Six Years
Page 9
I frowned again, but I could feel the twang in my chest. “Are you sure you’re not a psychology professor?”
“You want this so badly—this second chance, this chance at real redemption—that you can’t see the truth.”
“What truth is that, Benedict?”
“She’s gone,” he said, simple as that. “She dumped you. None of this changes that.”
I swallowed, tried to swim through that crystal-clear reality. “I think there is more to it.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Benedict considered that for a moment. “But you won’t stop trying to find out, will you?”
“I will,” I said. “But not today. And probably not tomorrow.”
Benedict shrugged, rose, grabbed another beer. “So let’s have it. What’s our next step?”
Chapter 5
I had no answer to that one, and it was getting late. Benedict suggested a bar and some late-night carousing. I thought that it might be an excellent distraction but I had essays to grade, so I begged off. I managed to get through about three of them before realizing that my mind wasn’t there and grading papers now wouldn’t be fair to my students.
I made a sandwich and tried looking up Natalie’s name again, this time doing an “image” search. I saw an old bio picture of her. The image struck me hard in the chest so I clicked it off. I found some of her old paintings. Several of them were of my hands and torso. Painful memories didn’t just ease back in—they shoved the door open hard, all of them and all at once. The way she tilted her head, the way the sunlight burst through the skylight of her studio, that look of concentration on her face, the playful smile when she took a break. The memories almost made me double over in pain. I missed her that much. I missed her with an ache that was physical and something beyond. I had blocked it on and off for six years, but suddenly the longing had flooded back, as strong as the day we last made love in that cabin at the retreat.
Screw it.
I wanted to see her and be damned the consequences. If Natalie could look me in the eye a second time and dismiss me, well, I would deal with it then. But not now. Not tonight. Right now, I simply needed to find her.
Okay, slow down. Let me think this through. What do I need to do here? First, I have to figure out if Todd Sanderson is Natalie’s Todd. There was plenty of evidence to suggest, as Benedict had clearly explained, that this was simply a case of mistaken identity.
How should I go about proving it one way or the other?
I needed to know more about him. For example, what would Dr. Todd Sanderson, happily married father of two living in Savannah, be doing at an artist retreat in Vermont six years earlier? I needed to see more pictures of him. I needed to do more background, starting . . .
Starting here. At Lanford.
That was it. The school still maintains every student file, though they can only be viewed by the student or with the student’s permission. I looked at my own a few years back. For the most part, there was nothing remarkable, but my professor in freshman year Spanish, a class I ended up dropping, suspected that I had “adjustment” problems and perhaps could benefit from seeing the school psychologist. That was crap, of course. I was terrible at Spanish—foreign languages are my academic Achilles’ heel—and you’re allowed a freshman drop to maintain your GPA. The note had been in the professor’s own handwriting, and that somehow made it worse.
The point?
There could be something in Todd’s file, if I could figure a way to finagle it, that would tell me something about him. You might ask, “Like what?” I might reply, “I have no friggin’ idea.” It still felt like a place to start.
So what else?
The obvious: Check in on Natalie. If I found her still happily married to her Todd, I would be able to drop this immediately. That was the most direct route here, wasn’t it? The question was, how?
I continued an online search, hoping to stumble across an address or a clue, but there was absolutely nothing. I know that we supposedly live our entire lives online nowadays, but I have found this not to be the case. If a person wanted to stay in the shadows, they could. It took effort, but you really could remain off the grid.
The question might be, why would you expend the effort?
I debated calling her sister, if I could find the number, but what exactly would I say? “Hi, uh, this is Jake Fisher, your sister’s old, uh, fling. Um, did Natalie’s husband die?”
That might be a tough approach.
I remembered listening to a phone conversation between the two sisters where Natalie gushingly told Julie, “Oh man, wait till you meet my wonderful boyfriend . . .” And, yep, we did eventually meet. Sort of. At Natalie’s wedding to another man.
