week.
Daniel leans back in his desk chair and contemplates these last two sentences. He doesn’t like them, but he doesn’t know exactly why. Perhaps he’s being parental, he tells himself, not happy that she’s made such a precipitous decision based on a few days. As for the spark of jealousy fueling his disquiet, Daniel doesn’t move in that direction.
But, oh Daniel, I’ve been suffocating all summer at home and I haven’t been able to write at all. Now I will, I know it. Berkeley is an amazing place and Casey is this amazing guy who makes me feel capable of anything!
“Shit,” Daniel says in his empty office, and he gets up and begins to pace the perimeter. She’s having great sex. That’s all it is. Well, of course, at her age, there’s little else. He remembers great sex. He remembers he would do most anything at Isabelle’s age to have it. He remembers feeling he had invented it. He must have. No one else could be experiencing what he was; otherwise, they’d be doing it twenty-four hours a day and the world would grind to a halt. So he understands, but he doesn’t like hearing about it.
He makes himself sit down and finish reading the e-mail.
Now I can continue Melanie’s story. Now I feel I can take all that you’ve given me and go forward and write. There’s only one problem. And Daniel, you’re the only one I can say this to—I’m terrified. Does all this make sense or am I being completely insane, as my parents have said?
Isabelle
Daniel hits Reply and then takes a minute to stare out his window. He will miss this view. The Chandler campus is beautiful, stately and very reminiscent of Old California—lacy jacaranda trees that bloom shocking lavender flowers in the spring, Engelmann oaks with ten-foot-tall camellia bushes in their shade, Mission Style buildings, gentle hills, and views to the ocean. He has no idea where he (and he supposes Stefan) will end up, but he has to address Isabelle’s question first. He starts typing.
Isabelle,
Terrified isn’t so bad. Terrified tells me you’re taking a leap. Use those long, strong legs and jump.
Daniel
He hits Send, pleased with his response, and has a quick visual memory of the last time Isabelle marched into this office. The day was unbearably hot and she was wearing shorts. Her legs were gorgeous.
Enough of that, he tells himself as he sits back in his chair. He needs to be facing the very real question of what to do next. Is there someone, at some college, who will take him in? And then he sees Isabelle’s response pop up in his in-box.
Daniel,
Terrified isn’t so bad as long as it isn’t “terrified to leave the house.”
Daniel grins in his empty office. Okay, she’s cheeky. She’s called him on it. But there’s more.
I don’t want to be afraid. I know you don’t either. What we would give to be free of it!
Isabelle
Oh, Isabelle—how does she manage to see into his soul so effortlessly? Because of course she’s right. Fear has become his constant companion. When did it first show up? He remembers a boyhood laced with fear, but that was of a whole different order, that was fear with a clear cause.
His father, already disappointed with life by the time Daniel was born, had a temper, was a screamer, and Daniel and his older brother, Roman, would find ways to stay out of his path. They became practiced disappearing artists who slipped between houses, ran the alleys, hid out in the comfort of other people’s families. This was the early 1950s, and everyone they knew in the Polish section of Erie, Pennsylvania, had lots of children. When Gus Jablonski was “in a mood,” as Daniel’s mother called it, his two sons would seek shelter at someone else’s dinner table. And be welcomed.
But then, when Daniel was eight, there was his father’s accident. A load of steel rebar. A surface slicked by overnight rain. One second with his mind elsewhere and Gus Jablonski slipped, crushing three lumbar vertebrae. The subsequent
Daniel leans back in his desk chair and contemplates these last two sentences. He doesn’t like them, but he doesn’t know exactly why. Perhaps he’s being parental, he tells himself, not happy that she’s made such a precipitous decision based on a few days. As for the spark of jealousy fueling his disquiet, Daniel doesn’t move in that direction.
But, oh Daniel, I’ve been suffocating all summer at home and I haven’t been able to write at all. Now I will, I know it. Berkeley is an amazing place and Casey is this amazing guy who makes me feel capable of anything!
“Shit,” Daniel says in his empty office, and he gets up and begins to pace the perimeter. She’s having great sex. That’s all it is. Well, of course, at her age, there’s little else. He remembers great sex. He remembers he would do most anything at Isabelle’s age to have it. He remembers feeling he had invented it. He must have. No one else could be experiencing what he was; otherwise, they’d be doing it twenty-four hours a day and the world would grind to a halt. So he understands, but he doesn’t like hearing about it.
He makes himself sit down and finish reading the e-mail.
Now I can continue Melanie’s story. Now I feel I can take all that you’ve given me and go forward and write. There’s only one problem. And Daniel, you’re the only one I can say this to—I’m terrified. Does all this make sense or am I being completely insane, as my parents have said?
Isabelle
Daniel hits Reply and then takes a minute to stare out his window. He will miss this view. The Chandler campus is beautiful, stately and very reminiscent of Old California—lacy jacaranda trees that bloom shocking lavender flowers in the spring, Engelmann oaks with ten-foot-tall camellia bushes in their shade, Mission Style buildings, gentle hills, and views to the ocean. He has no idea where he (and he supposes Stefan) will end up, but he has to address Isabelle’s question first. He starts typing.
Isabelle,
Terrified isn’t so bad. Terrified tells me you’re taking a leap. Use those long, strong legs and jump.
Daniel
He hits Send, pleased with his response, and has a quick visual memory of the last time Isabelle marched into this office. The day was unbearably hot and she was wearing shorts. Her legs were gorgeous.
Enough of that, he tells himself as he sits back in his chair. He needs to be facing the very real question of what to do next. Is there someone, at some college, who will take him in? And then he sees Isabelle’s response pop up in his in-box.
Daniel,
Terrified isn’t so bad as long as it isn’t “terrified to leave the house.”
Daniel grins in his empty office. Okay, she’s cheeky. She’s called him on it. But there’s more.
I don’t want to be afraid. I know you don’t either. What we would give to be free of it!
Isabelle
Oh, Isabelle—how does she manage to see into his soul so effortlessly? Because of course she’s right. Fear has become his constant companion. When did it first show up? He remembers a boyhood laced with fear, but that was of a whole different order, that was fear with a clear cause.
His father, already disappointed with life by the time Daniel was born, had a temper, was a screamer, and Daniel and his older brother, Roman, would find ways to stay out of his path. They became practiced disappearing artists who slipped between houses, ran the alleys, hid out in the comfort of other people’s families. This was the early 1950s, and everyone they knew in the Polish section of Erie, Pennsylvania, had lots of children. When Gus Jablonski was “in a mood,” as Daniel’s mother called it, his two sons would seek shelter at someone else’s dinner table. And be welcomed.
But then, when Daniel was eight, there was his father’s accident. A load of steel rebar. A surface slicked by overnight rain. One second with his mind elsewhere and Gus Jablonski slipped, crushing three lumbar vertebrae. The subsequent
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