Sweet, never weep for what cannot be,
For this God has not given.
If the merest dream of love were true
Then, sweet, we should be in heaven,
And this is only earth, my dear,
Where true love is not given.
Elizabeth Rossetti (née Siddal), “Dead Love,” 1899
I rush down the front steps, but stop at the bottom, feeling completely lost, as if I slipped into another universe and found myself on this rainy sidewalk. Do I go left or right? Or up or down?
The door opens behind me.
“Ella, please, I’m sorry, stop.”
I hear his panting, strained voice, but it has no effect. I’m still trying to find my way out of this black hole.
“Ella, please, you must allow me to explain.”
My anger spikes again and brings me present. I spin around to face him. “Oh, must I?!”
“All I ask is that—” He stops talking. He lists into the doorjamb. He’s pale, shaky. He attempts to play it off, righting himself, pointing into the house. “I’ll put the kettle on, yeah?”
“I don’t want tea, Jamie!”
“Might I offer you something a bit stronger?”
I fold my arms. “An explanation. Offer me that.”
His eyes are gentle and weary, his face long and drained. I can’t stop looking at him. He’s morphed in a week, but I don’t know how exactly. Is it just because I’m seeing the person he actually is, not the person I thought he was? Or is there something else?
“All right.” He takes a shallow breath, moves away from the door, and takes a deliberate step down the stairs. “I’m in the midst of a rather serious medical circumstance. It’s—”
“You know who isn’t in the midst of a rather serious medical circumstance? Your brother. Your dead brother.” I bite back a cringe. That came out more callous than I intended.
His brows snap together. “How do you know that?”
I shake my head. “I’m asking the questions.” I begin to pace, organizing my thoughts. Or trying to. “What is it? What do you have?”
“Multiple myeloma.”
I stop pacing. “Isn’t that . . . what Oliver had?”
Jamie nods.
“Isn’t that what killed him?”
Jamie nods again.
“So, you’re dying?” How is my voice so calm? I might as well be asking him why he wore those particular pants today. I know I’m not handling this well, but I can’t find any rationality, any objectivity, any of the skills I usually have at my disposal. I’ve never felt this untethered. Well. Not in twelve years, anyway.
Jamie just stares at me, the answer unavoidable in his eyes. I can’t look at them. He takes another tentative step down the stairs. Unstable, he grabs at the iron handrail. It shifts against his weight, old and rusting and dangerously loose. He clutches at it with both hands, seeking balance. I want to leap up the steps and help him, but I don’t. I can’t right now. I glance down at his hands. A Band-Aid sits on top of one of them, a crimson dot in the center. “Was that chemo in there?”
“Saline.”
“Saline?”
“The chemo—this particular chemo—is a quick injection. And pills. But it requires a saline flush after—”
“How long have you been in treatment?”
“Six weeks. This is my third round. Might we go inside?” He’s still shirtless. Though the rain has abated, the wind has picked up.
“Go if you want.”
“No, merely a suggestion.” With that, he takes yet another tentative step. The railing could go at any moment. Jamie, aware of that fact, mutters, “I really must repair this.”
A tsunami of questions swells in me. I grow relentless, my tone like a trial lawyer. “Why do you have your hair?”
“I don’t—I don’t know. Some people get lucky.”
“Lucky?” A sarcastic laugh falls from my mouth. “Why aren’t you more ill?”
“I’m quite ill, Ella.”
“Well, why didn’t I notice? Why haven’t you been throwing up? Staying in bed? And who has chemo at home? With their own personal nurse—”
The gentleness in Jamie’s eyes disappears, replaced with a weary exasperation. “Ella, do you want real answers to these questions? Because I will gladly sit with you and explain myself, but I’m asking you to attempt a modicum of gentleness. Please. I’ve got an unrelenting headache at present.”
