When Women Were Dragons(106)
For me, this signaled a profound shift in how I understood my life. I wasn’t in charge of Beatrice anymore. Marla and the aunties were. Not only that, I wasn’t alone in managing my own life. Marla and the others helped me manage my finances, and they made sure I got enough sleep, and insisted that I eat balanced meals and take my vitamins. They fussed when my cheeks got sallow or when I developed a cough. They entertained my friends and they pretended not to notice when Sonja slept over. They advised but didn’t pry; they listened but didn’t judge; they cared but didn’t coddle. They asked for my input when it came to Beatrice’s interests or behavior or learning. Because we shared these responsibilities, it meant that I, for the first time, could simply be a student—fully engaged in the life of the mind and the practice of inquiry, without the burden of worry. Marla, once again, became the pillar that held up my life. A future opened in front of me, full of possibilities, all made possible by their support.
Gratitude is a funny thing. It feels so similar to joy.
I met with professors to discuss the possibility of graduate school. I wrote to Mrs. Gyzinska to get her advice on the subject (she had several thoughts) and I even wrote to Mr. Burrows—though he wrote back using his real name from his new laboratory at the University of New Mexico. I began to make plans for what my future might be—what once felt like a mad dash to the end of a cliff now felt like an interesting path in a beautiful wood that may or may not lead to the top of a mountain. And yes, the chances of my arrival at that destination were uncertain, but oh! What a mountain! And oh! What a view! And what a pleasure it was to keep moving forward.
The new semester began, and I threw myself into my studies and inquiry. I worked at the lab and joined research teams and even secured funding for projects of my own. I volunteered at the observatory every Tuesday and Friday night until past two in the morning. Sonja came with me on Fridays—she’d study, or make art, or just lounge or nap on the couch deep in the night until my shift was over. From time to time, I took a break just to touch her face, or her hair, or drape my arm across her back. I didn’t hide the fact that we were together. If anyone had a problem, no one said. Sometimes, letting it be known that you live in a household full of dragons has certain benefits.
Often, after my shift ended, Sonja and I stayed out the rest of the night. We were restless, and awake, walking along the paths by the lake until the sky turned red and dawn came. I wanted to spend every moment with her. I wanted each moment we had to bend and loop with every other possible moment.
An infinite tangle of time.
A quantum love knot.
The thing about a first love is that it so rarely lasts, but it always feels as though it must. I hung on to every second I had with Sonja. Each one felt precious to me. Each one felt like a treasure that could be easily lost.
When did I notice that Sonja had begun exclusively drawing dragons, painting dragons, etching dragons onto the faces of small pieces of tumbled glass, carrying them in her pockets like touchstones? When did I notice her gaze wandering past where I stood, and tilting upward to the sky? I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t ask about it. I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t happening.
One Friday at the beginning of February, Sonja arrived late. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright. But it was February, after all, and that night it was a shattering cold. There were four other students present, all boys, and all of whom took turns to explain the equipment to me (despite the fact that I had trained each of them) or to explain the theory to me (I had seen their notes, and no thanks) and to offer to check my mathematics (I politely declined). At one point, when one boy tried to explain to me how lenses worked, I said, “Thanks, friend, but your explanations are as useful to me as gum in my hair. Why don’t you do the group a favor and zip it.”
“Geez, Alex,” he breathed. “Don’t bite my head off.” All four of the boys made a hasty exit shortly after. The graduate student managing that night—a tall young man from North Dakota—had, once again, fallen asleep at his desk. This wasn’t unusual for graduate students. On their best days they were both gaunt and sleep-deprived, powered solely on coffee. I didn’t have the heart to wake him, so I buttoned up the observatory for him instead, replacing equipment and shutting down machines and checking the inventories. It was good to have something to do. Sonja stayed put in her corner, bent over her notebook, a look of wild joy on her face. I couldn’t see what she was drawing. Every once in a while she looked up and caught my eye and smiled. Every time, she took my breath away.
We woke the grad student, who looked around the room in utter panic until I explained that I had done all his tasks for him and he could just lock up and go to bed. Sonja and I grabbed our bags and left him to it.
Once we got into the hall, Sonja took my hand. “I’m not ready for the evening to be over, are you?” I turned and faced her. I took her other hand. I stepped closer.
“No,” I said, my voice more breath than anything else.
“Let’s go to the roof,” Sonja whispered. “I want to show you something.”
It didn’t occur to me that it was, at that moment, below zero, and that it would be icy and dangerous up there. I just nodded, my heart in my throat. Sonja started walking backward, pulling me along with her hands.
I didn’t know what she wanted to show me. I did know that I wasn’t ready to go home.