Deena Goldstone - Surprise Me

And yes, there’s a freedom she’s never known. Daniel was right: the freedom to express exactly what she wants to say without a filter, and the freedom to be received with generosity, because Daniel is capable of great generosity, at least with her.

Each Tuesday session begins with Daniel behind his desk as he always seems to be, reaching out and telling her, “Hand ’em over,” as she steps into the room. No preamble. No How are you, how was the writing this week? Simply his large, open hand reaching toward her, a gesture of giving— Here is a place for your words —as much as asking— Tell me, tell me what’s in your heart.

“Be kind,” she wants to say, and sometimes does as she hands over her pages.

“I will not,” Daniel tells her.

“Then be honest.”

“That I can do.”

And she sighs with relief — that’s exactly what she wants to hear, and he knows it. They are united in common purpose; they are on a mission and they’ve set a goal. She will have the first three chapters finished to his satisfaction and hers by the time she graduates in May.

Nate has no idea what has become of the calm, steady, reliable Isabelle he’s known since high school, but he particularly doesn’t like how unavailable this new Isabelle has become. She no longer listens to the stories he wants to tell her, has no patience at all if he begins to complain. She cuts him off when he wants to discuss the pros and cons of the various law schools he’s applied to. She needs to work. She has to finish these chapters before graduation.

“What difference does it make?” he asks her, annoyed, one night over dinner, which he has had to make because she’s been too busy to shop or even think about what he might like to eat.

“I made a promise to Daniel that I’d be finished by graduation, finished so that he agrees it’s finished.”

“And if you don’t?”

“That’s not an option. I promised Daniel.”

“So fucking what?”

“So honoring that promise means more to me than anything else.” This is said very calmly. She’s not baiting him. She’s simply stating what is.

“There’s something whacked about this.”

She stands up, plate in hand. She’s had enough of him and this conversation. “I’ll eat while I’m working,” and she leaves him alone at the kitchen table.

“We’re having dinner! Hey, Isabelle, we’re eating here!” He’s yelling. She can hear the exasperation in his voice, but she ignores it as she closes the bedroom door, settles herself on their unmade bed, laptop in front of her, her half-eaten dinner forgotten on the nightstand. If he comes in after her, she’ll pack up and go to the library. But he doesn’t.

—

ISABELLE DELIVERS THE LAST PAGES of Chapter Three the Tuesday before graduation. She comes into Daniel’s office, her long legs in denim shorts, her feet in flip-flops, her hair brushed away from her face into a high ponytail, commenting on the unnatural heat of this early May day. “They say it’s going to be a hundred and one today.” Daniel’s first thought is that she looks maybe ten years old, but he doesn’t tell her that. Instead he extends his hand as he always does.

And she gives him what she sincerely hopes will be the final pages and situates herself on the floor, her back against the sofa, bare legs stretched out in front of her. She takes from her backpack Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses, a novel she picked up solely because she felt Daniel would like it, and begins reading.

When Daniel finishes her pages, he says, “They’re good.”

“They are? I thought they were! Oh my God, I’m finished!”

“Not yet.”

And she groans. “Daniel, graduation is Saturday.”

“You have four days, then.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing’s wrong with them. They just can be better.”

“You know,” she tells him, but there’s none of the anger of their early interactions, “nobody but me would put up with that kind of vague directive.”

“Isabelle,” he says very quietly, “you know exactly what I mean.”

She sighs dramatically for his benefit as she drags herself off the floor, stuffs the novel in her backpack. “Unfortunately, I do. You’re going to tell me that Melanie is too intimidated by the cop.”

“Where’s her famous attitude in that scene?”

“Okay, okay.”

When she’s at the door, a thought occurs to her. “Come to graduation. Will you, Daniel?”

He shakes his head, not looking at her, his hands busy on his desk, his eyes there.

“You could meet my parents — not that that’s any big inducement, but you could see me up there. You could see me walk across that stage and graduate.”

“I wish I could. I do. But I just can’t.”

“Okay.” And she shrugs as if it doesn’t matter, but of course he knows it does. He watches her face close up; her tone of voice become impersonal. “I’ll try to give you these last pages by Friday, but if I can’t, I’ll bring them by—”

He interrupts her. “I can’t go anywhere.”

She shakes her head. She has no idea what he’s saying. “You’re here.”

“Here and my house, that’s it, and if Stefan didn’t show up most days to walk me to and fro like a goddamn preschooler, I probably wouldn’t make it to either place.”

She walks back into the room, drops her backpack, takes her customary seat on the couch. They’re maybe three feet apart. “What is it?”

“It’s called agoraphobia. It means literally ‘fear of the marketplace,’ only for me it’s fear of every place that isn’t this office or my house.”

There — it’s out. She’s the only person besides Stefan he’s ever told, and he watches her face for a reaction. If she’s repulsed by such weakness or flooded with pity or—

“I know what it is,” Isabelle says with the same matter-of-factness she used earlier to comment on the weather. “My aunt Sarah has it. She can’t even walk out into her backyard.”

Daniel nods.

“People get over it,” Isabelle says.

“A few.”

“There’s medication and therapy—”

He stands up behind his desk. “It’s not your problem, Isabelle.” He won’t discuss this any further. “These last eight pages are your problem.”

She’s preoccupied with what he’s just told her. “That’s why people say you’re not engaged or why you don’t even show up for meetings or why you didn’t—”

“Stop!”

She does.

“Bring the pages to my house when you’re done.”

“Okay.” She stands again, slings her backpack over a shoulder. “Well, I guess I don’t have to ask if you’ll be home.”

He looks up at her. What?

“Any old time should work out fine for you, don’t you think?”

“Isabelle.” It’s a warning, which she ignores.

“Here’s the thing — I won’t have to call first or make an appointment.”

As her hand flies to cover her mouth, he sees the smile anyway. “You’re totally outrageous.”

No one has ever said that to her before. She’s thrilled. “Good,” she tells him as she walks out.

—

THE LATE-ARRIVING PARENTS FILE INTO Kellman Amphitheater, an arena carved out of the hillside which college legend has it mimics the ancient theater at Delphi. Struggling in the heat, the middle-aged people climb the stone steps higher and higher to reach the last few vacant seats at the top. All graduations at Chandler College are held in this outdoor venue, the likelihood of rain in May in Southern California being quite remote. Historically, May is mild, but this year, for some reason, the temperatures are soaring and the sun is brutal.

Despite the 95-degree heat, many families have been sitting in the unshaded venue for hours, laying claim to their spots. Every parent has a camera in hand, ready to capture that one moment they’ve anticipated for the past four or five or six years, that instant when their graduate reaches out and takes his or her diploma from the hand of the president of the college.