I barely hear him because something he said swoops back around and lands. “You’ve been in treatment for six weeks,” I say. “So, like, the entire time we’ve been together?” The words “been together” hover over us like a fog. The phrase is a misnomer, a placeholder term devoid of actual meaning. It could mean everything or nothing.
The tiniest smile curls his lip. Rueful. Verging on remorseful. “My first treatment was actually the evening after we . . . the Buttery. You’ll excuse me, but I must sit.” He uses the unstable railing to lower himself, taking a welcomed seat on the third step up from the sidewalk, which puts us, oddly, at eye level.
I remember his protestations in the Buttery. I can’t. Is the point. Don’t think it’s a good idea. “Why would you ever start something—”
“You were supposed to be my last hurrah.” He dares a look at me. Then, horribly, he chuckles. “My send-off. My bon voyage party.” He continues to laugh, and drops his face into his hands. “Bugger, how foolish.”
I’m not laughing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why would I have?”
The top of my head blows off. “Because it affects me, too!”
He looks up at me, liquid-eyed, no longer laughing. His voice is hoarse. “How? You don’t want a relationship. You’re leaving. You have a plan. So did I.”
In the ensuing silence, Jamie picks at the Band-Aid and I notice the spot has gotten larger. I feel myself splintering, cracking open into a gaping crevasse, and I realize in that moment that I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hate him.
When my dad died, my mother made it quite clear that I had to be the strong one. That I couldn’t fall apart, because she needed me. It was the ultimate bait and switch. For twelve years, she’d been the mom and I’d been the child; those were the rules of our world. And she just decided those weren’t the rules anymore and I was trapped. I stare at Jamie. Another rule change. Another bait and switch.
“You thought you were going to trap me,” I level.
His eyes flash. “Trap you?”
“That I’d fall for you. That I’d stay. That I’d take care of you.”
His mouth falls open and I know instantaneously, viscerally, that I’m wrong. “You think that little of me?”
The hurt in his eyes only fuels my anger. Now I’m the bad guy? “You clearly thought that little of me!” I snap.
Suddenly he levers himself off the step and I’m sure the railing is going to rip out of the cement. I stiffen. He tries to speak. “You . . .” But he can’t continue. His face pales, he bends, clutches that useless railing. Drops his head, tries to breathe. The dot of blood on his Band-Aid spreads. Stop! I scream inside.
Giving up, Jamie sits back down, breathing through flared nostrils like a bull struck with too many banderillas. Finally, he looks up at me. He reaches out his bandaged hand. Beckoning. “Please.”
Instead of going up the three seemingly insignificant steps between us, I back away, the matador after the kill. Jamie watches my retreat, quirking his head at me the way he always does. Except this time there’s no endearment in the gesture. There’s only bewilderment. And hurt.
I can’t deal with his hurt right now; I’m still trying to understand mine. Why does this hurt so much?
“Wow,” I hear myself say. “It’s a good thing I don’t love you.”
“MAGDALEN,” IS ALL I say to the cabbie.
I feel like a wax figure of myself, as if all my body’s faculties are busy processing and can’t be diverted to the mundane task of speech. Questions pile up, crowding in, pushing me up against the backseat of this cab, suffocating. I can’t finish one thought before another shoves in.
Then this thought, a glaring light scattering the others like roaches: I just walked out on a dying man.
Correction: I just told a dying man it’s a good thing I don’t love him, and then I walked out on him.
My phone rings. All robot arms, I fish it out of my coat pocket even though I’m not going to answer. I’m not talking to him ever again.
But it’s not Jamie. It’s Gavin.
“Gavin,” I croak.
“Just thought I’d call before the holiday, in case there’s anything we need to go over. I’m going to my sister’s and she won’t let me so much as turn my phone on tomorrow.”
What’s tomorrow? Then I remember. Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving! Shit! Connor! “No, yeah, I—I think we’re good,” I stammer. “I’m working on a—a plan right now, the vouchers thing. I’ll send it in a few. A few days, that is.”
There’s a beat. “You okay?”
