Page 36 of Good Half Gone

“Iris Walsh.” He says my name again.

His desk is one of those great big mahogany antiques—it would be imposing, except the only thing that sits atop it is a closed MacBook.

I’d provided my transcripts (which are excellent), two letters of recommendation from graduate professors, and a hundred and twenty volunteer hours at the teen counseling center.

I wait politely for him to go on, my hands sweating. I’ve gone to great lengths to conceal who I’m related to, writing about the addiction in my family instead of the tragedy.

I don’t want the trauma of losing my sister to overlap with my ability to advance here. There were probably dozens of candidates, some of whom were Ivy-League-educated and already publishing articles. Not that I’m complaining.

“I know most of you go by your last names here, but I go by my first. Please call me Leo. I hate the doctor bit.”

I have no intention of calling him Leo, but I nod.

“You referenced your young son in your letter. Where is he now?” He glances up at me.

“At school. He’s eight years old and quite brilliant.” I can’t keep the pride from my voice. Cal is that sweet spot in my life,the consistent joy giver. SweeTart, Sour Patch Kid, Skittle—his nicknames are every sort of candy. We’d grown up together, my dark-haired son and I—and it’s fair to say that we’d lost our childhoods as a direct cause of each other. I will never regret him, but I fear that someday he will look back on what I wasn’t able to give him, and he will wish his mother were someone else.

I clear my throat in an attempt to defog the emotion from my voice.

“I was pretty young when I became a mom,” I said. I know what he’s thinking. Most people are shocked to hear I have an eight-year-old son. “My grandmother helped a lot, and I was able to graduate and attend college.” This is the part I dread talking about; there are always pitying looks. People of the older generation applaud how I turned my life around, as if having a baby young is the same as substance addiction.

“Hey, that’s pretty great. Taking care of a little person and going to school is no small feat.” He says it slowly and deliberately, like he means it.

I get squirmy at the compliment. Seldom is the uphill climb toward education honored if it belongs to that of a young, unwed mother. Most people I’ve encountered present the attitude that getting an education is the least you can do after you’ve burdened society with the fruit of your womb.

“My mom did my laundry until I graduated from college, so I’m not sure how you managed all of that…”

I laugh, unprepared for that bit of self-deprecation. His eyes light up at the sound of my laughter, and it feels nice to pull a reaction from a handsome man. But there is a feeling bristling behind the nice—something like déjà vu…

“There wasn’t much time for self-indulgence,” I say. “The hard work came first. Now I get to pursue the things I’ve been waiting to pursue.” That is the part I practiced. I always end my speech with a tight-lipped smile—relaxed but capable.

“I like that.”

I blush even though I am proud of myself for managing the last eight years. “I think we all do,” I say and then think better of it. “Well, most of us,” I correct myself, dropping my chin.

Again, he laughs. He has very nice eyes, the type that warm or cool you, depending on his mood.

He turns serious then, the transition from friendly to professional jarring me a bit. “How will you manage being away from him, especially as much as this job requires?”

The heater kicks on, the sound reminding me of Gran’s old apartment. I avoid the urge to shiver. I’m prepared for this question. This has been the most difficult part of the decision-making process for Cal and me. When I told Cal I’d be spending three nights of every week at the hospital, he’d grown teary-eyed, but nodded a moment later, trying to be brave. He reminds me so much of myself—the need to please, to not be a burden. I’d hugged him close with tears in my own eyes, reminding myself that it wouldn’t be forever.

“We’ll make every second count when we are together, okay?”

He liked that.

“Cal and I discussed it before I applied. We agreed that for our future this was the best step for me. He’s with my grandmother when he’s not with me, and there is no one I trust more.”

It’s Gran’s age I’m worried about. She pretends that everything is fine, but I’ve noticed some pretty serious changes in the last year. She’s in the hospital now. I won’t fool myself into thinking she’ll be here forever, which is why I am here in the first place, to give her answers before…she’s not here.

“Wonderful,” he says. “We’re happy you’ve joined the team. I think you’re going to be a great fit.” He folds his hands on the desktop, and I sense that our time is up. Smiling dutifully, I nod. We stand at the same time, looking like a choreographed television show. This is the part where he extends his hand for one more shake before he sends me off.As his hand engulfs mine and I’m congratulating myself on how well things went, he says, “There’s something very familiar about you. I can’t place it…maybe a celebrity doppelganger…”

I hold my breath because if you hold your breath while looking at someone your expression remains frozen. You don’t look like her anymore.Because of the lack of media attention and public outcry, very few people have ever heard of Piper’s case. It’s a weak assurance and entirely untrue, but the chances that he’ll make the connection are slim. It takes what seems like forever before he sighs in defeat. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“You do that.” It comes out more flirtatiously than I meant, and I blush under his gaze.

I certainly hope he doesn’t.

I hustle to get out of there, Dr. Grayson’s eyes on my back.

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