Circle of Stones by Suzanne Alyssa Andrew

A-something. When I first started teaching I knew every student. But now all the faces and names blur past too quickly. There are too many students, and too few with stories of any gravity. Ali? Andrew? Sounds like Arrrr. He’s telling me about the English patient’s subterfuge in a hushed near-whisper. For one awful moment I think he’s going to start to sob. The horrible thing men do that sounds like choking.
    Aaron. What did you do?
    I want to ask him directly. But I am a professor. I probe with questions about the book, expecting him to stay crouched beneath the subtext. I do not expect him to detonate my office with the testimonial equivalent of an improvised explosive device.
    â€œYou shouldn’t leave anyone by themselves,” Aaron says. “If you don’t stand up for someone … if you make the situation worse …” He is glowering at the floor. He is calling me on inaction, he is saying the word criminal . Is he a criminal? Is Caravaggio? Is Ondaatje? Am I? The sparks of his fury, shame, and regret are incendiary. The paper tower is on fire. Hardcovers burst into flame. I hold on to my tenure with both hands until it burns. Then I think of my mother and am overwhelmed with guilt.
    Aaron. What have you done?
    He stops talking. The smoke subsides, the floor stops trembling. We sit in silence until my phone vibrates off the window ledge and clatters to the floor. We both turn and look out the window.
Sondra: 12:32 p.m. I don’t know what to do.
    Freeways terrify me.
    The monstrous green signs for the 401 appear. There’s no room for mistakes. You can’t edit while driving, and I like to revise. I am boxed in by a moving truck, a taxi, and a van. I accelerate as vehicles merge and scatter across five lanes. Across the meridian are four more lanes travelling in the same direction. A long stretch of metallic roofs reflect sunlight. Traffic is all glare and no glitter. All pollution and propulsion.
    My Wordsworth heart leaps up when I behold a massive rainbow-painted refrigerator truck passing me on the right. Up ahead a green sports car swerves between lanes without signalling.
    Driver of the blue car to my left: are you sweating and swearing under your breath like me? Is your gastrointestinal system bubbling with road rage, fear, rejection, agony, defeat, and anxiety?
    My phone beeps. A text message I can’t check. I am ten o’clock and two o’clock and eyes ahead, not blinking.
    â€œTo everything there is a season,” I recite. “A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.” And a time to drive? No. Sweat crawls down my temple, an insect-like arch. This trip is necessary but horrible. I blame Aaron.
    I wanted to be the professor-priestess, granting Aaron communion and absolution after his confession. But I dropped my role. There was guilt. There were angry text messages from my sister. And now I am taking unscheduled time off to drive to Ottawa.
    Guilt was there all along, of course. Aaron let it out. He’s my version of Poe’s raven. At home I tried Sleepytime tea and aromatherapy bubble bath. But my mother’s face appeared on the pillow next to me as I slept, and stared at me in my dreams. I woke up to see her upstaging everything, from shadow to spotlight, bit part to starring role.
    This morning I jabbed contact lenses into stinging eyes, made a Thermos of extra-strong coffee, and cancelled the day’s appointments. I got into my car, revved the engine, shifted into reverse. But I couldn’t bring myself to text my sister.
    I see skid marks, the black rubber remnants of a blown tire, and cringe. Once when I was an undergraduate I saw a psychotherapist — briefly — for stress and anxiety. It’s not like I needed therapy. Not like my sister. When exams ended, so did the panic attacks. The only thing I really remember about therapy is that when you’re feeling