“Yeah! Just . . .” What? All thought has fled. “Sorry, Gavin, can you hold on one second?”
“Sure.”
I lean forward, toward the driver. This I can at least handle. “Excuse me? Sorry, but can you turn around? I need to go to . . .” I can’t remember the name of the club. I can’t remember anything right now. “What’s that club? Over by the castle?”
“The Castle.”
“Yeah, by the Oxford castle.”
“The Castle.”
I huff out a breath. “You know, with the murdery back alley—”
“That’s the Castle, love.”
Oh. All right, then. My extensive Abbott and Costello training failed me there. “Right, yes, thank you, that’s the one.” I sit back and try to focus on one thought, just one. It’s not working. I’ve never felt this discombobulated. I’ve never done drugs, but I imagine this is what a terrible trip feels like. One of those questing nightmares where stairs lead nowhere and doors take you back to places you haven’t actually left. I’m trapped in an Escher drawing.
Then, compounding the surreality, I hear my name. Soft. Distant. As if underwater. “Ella? Hello?”
I look down at my phone. “Hi, sorry!” I shout, fumbling it up to my ear. “I—I’m here.”
“Listen,” Gavin says. “I want you to start thinking about some hires, okay? Especially deputy political director. We need someone young—because we’re old and tired—but experienced. Any idea where we could find this unicorn?”
“Let me think about it,” I say, thinking, Why don’t you just hire me? And then I wonder why I think that. Would I really want that job? I thought I was done with the campaign side of politics.
“Who knows,” he says. “Maybe I’ll just hire you.” He laughs. “All right, have a nice holiday. Good luck finding turkey in that country.”
He hangs up. I stare at my phone. Was he serious? My phone rings again, startling me so completely that I drop it on the floor of the cab. I shakily retrieve it, noting the caller ID. “I’m so, so, so, so sorry,” I answer preemptively.
“She’s alive!” Connor does a bad Dr. Frankenstein impression, but there’s no mistaking the genuine note of concern in his voice.
“I’m fine, I went to the bathroom and . . .” There’s no way I’m dragging him into this story. I wish I could drag myself out of it. “I wasn’t feeling well. So I left.” Worst lie ever. I should take lessons from Dr. Davenport.
“Why didn’t you come find me? I would have walked you home,” Connor says. What a good guy. What a handsome, good guy. Connor Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is knows just what to say. “So,” he continues, “I’m standing here with Charlie and we’re looking at a very sad, very abandoned Duchess. Would you like me to bring her by?”
“So you’re—you’re still at the club?” I start snapping my fingers at the cabbie like a complete asshole. He just looks confused.
“Yeah, we’re all still here. Charlie’s been texting you.”
Dammit! I stop snapping, mute my phone, and tell the cabbie, “Stop! I mean, go! Magdalen! No Castle!” Cavemen got nothing on me.
“But we’re almost there, miss.”
I can see the alley where they’re all waiting just up ahead. “No, I know, I don’t want to—just no Castle! Magdalen!”
The cabbie slams on his brakes, begins a three-point turn, and mutters, “All right, all right, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
I unmute my phone. Connor is saying, “Ella? Ella, are you there?”
“Sorry, listen, could you ask Charlie to bring my bike back to college?”
I hear murmuring before Connor returns. “Yup, no worries. Are you sure you’re—”
“I’m fine. Thanks, Connor. Again, I’m sorry. Have a good—”
“Ella, wait.” He chuckles. “You never gave me an answer.”
“To what?” I have no clue what he’s talking about.
“London? Thanksgiving? You, me, ‘fixins’?”
This is not the time, I think. I can’t. I just can’t. Maybe another time, when I’m—
“Ella? It’s not a big—”
“Yes, I’d love to.”
The moment I say it, the second the words leave my mouth, I want to die. I hang up the phone. I throw it to the side. I look out into the blurry darkness, the rain sheeting down the window of the cab.
Then the tears start.
Soon I can’t contain the sobs. The sound ricochets around the cab.
