Page 9 of Meet Me in Another Life

“Look, I have to go. But think about the job, okay?”

He promises her and hangs up, unlocking his door and switching on the lights. He waters the twisted, overgrown shrub Héloïse left behind—her abortive attempt at a bonsai tree—and sits down heavily on the sofa. He’s tired, but in an enervated way that doesn’t let him rest. Félicette stalks across the floor, disappearsinto the kitchen, then reappears suddenly by his shoulder. He strokes her chin, pours himself another beer, and starts marking the students’ essays. When he gets to Thora’s, he saves it at the bottom of the pile for a treat.

Finally, he’s through the rest of the stack. He clears them aside and leans over Thora’s. She’s drawn the tiny planet he made for her, with her own additions: purple lakes, outlandish trees, aliens with eyes in their toes. Her imagination has overflowed to the point where he can barely tell what’s happening. He squints at a figure sticking out from the side of the planet.

“Dr. Lišková, I presume,” he murmurs.

Seen through her own eyes, Thora is gangly and awkward, sticks of hair spilling out of her space helmet. In her hand, she triumphantly clutches a bottle of some red substance. Santi consults the text to find it’s a “sample.” She’s a good writer for her age, if a little prone to using long words without fully understanding what they mean.

He’s starting to write his comment when he spots himself. A tiny figure on the planet’s opposite side, barely more than a crayon smudge. He wouldn’t have recognized himself if she hadn’t labeled him, in lettering twice the size of his diminutive shape.

“That better not be a comment on my height,” he mutters, taking a swig of his beer.

Good work, he writes.Thanks for inviting me along.

He puts her work with the rest of the pile and leans back, amusement mixed now with melancholy. He envies Thora: not the small miseries of life at her age, but the illusion of infinite potential. He lists again the things that held him back: lack of money, failing his physics exam, his family telling him to settle for something reliable. He asks himself how many of those werejust excuses. Perhaps he sabotaged himself: brought down the failure he feared so he wouldn’t have to wait for it anymore. Or perhaps God wanted him for something different.

He dozes off on the sofa, thinking about miracles: about the man he once saw floating five inches above the cobbles, perfectly still, his face expressionless and his hands spread wide.

At the parents’ evening, Santi meets them for the first time: Thora’s mother, a comparative mythologist, and her father, a philosopher built like a prizefighter.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lišková,” he says, putting out his hand.

“Actually, it’s Dr. Liška,” says the father. His handshake is slightly too firm. “My daughter has the feminine form of my surname.”

“Dr. Rasmusdottir,” says the mother.

“My wife preferred not to take my name in any form,” says the father with a too-loud laugh.

The mother’s English has no discernible accent. Santi suspects expensive international schools, like the one he teaches in. He gets the whiff of alcoholism from the father: the trembling hand, an overly enthusiastic demeanor, fragile like the casing of a bomb.

“Your daughter is very bright,” he says.

“We know that,” says her father, laughing again.

“Her problem is she doesn’t apply herself,” says her mother.

“She applies herself where she’s interested,” Santi points out. He doesn’t know why he’s defending Thora: he is supposed to be on the other side. Everything about this is upside down. He feels like a child catapulted into the body of a middle-aged man, expected somehow to know what he is doing.

“I see,” says Dr. Liška. “You are the science teacher, yes?”

“I am.”

“Yes. We see Thora’s true strengths as being more in the arena of the humanities. Writing, history, and so forth.”

“Her writing is very good,” Santi agrees. “But that’s a skill she can continue to develop in many contexts. Studying the sciences would allow her to pursue what she’s interested in, as well as opening up other opportunities.”

The parents exchange a look. Dr. Rasmusdottir looks back at Santi. “You mean her ridiculous obsession with space.”

Santi feels a quiver of disbelief. The scornful tone, the rolling eyes: it’s cartoonish, a seven-year-old’s version of parents who don’t understand. When Thora described them to him, he assumed she was exaggerating.

“It’s not ridiculous.” He’s not supposed to contradict the parents directly. He revises. “What I mean is, an interest like that is an important motivator. I would advise encouraging it. Or at least not actively discouraging it.”

He can tell they aren’t convinced. They nod, though, and thank him before moving on. Santi watches them go. He reminds himself: if God’s test were easy, it would be meaningless.

At morning break the next day, Santi brings his coffee back to his classroom and finds Thora at her desk, drawing. He watches her pause to delineate a cluster of faint dots on the inside of her wrist.

“Thora, it’s break time.”

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