couldn’t hear
John, who was trying to speak to her.
“Portia,” he said as she stabbed the elevator button.
“It was fun catching up with you,” Portia said, turning back to him but declining to meet his gaze. “It was nice of you to
call.”
“I want to say something to you,” he said quietly.
“I wish I could stay up later, but I have—”
“A lot of work. Yes, I know,” he said quickly, and she was surprised at how angry he didn’t sound. He just seemed to want
to get on, to something else.
Behind her, the elevator door opened with a sound of grinding metal. Portia looked into the beige interior. “So… thanks,” she
managed. “Let me know if there’s anything you need. Your students need,” she added quickly. She stepped into the elevator
and turned around. She made a show of selecting her floor and pressing the button.
“I want you to know something,” he said. She had to listen very closely. “I loved seeing you.” He seemed to be taking part
in an entirely different conversation. She looked at him in mute amazement. “When you forget everything else, I mean, all
of this… discomfort. I want you to remember that. I loved seeing you. I was happy to see you. Portia.”
What happened then happened quickly. She could not have said, later, what order things took, and who bore which responsibilities,
and what might be the reasonable effects of her own step back, or his step forward, the outstretched hand (whose? and to what
purpose—handshake or lifeline?), all to the rhythm of a creaking, labored noise from the sliding elevator door, though by
the time she knew what sound that was he was already inside, and the door had closed, and the two of them were on their way.
I can remember clearly the day my father threw us out. My mother pulled me into the car and locked the door. I was crying
because my father was so angry. He threw something at the car window, and it cracked. My mother was crying very hard. She
didn’t drive very well, because my father had always done the driving in our family, but she managed to drive us away. We
went to visit her sister in New York State, and stayed there for several months. Later, we returned to Maine, but settled
in a different part of the state, where I was able to attend the Yarmouth School on a scholarship. I am extremely grateful
to the school, for allowing me access to this excellent high school environment, which my mother could never have afforded
on her salary. Now, as I look ahead to college, I am thrilled by the intellectual vistas opening to me. Though I may well
emerge, five years from now, as the medical student I imagine myself becoming, I am also open to other possibilities. The
only thing I do know is that I want to use my gifts to give back to my community.
CHAPTER FOUR
W HAT W E L ET O UT
I n the room, it was more than dark. The garish light from the hallway, light flung geometrically through the opened door—the
flung-open door—disappeared as the door slapped shut behind them. Then darkness again, with every other sense screaming to
fill the void.
Portia felt for the bed. It wasn’t difficult to find. The room was all bed, first behind her and then beneath her. Its cover
felt slippery and tightly stretched. She wanted to be pressed into it. She wanted to feel the heaviness of her own body against
it and the heaviness of his body against her. She wanted a lot of things.
The darkness, that was her doing, too. There had been a moment earlier, as she’d held open the door to leave, to go downstairs,
when her hand had touched the switch and stopped—a long moment in which she had infused this normally mindless gesture with
grave implications. Not a matter of saving the hotel chain some expense or the environment a pinch of its failing resources.
Like those orange applications folders, safely zipped into her suitcase, the switched-off light meant simply that she had
intended not to
John, who was trying to speak to her.
“Portia,” he said as she stabbed the elevator button.
“It was fun catching up with you,” Portia said, turning back to him but declining to meet his gaze. “It was nice of you to
call.”
“I want to say something to you,” he said quietly.
“I wish I could stay up later, but I have—”
“A lot of work. Yes, I know,” he said quickly, and she was surprised at how angry he didn’t sound. He just seemed to want
to get on, to something else.
Behind her, the elevator door opened with a sound of grinding metal. Portia looked into the beige interior. “So… thanks,” she
managed. “Let me know if there’s anything you need. Your students need,” she added quickly. She stepped into the elevator
and turned around. She made a show of selecting her floor and pressing the button.
“I want you to know something,” he said. She had to listen very closely. “I loved seeing you.” He seemed to be taking part
in an entirely different conversation. She looked at him in mute amazement. “When you forget everything else, I mean, all
of this… discomfort. I want you to remember that. I loved seeing you. I was happy to see you. Portia.”
What happened then happened quickly. She could not have said, later, what order things took, and who bore which responsibilities,
and what might be the reasonable effects of her own step back, or his step forward, the outstretched hand (whose? and to what
purpose—handshake or lifeline?), all to the rhythm of a creaking, labored noise from the sliding elevator door, though by
the time she knew what sound that was he was already inside, and the door had closed, and the two of them were on their way.
I can remember clearly the day my father threw us out. My mother pulled me into the car and locked the door. I was crying
because my father was so angry. He threw something at the car window, and it cracked. My mother was crying very hard. She
didn’t drive very well, because my father had always done the driving in our family, but she managed to drive us away. We
went to visit her sister in New York State, and stayed there for several months. Later, we returned to Maine, but settled
in a different part of the state, where I was able to attend the Yarmouth School on a scholarship. I am extremely grateful
to the school, for allowing me access to this excellent high school environment, which my mother could never have afforded
on her salary. Now, as I look ahead to college, I am thrilled by the intellectual vistas opening to me. Though I may well
emerge, five years from now, as the medical student I imagine myself becoming, I am also open to other possibilities. The
only thing I do know is that I want to use my gifts to give back to my community.
CHAPTER FOUR
W HAT W E L ET O UT
I n the room, it was more than dark. The garish light from the hallway, light flung geometrically through the opened door—the
flung-open door—disappeared as the door slapped shut behind them. Then darkness again, with every other sense screaming to
fill the void.
Portia felt for the bed. It wasn’t difficult to find. The room was all bed, first behind her and then beneath her. Its cover
felt slippery and tightly stretched. She wanted to be pressed into it. She wanted to feel the heaviness of her own body against
it and the heaviness of his body against her. She wanted a lot of things.
The darkness, that was her doing, too. There had been a moment earlier, as she’d held open the door to leave, to go downstairs,
when her hand had touched the switch and stopped—a long moment in which she had infused this normally mindless gesture with
grave implications. Not a matter of saving the hotel chain some expense or the environment a pinch of its failing resources.
Like those orange applications folders, safely zipped into her suitcase, the switched-off light meant simply that she had
intended not to
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