The cabbie peers at me in the rearview. “Cheer up, love,” he tries. “Whatever it is, life’s too short, yeah?”
LONDON FEELS LIKE a different country. I’ve become so comfortable in Oxford that only in a new city do I realize how much it’s become home to me. London reminds me of Washington, a thriving, pulsing, global metropolis. And yet there are smatterings of quaintness, an unexpected charm that sneaks up on you. Oh, look, a palace! Oh, look, a double-decker bus! Oh, look, an obsolete-yet-still-iconic call box! Connor’s been to London before, so he’s an excellent tour guide. He’s also an excellent conversationalist. There have only been a handful of awkward silences between us, which under normal circumstances would be a good sign. But these aren’t normal circumstances. There are far too many instances of “Ella, did you hear me?” and me saying “Sorry, what?”
I didn’t sleep much last night.
After walking around for hours and building up a solid appetite, we gladly sit down to our dinner at a swanky hotel in Mayfair overlooking Grosvenor Square. It’s mostly empty, except for a couple of American tourists and, directly next to us, a family of four. An American mother trying to explain the holiday to her very, very British children.
“But, Mummy, why are we eating turkey? Turkey is for Christmas,” they say. The woman looks to her English husband for assistance. Together they try to answer their adorable children. I imagine myself in her position: British husband, British kids, stranger in a strange land. I’m surprised to find that there’s something appealing about the notion. When the husband leans over and kisses her forehead, however, I turn away.
“Ella?” Connor’s voice brings me present. Again. The waiter is standing beside me with a tray, holding two glasses of champagne. “The hotel is offering us some complimentary bubbly. Want one?”
“Who are we to refuse?” I say, attempting enthusiasm. We clink glasses. We look into each other’s eyes and take a sip. I can tell Connor’s having a good time. And I am, too. Really. He’s an interesting guy. On our walk, we talked schooling, past jobs, D.C. neighborhoods, restaurants, bars. I think these things, the details that technically define you, are what you give to people in exchange for not talking about the real things.
Connor comes from a good family. His father’s a judge and his mother’s a surgeon. He’s had two ex-girlfriends worth mentioning (I was right), he’s impeccably educated, politically moderate, well traveled, well read, fluent in Spanish, likes Ethiopian food, and spends two weeks every summer at the family “cottage” on the Vineyard. His post-Oxford plans are uncertain. As we sip champagne and listen to harp music wafting in from the lobby, Connor describes his dilemma: go back to Washington and make a ton of money or go to India on his own dime and volunteer, becoming “just another white dude mansplaining how to use a water filter and wear a condom.” His dismissive tone belies the excited spark I see in his eyes.
“Have you read Middlemarch?” I blurt.
“No,” he answers, seeming relieved that I decided to speak, taking a breath and a sip of his champagne.
“First of all, you should. Secondly, there’s this one part,” I begin, but the server interrupts us, dropping down a plate of Thanksgiving. It’s a decent effort, but as Bentsen told Quayle in the 1988 vice-presidential debate, “I knew Jack Kennedy and, Senator, you’re no Jack Kennedy.” Yes, there’s turkey, but the potatoes are roasted reds. There’s a puddle of pink sauce with the consistency of mint jelly (the cranberry, I’m assuming?) slowly making friends with everything else on the plate, including some unidentifiable wet bread (stuffing?) and, of course, courgettes. Always with the courgettes in this country. It’s all topped off with a culturally incongruous bubble of Yorkshire pudding.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Connor says, lifting his glass.
I lift mine and try to maintain eye contact. “Happy Thanksgiving.” We smile at each other. I put my glass down without drinking. It’s turning my stomach and I seem to have acquired a headache just by looking at it.
He cuts into his turkey. “So, Middlemarch?”
“Right! So, the book is, like, eight hundred pages and the main character has been in love—” Next to my plate, my phone rings. “Sorry. Thought I’d turned it off.” As I pick it up, I glance at the name on the screen. Mom.
