My Oxford Year(75)

“O-okay,” I finally answer, but he’s already hung up. I bring the phone down from my ear and just look at the blank screen.

It’s over.

I should be surprised, and I am.

I should be shocked, and I am.

I should be angry. I am.

I should be afraid of what comes next; that too.

But with all that churning inside me, my only thought as I stare at the blank screen is: now I can stay in Oxford.

It trumps everything.

And that scares the hell out of me.

I turn back toward the bathroom and see Jamie. He’s nodded off, back against the wall, chin to chest. The way a toddler can fall asleep. I stare at him for a moment. A long moment.

Then I step back out into the bedroom and call Gavin back.

“Yeah?” he answers.

“Why?” I ask.

“Why, what?”

“Why is it over? Why is she dropping out?” It’s so quiet I think we’ve been disconnected. “Hello?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Ella, just spit-balling here, but maybe because we can’t have an unmarried, single mother for president?”

He’s shouting by the end. I don’t shout back. “Why, Gavin? Why can’t we have an unmarried, single mother for president?”

He sighs, not listening. “Hillerson will eviscerate her tonight if she doesn’t drop out, I won’t put her in that position—”

“You’ll excuse me but that’s not for you to decide. Or Hillerson. Or the party. Or anyone else other than the American people. Give them the chance to decide. We’ll never know what they want if we don’t give them the choice.”

There’s a beat. “Ella, forgive me, but you’re out of your—”

“Is she there?” I swallow. “Gavin, please, I know this is outside my wheelhouse, I know you didn’t ask for my opinion, but I have one.”

After an eternity, he exhales. “Hold on.”

There’s shuffling in the background and then I hear, on speakerphone, Janet’s resigned voice. “Ella?”

“Don’t drop out.”

“Honey,” she breathes, “I want this baby, with Peter. I thought it wasn’t possible at my age. This is a once-in-a-lifetime—”

“Have your baby. And don’t drop out.” Though unsure how to read her silence, I forge on. “Do the debate.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I don’t see us overcoming this.”

Anger bolts through me. “No, see, there’s nothing to overcome! There’s only something to become!” I pace. “Become the woman who stands up to this bullshit. Become the woman who challenges the patriarchal playbook.”

“Ella—”

“We have to stop pretending that there are rules, that anyone knows anything. No one knows shit!”

There’s a faint chuckle when she says, “I agree, trust me, but—”

“If nothing else,” I huff, “if this ends next Tuesday, if we find out this is just too much for people to accept, then at least we elevated the discourse when we had the chance. That you were the candidate who didn’t just have the answers, but dared to ask the questions. Do the debate. And. Ask. Why. Make Hillerson say it, make him say ‘you’re unfit,’ not only to your face, but to the face of every woman in the country. All his arguments are specious: ‘We can’t have a pregnant candidate, we can’t have a baby-mama POTUS.’ Why? Because we’ve never had one before? And then ask him if he’d have a problem with a new father taking office? And then, once his own misogyny has painted him into a corner, ask him if he’s suggesting that you’d only be fit to be president if you’d had an abortion? Socratic method his ass.”

After a long moment, I hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Socratic method. Oxford’s rubbing off on you.” She sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

This stops me in my tracks. Really?

Oh God, what did I just do? I’m pretty sure I just asked a wonderful woman to go up onstage and lash herself to the feminist mast on national television.

I swallow. “It’s a plan.”

We hang up.

I stand there, my legs suddenly shaky. When I step back into the bathroom, I’m surprised to find Jamie looking at me through hooded lids, smiling slightly. “Are we watching the debate tonight?” he asks.

“If there is one,” I hedge.

He nods at my phone. “I’m dying to know what that was about.”

I drop back down at his feet, resuming our previous position. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Why do you think I asked?”

I snort. It’s sad, it’s funny, and I’m suddenly exhausted. I drop my head. Then I feel Jamie’s fingers in my hair, his palm cupping my cheek. I lean into it, let it strengthen me for a moment. “So,” Jamie purrs. “Your birthday.”

I look up at the abrupt change of topic. His eyes twinkle like they used to. He’s feeling a bit better.

I smile, trying to rally. “Now we’re talking.”

“It’s next week.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I want to take you somewhere. Shall we go somewhere?”