My Oxford Year(54)

“Oh, for cripes sake.” Mom sighs, well acquainted with my irreverence. Of all the traits my mother possesses, prudery is actually, surprisingly, not one of them. She works in a medical office, after all.

“You know me. No strings, just sex.” Connor leans back in his chair with his champagne and a huge smile.

“Eleanor! That mouth of yours.”

“What a coincidence, he said the same thing last night!”

She tsks at me. “I know you’re just joshing, but you be nice to him. You know how you can be.”

Yes. I do. I hurt men. I leave men. I lead them on and then walk away. It’s a good thing I don’t love you crashes through my head like a buffalo stampede. I ignore it. As much as one can ignore a buffalo stampede. “He’s fine,” I grit, my mood souring. “He can handle himself.” A misplaced flash of anger directs itself at my mother, and I try to dial it back. It’s not fair to blame her. I’m twenty-four years old. I need to be over this.

The bubbly suddenly seems like a good idea, after all. I take a large sip and, lightening my tone, say, “Look, we’re both leaving at the end of the year, going our separate ways. It’s stupid to start a relationship.” I almost forget who I’m talking about, but Connor gives me a cheeky thumbs-up, like he heartily approves, and I try to smile.

“Well, don’t be afraid to make the most of it,” she lilts. I repress a sigh. Here comes the lesson. “It’s like that fella says. You know, ’Tis better to have lost your love—no, wait. What is it? ’Tis better to—”

She’s attempting poetry? Really? “‘’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’ Mom.”

“Yes it is, yes it is. And he was right, too. Believe you me. I should know.” She goes quiet, then sighs. “The holidays always make it worse.” Her sudden sadness guts me. It also irritates me, which is unfair. I take another sip of champagne as she asks, “Who wrote that again?”

Who did write that? Before I can finish the thought, the answer comes to me, as does a tightness in my throat. I swallow the bubbly like gravel. “Tennyson. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Mom.”

“Right, right. Listen, honey, I need to leave for Mal’s. They say it might snow and I don’t want to be on the road if it does. Say hi to Connor for me. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” I reply. I wish it weren’t so automatic a response, but I can honestly say it’s not a lie. I do love her. In my way. Whatever that is. However I love.

I hang up and look at the phone. “My mom says hi.”

We take a moment to regroup. We both take a few bites and eat in silence. Finally, Connor says, “So, an eight-hundred-page book that I have to read . . .”

“Right.” I take a breath. I could just drop it at this point, but something compels me to continue. “So, the main character’s been in love with this guy for basically all eight hundred pages, even though she was married to this other guy. Then that guy dies, but she still can’t be with the guy she’s always loved because her late husband put it in his will that if she marries him—he’s a starving-artist type—she’ll be destitute, because all the money her late husband left her would have to be forfeited.”

“What a dick,” Connor observes, forking a potato.

“You have no idea. But, finally, as the love of her life is about to walk away for the last time, Dorothea—that’s the girl—finally breaks down and decides, screw it, and leaves everything behind to be with him.”

“Why?”

I look at him. Why? “Because love.” Connor takes another bite. I can feel the rambling coming on. I’m powerless to stop it. “It’s raining and storming and he’s about to leave and she just starts sobbing. She realizes in that moment love has a cost. And she knows that she’s going to have to figure out what that cost is. And that’s exactly what Dorothea says. ‘I will learn what everything costs.’ End of chapter.”

Connor nods, brings the champagne to his lips. “Because she’ll have to be poor to be with him.”

I pause. “Well, yes, but it’s also a metaphor.” I take a big bite of turkey and continue talking anyway. “See, Dorothea never really lets herself feel anything. She’s pious and thoughtful and she’s always doing things for the betterment of humanity, but that just means that she never gets too close to anything really important. Like, personally important. The distance protects her. I mean, you can’t hurt that much if you haven’t lost that much, right?”

Connor chews on this. “Right, okay.”

“But it’s a cosmic joke! Because we’re going to lose it all anyway. There’s no protection! There’s only death! That’s the cost!”

Connor stares at the tablecloth for a moment while I breathe, trying to muzzle the crazy. He smiles sheepishly up at me. “Sorry. The last book I really understood was The Hungry, Hungry Caterpillar. I’m terrible at analyzing literature.”

I move the turkey around in my mouth. “I’m beginning to think I am, too.” I sigh. I pause for a second, then smile. “This is about India. You and India. You’ll learn what everything costs. That’s the point.” He nods pleasantly. I turn back to my plate, thinking about Dorothea, about Middlemarch, about the awful explanation I just gave. I wish I could talk to Jamie about this. He’d get it. What am I saying? There’s a reason it’s his favorite book. He already gets it. Deeply. Somatically.