Connor can see it, too. “Take it,” he says.
“It’s okay.”
“Ella, it’s your mother. It’s a national holiday. You’re not going to at least say hi? Really, I don’t mind.”
He thinks I’m not answering because I’m trying to be polite. He has no idea. Connor probably talks to his parents all the time. He probably sent them a Thanksgiving cornucopia. Great. Now I have to answer it.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, honey!” she bleats, obviously surprised I picked up. There’s a suspended moment of silence. “Well, happy Thanksgiving!”
I tear off a piece of Yorkshire pudding and pop it in my mouth. “Happy Thanksgiving to you. Are you going to Aunt Mal’s today?”
“Yes, soon. And how are you? Are you celebrating Thanksgiving over there? You sound like you’re eating something.”
“I am. I’m eating turkey at a hotel in Mayfair. Which is a sentence I never thought I’d say.”
“You’re not all alone, are you?”
Her suddenly worried tone instantly grates. I look at Connor’s handsome head bent over his plate. “No, actually,” I answer, because what the hell, “I’m on a date.” Connor’s head lifts and he smiles at me.
“Ooh!” she exclaims, just-add-water excited. I can sense across an ocean all the questions lining up in her head. I never talk about my love life. If that’s what you’d even call it. “What’s his name, is he English, what—”
“His name is Connor, he’s American, he’s a doctor.” Connor raises a brow at the inaccuracy. I wave my hand; whatever, close enough.
“He sounds perfect,” Mom breathes. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone, El. You never tell me—”
“We’re not ‘seeing each other,’ Mom. Unless you mean naked.” Connor almost chokes on his champagne.
“Oh, for cripes sake.” Mom sighs, well acquainted with my irreverence. Of all the traits my mother possesses, prudery is actually, surprisingly, not one of them. She works in a medical office, after all.
“You know me. No strings, just sex.” Connor leans back in his chair with his champagne and a huge smile.
“Eleanor! That mouth of yours.”
“What a coincidence, he said the same thing last night!”
She tsks at me. “I know you’re just joshing, but you be nice to him. You know how you can be.”
Yes. I do. I hurt men. I leave men. I lead them on and then walk away. It’s a good thing I don’t love you crashes through my head like a buffalo stampede. I ignore it. As much as one can ignore a buffalo stampede. “He’s fine,” I grit, my mood souring. “He can handle himself.” A misplaced flash of anger directs itself at my mother, and I try to dial it back. It’s not fair to blame her. I’m twenty-four years old. I need to be over this.
The bubbly suddenly seems like a good idea, after all. I take a large sip and, lightening my tone, say, “Look, we’re both leaving at the end of the year, going our separate ways. It’s stupid to start a relationship.” I almost forget who I’m talking about, but Connor gives me a cheeky thumbs-up, like he heartily approves, and I try to smile.
“Well, don’t be afraid to make the most of it,” she lilts. I repress a sigh. Here comes the lesson. “It’s like that fella says. You know, ’Tis better to have lost your love—no, wait. What is it? ’Tis better to—”
She’s attempting poetry? Really? “‘’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’ Mom.”
“Yes it is, yes it is. And he was right, too. Believe you me. I should know.” She goes quiet, then sighs. “The holidays always make it worse.” Her sudden sadness guts me. It also irritates me, which is unfair. I take another sip of champagne as she asks, “Who wrote that again?”
Who did write that? Before I can finish the thought, the answer comes to me, as does a tightness in my throat. I swallow the bubbly like gravel. “Tennyson. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Mom.”
“Right, right. Listen, honey, I need to leave for Mal’s. They say it might snow and I don’t want to be on the road if it does. Say hi to Connor for me. I love you.”
“Love you, too,” I reply. I wish it weren’t so automatic a response, but I can honestly say it’s not a lie. I do love her. In my way. Whatever that is. However I love.
I hang up and look at the phone. “My mom says hi.”
