My Oxford Year(89)

“What doesn’t?”

“Love.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes a little. “From you of all people?”

He shrugs. “You have what everyone wants. What even I want.” He helicopters his sunglasses. “I mean, not right now, but, you know, eventually. When I’m thick around the middle and thinning on top and living in”—he shudders—“the real world.”

I smirk. “And in the meantime: Ridley?”

“Who?”

I level a look at him. He smiles, slips his sunglasses back on, and looks into the middle distance. “Yes. Sure. Why not?”

IT SEEMS THAT only a few hours later Cecelia appears, bursting into the predawn flatness of the waiting room, pink-cheeked and red-eyed, her scarf trailing behind her. I look up from the book of Matthew Arnold’s poetry I found in my bag, which I’ve been reading like a Bible. I stand as she beelines for me, throwing her arms around my neck, her cheek against mine still cold from outside. I cling to her. “I got the first train as soon as Charlie phoned,” she breathes.

“I thought you had to be in Oxford?”

“This is more important.” She pulls back. “Is he all right? How is he?”

“We don’t know.”

She sees Antonia and William napping in the seats across from me, Antonia’s head resting on William’s broad shoulder, his arm around her. He’s been doing that a lot, putting his arm around her, kissing her cheek, holding her hand. I always thought Antonia was William’s keeper. Helping him through emotional moments, reminding him to breathe, taking him to task when he’d gored those around him. But I was only seeing one side of the coin. How foolish. No coin has only one side. Cecelia’s voice cuts through my musings. “How are they?” she asks.

How are they? They’re facing an all-too-familiar firing squad. My eyes fill with tears. Seeing this, Cecelia wordlessly takes my hand and leads me out of the waiting room.

Ten minutes later we’re ensconced in the cafeteria, Styrofoam cups of weak tea clutched in our hands, acting as if it’s warming us when we both know it’s not. We chat. We even chuckle. I let Cecelia’s calmness anchor me. I let her tell me everything will be okay. Even if it’s not, even if everything goes wrong, she—by her very presence—assures me that, in the end, it will be okay. She’s still here, isn’t she?

Antonia wanders into the cafeteria. She lights up at the sight of Cecelia, but her usual enthusiasm is dimmed, a soldier who, though still committed to the cause, is battle-weary. She gives a little wave as she approaches and leans down to kiss Cecelia, saying, “You’re such a dear to have come.”

“There’s no place else I’d be.”

Antonia drops into a chair. “Never thought we’d be here again so soon.” She sighs.

Cecelia presses her lips together. In her low, composed lilt, her pioneer core is on full display. “No. But we loved Oliver. And we love Jamie. And, as you’re wont to say, we carry on with it all.”

Carry on. I look to Antonia. So it’s a more personal, familial motto for Jamie than I’d assumed.

The shared silence feels almost prayerful. Finally, Antonia’s soft, warm voice says, “I can’t help but think of your words at Ollie’s funeral just now. ‘Love well those who are dying, so that they may die in love.’ In all my sadness and grief, that gave me comfort. How fortunate I was to have had that time with Oliver.” Antonia turns her eyes to me. I know she’s thinking about my father.

I never saw my dad’s body. I never even saw what was left of the car. To this day I have no actual proof that he died. Who knows? It could all be an elaborate hoax. Which is exactly what it felt like for a long time. My last memory of him is shrugging into his coat at the front door, the rattle of his keys, his voice (that fades in my memory a little more each year no matter what I do) promising to be back soon. So, I made all the rookie mistakes. I’d read something and think, Dad will love this. I’d call his cell before remembering. Then there were the dreams. He was just gone. In an instant.

Compelled, I speak. “I’ve never had that . . . time. Before. I—I don’t know . . . how—” I’m not sure if the catch in my throat is stopping me from crying or throwing up. I’m about to excuse myself before either happens, when Cecelia takes my hand. Just as Antonia takes my other one.

Sitting around the table holding hands feels tribal, ritualistic. A ceremonial ring of unity. Antonia leans in and repeats Cecelia’s words. “We carry on with it all.”

“We carry on with it all,” I repeat. Only, when I say it, I start to cry. The two women unclasp their hands from mine and place them on my shoulders.

I can’t stop crying. And I don’t want to stop.

For the first time, crying feels good.

BACK IN THE waiting room, we find William pacing. Cecelia goes to him. He hugs her (something I haven’t earned yet) and she kisses his cheek. He turns to me.

He says, “Ella, might we have a word?” and my stomach drops onto the floor.





Chapter 28


I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep.

Algernon Charles Swinburne, “The Garden of Proserpine,” 1866