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The front page isn’t a poem, though. It’s a letter.
In fact, it’s an acceptance letter from a literary agent.
And it’s dated just a month before my mom died.
I flip it over and look at the title.
ON MOTHERHOOD
A Collection of Poetry
Diana Channing
I guess she never gave up on her dream after all...
Chapter Eight
Trenton
Caroline never told me she intended on dropping my class and I don’t even find out why until it’s time for finals. I wouldn’t even have gotten word of it at all, had it not been for the fact that I make a point of asking Jessica, whom I know to be Caroline’s close friend.
“She’s finishing out the semester in her other courses, but it seems like she’s going to, ummm, be transferring out to a college closer to home in the spring.”
Closer to home? I wonder. Why on earth would she want that? I thought her dad was an unsupportive control freak. What could she possibly stand to gain by doing that?
I still don’t know exactly what went wrong between us and from what I can gather, it may remain that way for quite a long time. I have to admit that this fact crushes me, because I’ve fallen for her way more deeply than I’d like to confess.
I ask Jessica, “What exactly went wr— I mean, why did she drop the course so abruptly?”
Jessica shrugs.
“It’s not really my business, Professor Mitchell,” she says, which I can tell is a lie and a nice way of letting me down easy.
“But you know,” she continues, as she begins to walk out of my classroom after everyone else, “she’s reading a poem tonight at the Madhatter again. Her last one before she goes home. You should stop by and see her and ask her for yourself.”
Andi Myers slides past her in the doorway, to use the room for her freshman English Lit class.
“Hellooooooo, Ms. Walsh,” she says to Jessica in such a sing-songy sort of way that it makes me want to barf.
“How’s your roommate?” she asks Jessica, and I can tell that there’s something pointed about what she’s asking.
“She’s fine, Dr. Myers,” Jessica says, while slipping out the classroom door.
Leave it to my ex to be up to no good.
“What’s your interest in Caroline Channing?” I ask Andi.
“Ha!” she chuckles. “Those who live in glass classrooms shouldn’t throw stone questions, Trenton.”
Oh, God. She knows about Caroline and me.
“You know,” she goes on. “I don’t have any plans for the holiday. If you and Bella would like a more feminine figure, and one that is of age, at that, to help spread the Christmas cheer, maybe call me.”
“I think I’ll pass.” I tell her as I slam my briefcase closed. “Did you do something to Caroline? Are you the reason that she dropped my class?”
The vicious old sea hag giggles. And it’s so irritating that I grab my things and rush out the door, because Andi’s guilty of something. I can feel it. It might just be a little longer before I figure out exactly what the something is that she’s done.
* * *
At the Madhatter that night, I walk up the stairs just in time to catch Caroline taking the stage. She doesn’t see me at first, which is good. Not that I want to take her completely off guard, but I would like her to not be able to run as soon as she sees me.
She looks absolutely effervescent, even in this dim, dank barroom on Connecticut Ave. Something about her is changed; I can see it all the way from over here. She’s absolutely, well, glowing. And this poem that she’s reading, well— it isn’t one that I’ve ever heard her read before.
“And soon the winter breaks to spring,
and carried with the season upon a large bird’s wing
like pollen from older, wiser, male flowers
is turned to fruit by the female’s power,
a new journey lies ahead—
Shoulders—
Breath—
It’s a girl.”
Everyone in the room is snapping, which I find annoying, so I break into a thunderous applause.
No wonder she’s glowing.
She’s pregnant. I can tell now, for sure. I rush up to the stage before she has a chance to leave it, and before she has a chance to say anything, I drop down to a single knee.
“Caroline Channing,” I say, knowing she’ll think me crazy, but needing to do it anyway.
“Trenton!” she scolds, clearly very surprised to see me there.
“No, no, please, let me just ask you something.”
“The only thing you could possibly be asking me from down on one knee is either if you can tie my shoe or if I’ll—”
“Marry me,” I say.
“Well, there’s something I haven’t told you,” she confesses.
“There’s something I haven’t told you, either,” I tell her. “But it’s fine. We’ll work it all out.”
“Okay, then,” she says, smiling wide. “Yes. I’mll marry you.
No one applauds then. In fact, from the very back of the room, someone shouts, “GET A ROOM!”
