Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“Thank you, Miss Berton.” Dr. Paatel adjusts his bow tie. This one is patterned with red toothbrushes on a lime green background. Kiara, who works as his teacher’s aide, says he’s worn a different one every day this week. “Now, who wants to give Hazel constructive feedback?”
We’re sitting on hard metal chairs in a tight circle with the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The room is expansive, but Dr. Paatel believes in authenticity and vulnerability, which, apparently in his mind, means we have to be so close our knees could touch.
Sullivan raises his hand. Of course, he has an opinion. He has an opinion about everything. Kiara’s hand shoots up a second after his, her bracelets falling down her forearm. She gives me a smile that screams, ‘I've got your back.’
Thankfully, Dr. Paatel calls on Kiara first.
“I really liked the part where she’s watching the kids on the playground. The imagery revealed her thoughts well, and your dark, moody word choices created a stark contrast to the cheerful environment.”
“It was pedantic and cliché,” Sullivan interjects without raising his hand.
“Let’s keep this constructive,” Dr. Paatel says.
“I was being constructive. You have to know what’s wrong before you can know how to fix it.
” Sullivan sits up straighter in his chair, puffing out his narrow chest. “It’s clear that you aren’t passionate about this story.
You’re portraying a character as you assume they would be, rather than a character you know and care about.
Your main character is a forty-seven-year-old wife with three kids and a cheating husband.
It’s obvious you know nothing about that, so you can’t write it with any authenticity. ”
And that is why Sullivan doesn’t write about anything other than loners with disabled cats.
His life experience is sorely lacking. And who is he to say I don’t know anything about a woman whose husband cheated on her?
He knows nothing about my life. I gnaw on my cheek and try to control my growing anger, nails biting into the flesh of my palm.
“So, you can only write what you know personally?” Kiara asks. “That’s bullshit. You don’t write what you know, you write what you can imagine, what you fear, what you long for, what you want to explore.”
“If you want to write the kind of crap Hazel wrote this week, be my guest.” Sullivan places his elbows on his knees and leans toward Kiara.
My whole body is hot with anger, but I’m not really upset with Sullivan.
I’m angry with myself. Some part of me knows he’s right, even if I don’t completely agree with him.
These pages are crap. There’s no real feeling in them.
I should have told Dr. Paatel I didn’t have anything to read today and taken the hit on my grade.
I should have stayed at the hospital and skipped this workshop altogether.
Maybe Aunt Joan was right, and I shouldn’t have ever pursued an MFA to begin with.
I’m wasting what little money I have—money Mom needs.
If I weren’t so close to graduation, I’d quit.
While I stew, the class erupts in a discussion about whether or not you should stick to personal experience in your writing.
They discuss how far the boundaries of creative liberties can stretch as if their lives depend on it.
Both sides of the argument sound right. Both sides make me angry.
Both leave me feeling confused and with nothing to say.
Even if I had something to say, I’d probably stay quiet.
The heat of the argument only adds to my internal overwhelm.
There’s too much controversy and dissension.
No matter what opinion I have, if I share it, I’ll alienate someone.
I’ve been called out for my opinions, interests, and tastes too many times in my twenty-six years.
What right do I have to say anything? What right do I have to write anything? I really shouldn’t be here.
“Okay. Settle down.” After letting the conversation go for a solid twenty minutes, Dr. Paatel quiets the class.
I’m grateful for the hard stop. If the noise and turmoil had lasted any longer, I might have dissolved into tears.
As it is, I wipe at my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater and try to pretend they’re just itchy. I can’t lose it. Not here. Not now.
“Let’s get back to discussing Miss Berton’s pages.”
No, let’s really not.
A few other students volunteer some encouragement and share things they like, lifting me ever so slightly out of my spiral.
But the consensus seems to be the same. The pages are solidly written, but they lack the ability to make the reader feel anything.
They lack ‘heart and soul,’ as one person put it.
I know, but I don’t know how to fix it. Does every project have to be a passion project?
Can’t I just write something as a way of exploring a particular idea or…
for fun? Not that this book has been fun to write.
It has all my blood, sweat, and tears, even if none of my heart. That should be enough. Shouldn’t it?
When we wrap up, Kiara bounds over to me, clearly eager to make up for all the classes I’ve missed lately. She throws her arms around my shoulders and hugs me tight, filling my mouth with her coarse black hair.
“I missed you,” she says.
I awkwardly pat her back. “I saw you two weeks ago.”
“Yeah, but two weeks is like an eternity when measured in pages of Sullivan’s droning.”
“I heard that,” Sullivan says from where he’s stacking chairs.
Kiara spins around. “Good. Maybe you’ll work harder next time. Now, stop eavesdropping, pretty boy.” She blows him a kiss and turns back to me.
“Miss Berton, a word,” Dr. Paatel calls from the front of the classroom, tweaking his bow tie absently between his fingers.
“Do you think his wife lets him out of the house like that, or does he put them on once he gets to campus?” Kiara whispers.
I try not to laugh, picturing Dr. Paatel tying a bow tie in the rearview mirror of his car. I give Kiara’s hand a quick squeeze in acknowledgment of her attempt to cheer me up and leave her to help stack chairs while I see what Dr. Paatel needs.
“Is everything alright, Hazel?” he asks as he slides his laptop into a worn leather bag. “It’s not like you to miss so many classes in a row, and your pages today… well, I think we both know they weren’t your best work.”