Her father was dead. Her mom, well, that would be the same problem as with the sister. Friends of Natalie’s . . . that was an issue too. Natalie and I had spent our time together in retreats in Kraftboro, Vermont. I was at one to write my political science dissertation, Natalie was doing her art at the neighboring farm-cum-retreat. I was supposed to stay six weeks. I stayed double that because, one, I met Natalie, and two, I lost focus on my writing after I met Natalie. I had never visited her hometown in northern New Jersey, and she had only come to campus for one brief visit. Our relationship had stayed in that Vermont bubble.
I can almost see the head nods now. Ah, you think, that explains it. It was a summer romance, built in an unreal world of no responsibilities or reality. Under those conditions, it is easy for love and obsession to bloom without taking root, only to wither and die when the cold of September rolled around. Natalie, being the more insightful of us, saw and accepted that truth. I did not.
I understand that sentiment. I can only say that it is wrong.
Natalie’s sister’s name was Julie Pottham. Six years ago, Julie had been married with an infant son. I looked her up online. This time, it didn’t take long. Julie lived in Ramsey, New Jersey. I wrote down the phone number on a slip of paper—like Benedict, I can be old-school—and stared at it. Outside my window I could hear students laughing. It was midnight. Too late to call. It might be best to sleep on this decision anyway. In the meantime, there were papers I needed to correct. There was a class tomorrow I had to prepare for. There was a life I had to lead.
* * *
There was no point in trying to sleep. I focused on the student essays. Most were numbingly tedious and expected, written as though to fit a high school teacher’s rote specifications. These were top-level students who knew how to write “A+” high school papers, what with their opening paragraph, introductory sentences, supportive body, all that stuff that makes an essay solid and ridiculously boring. As I mentioned earlier, my job is to get them to think critically. That was always more important to me than having them remember the specific philosophies of, say, Hobbes or Locke. You could always look those up and be reminded of what they were. Rather, what I really hoped was my students would learn to both respect and piss all over Hobbes and Locke. I wanted them to not only think outside the box, but to get to that outside by smashing the box into little pieces.
“You want this so badly—this second chance, this chance at real redemption—that you can’t see the truth.”
“What truth is that, Benedict?”
“She’s gone,” he said, simple as that. “She dumped you. None of this changes that.”
I swallowed, tried to swim through that crystal-clear reality. “I think there is more to it.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Benedict considered that for a moment. “But you won’t stop trying to find out, will you?”
“I will,” I said. “But not today. And probably not tomorrow.”
Benedict shrugged, rose, grabbed another beer. “So let’s have it. What’s our next step?”
Chapter 5
I had no answer to that one, and it was getting late. Benedict suggested a bar and some late-night carousing. I thought that it might be an excellent distraction but I had essays to grade, so I begged off. I managed to get through about three of them before realizing that my mind wasn’t there and grading papers now wouldn’t be fair to my students.
I made a sandwich and tried looking up Natalie’s name again, this time doing an “image” search. I saw an old bio picture of her. The image struck me hard in the chest so I clicked it off. I found some of her old paintings. Several of them were of my hands and torso. Painful memories didn’t just ease back in—they shoved the door open hard, all of them and all at once. The way she tilted her head, the way the sunlight burst through the skylight of her studio, that look of concentration on her face, the playful smile when she took a break. The memories almost made me double over in pain. I missed her that much. I missed her with an ache that was physical and something beyond. I had blocked it on and off for six years, but suddenly the longing had flooded back, as strong as the day we last made love in that cabin at the retreat.
Screw it.
I wanted to see her and be damned the consequences. If Natalie could look me in the eye a second time and dismiss me, well, I would deal with it then. But not now. Not tonight. Right now, I simply needed to find her.
Okay, slow down. Let me think this through. What do I need to do here? First, I have to figure out if Todd Sanderson is Natalie’s Todd. There was plenty of evidence to suggest, as Benedict had clearly explained, that this was simply a case of mistaken identity.
How should I go about proving it one way or the other?
