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May 2096
The History of Psychology 2335
“For our final lecture, we have a very special guest,” Mr. Holiday says, beginning class right on time.
He looks different today, lighter somehow, and is way overdressed. The tuxedo shoes click just like his other ones, but he’s holding his head a little higher. He’s never come across as a prideful man but he almost looks proud—confident in how much we’ve grown over the semester.
It seemed hopeless for us at the beginning, our values blurred between living an unattached life and planting roots to impact generations. It’s important to let go, but when the party lights fade and we’re left alone in the company of ourselves, are we happy with who we are and how we’ve treated people? Are we happy with the legacy we’ll leave behind?
I never thought I would be, but somehow this class has changed that. It’s made me love myself more.
“As you know by now, The Experiment was conclusive.”
Cheers erupt from the frat pack in the third row, and a few claps resound from the back row bandits. Mr. Holiday’s lectures have captured the heart of the entire room, and every single student was invested in the outcome by the end.
Our final reading assignment was The Experiment report, revealing the conclusion we have all been waiting for:
Yes, we are permanently marked by the people and experiences of our lives.
The evidence is written throughout the entire textbook, in the personal accounts of the civilians. All it took was one to prove it.
One balloon of hope.
One woman.
One great love.
At admission of their memory, The Experiment was concluded and the inhumane testing ceased. Their courage to dream changed the world, making it possible to rebuild a better one from ground zero, and Mr. Holiday has dedicated his entire life to ensuring history doesn’t repeat itself. I hope I dedicate my life to something so important.
“I’m sure you’re wondering about the civilians we’ve studied. As much as I would love to share how their lives have unfolded, it’s not my story to tell.” Turning his body toward the double doors, he extends out a hand. “It is my greatest joy to introduce you to the very brave woman whose light freed us all, Mrs. Hallee Holiday.”
The sound of her clicking walker enters first, followed by a single yellow balloon, marking her every movement as she shuffles across the floor into the warm embrace of her husband. Matching gold bands shine brightly on their fingers, and gasps of shock cascade through the crowd as each student finishes their mental game of connect-the-dots.
Standing before us is the great love we have spent the entire semester studying, learning from, and cheering for. The great love of Dean and Hallee Holiday redefined forever .
The freshman stands first, starting the most genuine ovation I’ve ever participated in. No one makes an effort to end it. It’s only when Mr. Holiday holds up a hand that we find our seats again, sniffling to regain our composure.
“Sunshine, the floor is yours.”
Pride is in every syllable. The first time this semester he has appeared proud, and it’s all because of his wife.
“What are you going to do, stand there and stare at me?” she asks.
“What more would you expect?” He smiles as her eyes roll.
“Forgive my shaky hands. Being the center of attention has never been my favorite thing,” she says, her nose scrunching up as she giggles.
“My Dean has told me so much about you. Mostly how bright you all are, and how eager you are to learn. I’m here to offer any closure that I can. What questions do you have?”
Hands shoot up all around the room, including those of students who have never participated, and identical smirks form on Mr. and Mrs. Holiday’s faces as they exchange an enthusiastic glance.
Questions sound off one after the other, and she answers every single one with a deep intentionality, taking pauses if necessary to choose her words carefully. She handles each one with the same level of care, acknowledging its importance, and we sit completely still, holding onto her wisdom like a lifeline. There’s a quality about her so warm, that even when she doesn’t have the answers, her vulnerability is comforting.
Despite that, there’s this nagging pressure building inside my chest, urging me to get involved. Fidgeting my fingers, I try to push it down, but it only strengthens with each attempt. Mrs. Holiday takes notice of my uncomfortable movement in the sea of statue bodies and gives me a familiar smirk of curiosity.
Wait—does she recognize me?
Looking down at her balloon, I find the courage to raise my hand and untie my tongue when she calls on me.
“Go ahead, Rayne,” she encourages, nailing the pronunciation just as Mr. Holiday had.
“How did you choose your last name?”
Their eyebrows raise in unison as Mr. Holiday hobbles to her side. Giving me his signature nod of approval and laying his arm around her, he answers for them both.
“Every day with my Sunshine is my favorite day. Life with her is an infinite holiday.”
The very first question we’d asked him echoes in my mind, What’s your favorite holiday, Mr. Holiday?
“Groundhog Day,” I mutter.
“Come on, Rayne, use your voice,” Mrs. Holiday pushes. “Rainy days aren’t for everyone, but they do serve their purpose.”
The rest of the class turns to me, confused as can be, but I know exactly what she means. She does recognize me. What a gift my grandparents have had in the friendship of the Holidays.
“You said your favorite holiday was Groundhog Day, because—”
“Because it reminds me to look at the light,” Mr. Holiday says, tipping his head slightly to the right.
Reaching out and grabbing Hallee’s hand, he stares at his wife with tear-filled admiration.
“. . . and what a beautiful light she is.”