After class, I sat down on a bench near the bell tower, and watched people walk by for a while. It was one of my favorite things to do, people watch, especially on warm days on campus. The sheer number of different people that wandered around kept me entertained for hours; I loved having nothing to do, and doing it.
Eventually, the crowds thinned out as the next class period started up, and I pulled out my phone. I knew my mom would be home, since it was Wednesday and she didn’t have class or office hours. I dialed my home number, and let it ring. The answering machine picked up.
“Hello, hello, it’s me, your daughter, are you home?” I said, pausing. My parents were crazy and loved to screen their calls.
The other line clicked. “Hello, daughter!” my dad said.
“Hi, Dad. How’s it going?”
“I’m okay, no class today?”
“I just got out of my film history course.”
“Great! Want to hear something interesting?”
Inwardly, I groaned. I knew that the correct answer was always “yes,” but I also knew that would mean listening to my dad explain something he found incredibly fascinating that I didn’t care about one bit.
“Sure Dad, what’s up?” I said. I hadn’t talked to him in a while, and I felt a little guilty about that.
“Well, did you know...” He launched into a story about classical debt theory and the barter system. I spaced out about five minutes in, but kept making small noises of assent as he went on and on.
Finally, there was a short silence on the other end. I perked up immediately.
“Well sweetie, your mother just gave me the ‘shut up’ sign, so I guess we’re done. Want to talk to her?”
“Sure Dad, thanks,” I said.
I heard some muffled noises as he handed the phone over to my mom. I felt a little guilty that I hadn’t paid much attention, but he could be pretty oblivious. We didn’t have a bad relationship, in all honesty, but it was more like we didn’t have a relationship at all. He mostly kept to himself, worked on his books, and loved to hear himself talk.
“Hi, Linda,” my mom said.
“Hey, Mom, how are you?”
“Oh I’m good. Sorry about your dad.”
I laughed. “It’s okay. Did he just read a book or something?”
“How can you tell?”
“I was starting to think he took up economics without anyone noticing.”
“That would be the day.”
I laughed again, and felt immediately better. My mom had a knack for identifying and pointing out exactly when we’re all being absurd, and my dad was no exception.
“So, I wanted to ask you something,” I said, suddenly feeling nervous.
I looked out across the grass toward a set of trees planted in a small hillside, providing shade for the sidewalks. Groups of kids sat around them, studying and socializing. Briefly, I wondered how many of them called their parents almost every day.
“I’m all ears,” she replied.
“Well, it’s about Noah Carterson.”
“Ah, this again.” She didn’t sound excited.
“Have you had any contact with his dad since, you know?”
She sighed. “Look, Linda, sweetie. This is a bad memory for me. It’s not something I really want to talk about.”
“I know Mom, I’m just trying to get a sense for this guy.”
“I understand. I really don’t want to talk about that part of my life anymore, but I’d be happy to talk to you about Noah. Let’s just stay away from his dad.”
I was pretty surprised at her response. Usually, once I got her going, there was no topic off-limits. Suddenly, though, this part of her life was something we couldn’t bring up, and it felt strange. My mom was never one for huge displays of emotion, or really anything dramatic. It must have been incredibly painful if she really wasn’t willing to go into it at all.
“Okay Mom, I promise not to ask again,” I said.
“Thanks, I appreciate that. How’s Professor Johnson treating you?”
We went off on a tangent about Professor Johnson, but I couldn’t get the tone of her voice out of my head. It was painful, and sad, and a still little angry. Not angry with me, but with Noah’s dad.
As I hung up the phone, I began to suspect that I hadn’t been told the whole story. It was pretty awful that he had tried to ruin her career; there was no doubt about that. But I sensed that there was something more to it. If there wasn’t, then I thought she’d be more willing to at least entertain the notion of talking about that family.
Instead, there was clearly a well of pain I hadn’t noticed before. I got up from my bench and began to walk back to my apartment, completely stumped as to what that was. I couldn’t imagine what would possibly make my mom still hate to talk about that man, despite however many years having passed. For some reason, it felt as if the wound was still fresh. Confused, I climbed the steps to my apartment, went upstairs, and began to get changed for work.