mean, I sort of just … barged my way in. I always had a bad habit of doing that.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” I say, my voice small. “You kept things lively.”

She snorts. “A lot of good it did me. You certainly didn’t try to keep in touch with me afterward. No one did.” I have no idea how to respond to that, but she saves me from having to say anything by adding, “And that’s not me saying I want to be friends now, for the record.”