We take a moment to regroup. We both take a few bites and eat in silence. Finally, Connor says, “So, an eight-hundred-page book that I have to read . . .”
“Right.” I take a breath. I could just drop it at this point, but something compels me to continue. “So, the main character’s been in love with this guy for basically all eight hundred pages, even though she was married to this other guy. Then that guy dies, but she still can’t be with the guy she’s always loved because her late husband put it in his will that if she marries him—he’s a starving-artist type—she’ll be destitute, because all the money her late husband left her would have to be forfeited.”
“What a dick,” Connor observes, forking a potato.
“You have no idea. But, finally, as the love of her life is about to walk away for the last time, Dorothea—that’s the girl—finally breaks down and decides, screw it, and leaves everything behind to be with him.”
“Why?”
I look at him. Why? “Because love.” Connor takes another bite. I can feel the rambling coming on. I’m powerless to stop it. “It’s raining and storming and he’s about to leave and she just starts sobbing. She realizes in that moment love has a cost. And she knows that she’s going to have to figure out what that cost is. And that’s exactly what Dorothea says. ‘I will learn what everything costs.’ End of chapter.”
Connor nods, brings the champagne to his lips. “Because she’ll have to be poor to be with him.”
I pause. “Well, yes, but it’s also a metaphor.” I take a big bite of turkey and continue talking anyway. “See, Dorothea never really lets herself feel anything. She’s pious and thoughtful and she’s always doing things for the betterment of humanity, but that just means that she never gets too close to anything really important. Like, personally important. The distance protects her. I mean, you can’t hurt that much if you haven’t lost that much, right?”
Connor chews on this. “Right, okay.”
“But it’s a cosmic joke! Because we’re going to lose it all anyway. There’s no protection! There’s only death! That’s the cost!”
Connor stares at the tablecloth for a moment while I breathe, trying to muzzle the crazy. He smiles sheepishly up at me. “Sorry. The last book I really understood was The Hungry, Hungry Caterpillar. I’m terrible at analyzing literature.”
I move the turkey around in my mouth. “I’m beginning to think I am, too.” I sigh. I pause for a second, then smile. “This is about India. You and India. You’ll learn what everything costs. That’s the point.” He nods pleasantly. I turn back to my plate, thinking about Dorothea, about Middlemarch, about the awful explanation I just gave. I wish I could talk to Jamie about this. He’d get it. What am I saying? There’s a reason it’s his favorite book. He already gets it. Deeply. Somatically.
“You know,” Connor says, “your conversation with your mom . . . I’ve never had a no-strings, friends-with-benefits kind of relationship. Maybe I should try it.” He’s teasing, yes, but he’s also testing the waters. Here I am thinking about love and death and cost, and Connor’s thinking about getting laid. I don’t blame him. Hell, I wish I could be thinking about it, too.
I push back from the table and ball up my napkin, wondering belatedly what, exactly, I’m doing. I dig in my purse for money as I find myself saying, “Connor, if I were going to have another no-strings, friends-with-benefits thing with anyone, it would definitely be with you. I mean, look at you. But I’m not.” Then I add, sounding weirdly surprised, “I’m going to leave.”
He looks mortified. “Ella, I didn’t mean—wait, stop, I’m so sorry—”
I throw a fifty-pound note on the table, my hand shaking slightly. “No, no, it’s not you. Trust me, it’s so not you. There’s something I need to . . . attend to.”
He relaxes slightly. We look at each other. “You mean someone?” he asks. Reluctantly, I nod. He grins. “What’ll we tell your mother?”
We both chuckle, happy to relieve the tension. I pause. “This was lovely. You’re lovely. I’m sorry, Connor.”
“Don’t be,” he says, a little too easily. His jaw tenses as he adds charitably, “He’s a lucky guy.”
I squeeze Connor’s shoulder on the way past and head out into the new night, thinking, Jamie is the furthest thing from lucky I’ve ever known.