I needed to know more about him. For example, what would Dr. Todd Sanderson, happily married father of two living in Savannah, be doing at an artist retreat in Vermont six years earlier? I needed to see more pictures of him. I needed to do more background, starting . . .
Starting here. At Lanford.
That was it. The school still maintains every student file, though they can only be viewed by the student or with the student’s permission. I looked at my own a few years back. For the most part, there was nothing remarkable, but my professor in freshman year Spanish, a class I ended up dropping, suspected that I had “adjustment” problems and perhaps could benefit from seeing the school psychologist. That was crap, of course. I was terrible at Spanish—foreign languages are my academic Achilles’ heel—and you’re allowed a freshman drop to maintain your GPA. The note had been in the professor’s own handwriting, and that somehow made it worse.
The point?
There could be something in Todd’s file, if I could figure a way to finagle it, that would tell me something about him. You might ask, “Like what?” I might reply, “I have no friggin’ idea.” It still felt like a place to start.
So what else?
The obvious: Check in on Natalie. If I found her still happily married to her Todd, I would be able to drop this immediately. That was the most direct route here, wasn’t it? The question was, how?
I continued an online search, hoping to stumble across an address or a clue, but there was absolutely nothing. I know that we supposedly live our entire lives online nowadays, but I have found this not to be the case. If a person wanted to stay in the shadows, they could. It took effort, but you really could remain off the grid.
The question might be, why would you expend the effort?
I debated calling her sister, if I could find the number, but what exactly would I say? “Hi, uh, this is Jake Fisher, your sister’s old, uh, fling. Um, did Natalie’s husband die?”
That might be a tough approach.
I remembered listening to a phone conversation between the two sisters where Natalie gushingly told Julie, “Oh man, wait till you meet my wonderful boyfriend . . .” And, yep, we did eventually meet. Sort of. At Natalie’s wedding to another man.
Her father was dead. Her mom, well, that would be the same problem as with the sister. Friends of Natalie’s . . . that was an issue too. Natalie and I had spent our time together in retreats in Kraftboro, Vermont. I was at one to write my political science dissertation, Natalie was doing her art at the neighboring farm-cum-retreat. I was supposed to stay six weeks. I stayed double that because, one, I met Natalie, and two, I lost focus on my writing after I met Natalie. I had never visited her hometown in northern New Jersey, and she had only come to campus for one brief visit. Our relationship had stayed in that Vermont bubble.
I can almost see the head nods now. Ah, you think, that explains it. It was a summer romance, built in an unreal world of no responsibilities or reality. Under those conditions, it is easy for love and obsession to bloom without taking root, only to wither and die when the cold of September rolled around. Natalie, being the more insightful of us, saw and accepted that truth. I did not.
I understand that sentiment. I can only say that it is wrong.
Natalie’s sister’s name was Julie Pottham. Six years ago, Julie had been married with an infant son. I looked her up online. This time, it didn’t take long. Julie lived in Ramsey, New Jersey. I wrote down the phone number on a slip of paper—like Benedict, I can be old-school—and stared at it. Outside my window I could hear students laughing. It was midnight. Too late to call. It might be best to sleep on this decision anyway. In the meantime, there were papers I needed to correct. There was a class tomorrow I had to prepare for. There was a life I had to lead.
* * *
There was no point in trying to sleep. I focused on the student essays. Most were numbingly tedious and expected, written as though to fit a high school teacher’s rote specifications. These were top-level students who knew how to write “A+” high school papers, what with their opening paragraph, introductory sentences, supportive body, all that stuff that makes an essay solid and ridiculously boring. As I mentioned earlier, my job is to get them to think critically. That was always more important to me than having them remember the specific philosophies of, say, Hobbes or Locke. You could always look those up and be reminded of what they were. Rather, what I really hoped was my students would learn to both respect and piss all over Hobbes and Locke. I wanted them to not only think outside the box, but to get to that outside by smashing the box into little pieces.