He’s trying to be diplomatic, but I already feel like I’ve got red pen marks all over my skin. I don’t need more.
“Sorry.” I squeeze the word past the tightness in my throat and avert my eyes, watching Kiara and Sullivan across the room.
Their contrast feels like something out of a story.
Perfect foils. Her black skin to his pale whiteness.
Her round curves to his skin-and-bones height.
Her smile to his pout. Her sass to his melancholy.
It’s almost comical how different they are.
“Don’t apologize. I just want to know if there’s something going on that’s affecting your work?” Dr. Pataal says, snapping me out of my tangential thoughts.
He’s my supervising professor, and he has every right to know why I’ve suddenly started ditching, but I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want to be the girl whose mom is in the hospital. I don’t want pitying looks or stories about their distant relative who had cancer.
But Mom’s not coming home anytime soon. Aunt Joan lives two hours away, has a life of her own and kids who are much younger than me. She can’t just drop everything to be at the hospital every time I have to leave. Plus, I don’t want to leave Mom. I want all the time I can get with her.
“My mom’s in the hospital,” I say all in one breath.
His eyebrows touch his hairline. I guess he wasn’t expecting that. He’s quiet, and it’s clear he’s waiting for me to go on and explain.
“She has cancer.” The words stick in my throat, and I rush ahead, squeezing them out.
“It’s fine, though. She’s doing fine.” Liar.
I’m a big, fat liar, and I’m certain he can tell.
“She’s going to be fine,” I amend. “They have her on this trial… it’s gonna be fine.
” How many times can I say fine in one minute? I need to shut the fuck up.
He studies me over the rim of his glasses. “You know you can take a leave of absence for family emergencies and pick back up next semester.”
The thought of paying for another semester makes me break out in hives. “Isn’t there something else I can do? This is my last quarter, and there are only four weeks left.”
He sighs and leans back against the desk.
“Alright. Here’s what I’m willing to do.
If you can get one of your classmates to record the lectures, I’ll talk to your other professors.
You need to come to at least half of our remaining workshops and have your thesis novel done on time. Are you sure you can do that?”
“Yes, absolutely. I can do that.” I hope.
After thanking him and saying goodbye, I head to the door where Kiara is waiting for me.
“Oh, and Miss Berton,” Dr. Paatel calls across the room. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
My throat has now restricted to the size of one of those tiny coffee straws they used to give out on airplanes. My neck aches, and I can barely breathe. I nod at him and walk outside with Kiara.
“What was that about? Is your mom okay?” she asks the moment the door closes behind us.
No. “Yeah.”
Kiara gives me a sideways look. “You know you can tell me if something’s wrong, right?”
I try to push an exhale past the restriction in my throat. One breath. Two breaths. “Everything’s fine. My mom’s just a little sick.” Understatement of the year. “I might need to miss some more classes. Can you record the lectures for me?”
Hurt flashes in Kiara’s eyes, and for a few seconds I think she sees right through my lie and is going to call me on it. But then she hooks her arm in mine and juts her chin at Sullivan, who walked out right behind us. “Sully baby, you’ll record the lectures for Hazel, won’t you?”
I laugh. Kiara looks triumphant, like she knows exactly how much I need to laugh.
For a brief flutter of a second, I want to tell her everything, pull her past all my walls and hold on to her friendship for life.
But the thought is immediately followed by remembrances of being teased in high school.
Friendships that couldn’t be maintained over distances after college graduation.
Jeremy calling me Nutter and saying he doesn’t know how anyone puts up with me.
“So, how’s your murder mystery coming along?” I ask.
Kiara launches into telling me all about the latest developments in her book.
The new character she wasn’t expecting. The idea she had for a plot twist at the midpoint.
The quirk she gave her protagonist that’s going to drive her right into the arms of the love interest. Her eyes light up as she talks about it, and she’s practically buzzing with energy.
Her fingers twitch at her side, like phantom attempts at typing across her thigh. It’s clear she loves this story.
I wish I felt the same about mine. One month. Somehow I have to find enough motivation to finish in one month. While Mom’s in the hospital.
Dread settles in my stomach, and I squeeze the handle of my bag, letting the rough fabric scratch my palm. Kiara heads off to her internship, and I get back in my car to return to the hospital. But I don’t leave. I sit there.
Sunshine pours through the windshield, warming my face. I’ve always loved spring in the Pacific Northwest. It’s so different from springtime in Florida, where I grew up. A pink dogwood is blooming in front of my parking spot, resplendent with new life. Another kind of hopeful invitation.
Over the last week, while Mom’s been in the hospital, spring slipped through the backdoor like a thief.
The world moved steadily onward while we were trapped in that room.
From inside the hospital, I couldn’t hear the birds chirping as they built their nests.
I couldn’t feel the temperature warming.
Flowers pushed past the winter’s chill without me noticing while I was stuck in a barren land of tile floors and fluorescent lights.
I want to be outside, to throw my arms around springtime, welcome her like a lover, and catch up to the forward ticking of the clock. I want to feel the season change, rather than the cold, dry hospital air conditioning on my face. I want to pretend that none of this is happening.
Even though it’s still a little too cold for it, I roll all the windows down as I drive back to the hospital and turn the music up enough to drown out my urge to run away.