Read Online Fall Semester by Stephanie Fournet - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Fournet
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if he were sick, too. It would be terrible for someone so young to be struck with a terminal illness like her father’s.
God, I hope that’s not it.
The spontaneous prayer did catch her by surprise, but she recognized its truth. She did hope that Dr. Vashal was not sick.
Maren had never considered herself to be particularly religious. She had gone to Catholic school here, like so many other families in Lafayette, but she had never been confirmed, and her parents had only insisted on going to mass at Christmas and Easter, and less often as she and her brother and sister had gotten older. But she did find herself praying to some distant Almighty from time to time. Call it whatever one will, but Maren felt that in the great silence of the universe, something listened.
Please take care of Daddy, she asked it. She never flailed about in her mind, begging for a miracle cure that could not happen. Instead, she pictured her father feeling ease and comfort. She closed her eyes and slowed her breath to cultivate the peace she wanted for him. She held the feeling at the very edge of sleep.
Unbidden, she saw smoky, sage eyes behind her own lids. They held pain.
Give him what he needs , she petitioned.
Maren’s last thought of the day was of how good it felt to pray for Malcolm Vashal.
Chapter 6
Malcolm
O n the Tuesday after Labor Day, Malcolm Vashal called his agent, Madeleine Percy. It was only three, but he had three wholly beautiful translations from La Fuente de Piedra , and that was enough to represent him in a bid for the rights to translate the whole collection.
The early morning light had woken him on Saturday, leaving him with a ghost of a dream about dark hair and innocence. He had jumped out of bed at once and almost bounded to his study, the Spanish of Sister Alejandro asking his English to dance.
After keeping him on hold for nearly 10 minutes, Madeleine greeted him with jubilance.
“Malcolm! It’s been too long! How are you?” she practically sang.
“Fine....I’m fine, I—”
“And how is J.J.? What has it been? Three years since I last saw the both of you?”
Oh, no.
He had never grown used to it, the ritual of announcing their end to others. And it had been so long since he had last had to do it, that Malcolm was taken aback. The fact that Madeleine Percy—that anyone—
still believed that they were together pierced him anew. Disabusing her of the notion would be akin to killing an endangered bird.
He felt suddenly hollow and as though he would cave in on himself.
He couldn’t speak.
Seconds passed.
Malcolm’s heart began to race.
“Malcolm....?”
Panic threatened to close his throat. It was clotted and cold, swallowing him into itself. Malcolm shut his eyes and ransacked his mind for any thought that would save him. There was nothing. Only failure.
“Malcolm?....Are you still there?”
He had failed in every way that mattered. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He should just hang up, hang up now. Why? Why had he even called her?
Why?
And despite the icy darkness, the answer floated to the surface of his mind.
Beauty.
There was something beautiful mixed in with all that addled him. He clung to the thought and managed to drag breath into his lungs.
What was it? What was the beautiful thing?
Ah, yes, the poems...and...
“I’m...here,” he exhaled and breathed again. “I’m sorry Madeleine. J.J. and I...are no longer together.”
Malcolm heard Madeleine’s faint gasp, her stammered condolences, but he barely processed them, intent only on filling his lungs and slowing the scamper of his heart.
“Yes, I....It’s all right. It’s been a long time now...almost three years....Madeleine, there is a book of poems,” he began and did not let her speak until he had told her everything about La Fuente de Piedra and Sister Alejandro. While they spoke, Malcolm emailed her a PDF of the three poems he had translated along with copies of the originals.
Madeleine told him that
God, I hope that’s not it.
The spontaneous prayer did catch her by surprise, but she recognized its truth. She did hope that Dr. Vashal was not sick.
Maren had never considered herself to be particularly religious. She had gone to Catholic school here, like so many other families in Lafayette, but she had never been confirmed, and her parents had only insisted on going to mass at Christmas and Easter, and less often as she and her brother and sister had gotten older. But she did find herself praying to some distant Almighty from time to time. Call it whatever one will, but Maren felt that in the great silence of the universe, something listened.
Please take care of Daddy, she asked it. She never flailed about in her mind, begging for a miracle cure that could not happen. Instead, she pictured her father feeling ease and comfort. She closed her eyes and slowed her breath to cultivate the peace she wanted for him. She held the feeling at the very edge of sleep.
Unbidden, she saw smoky, sage eyes behind her own lids. They held pain.
Give him what he needs , she petitioned.
Maren’s last thought of the day was of how good it felt to pray for Malcolm Vashal.
Chapter 6
Malcolm
O n the Tuesday after Labor Day, Malcolm Vashal called his agent, Madeleine Percy. It was only three, but he had three wholly beautiful translations from La Fuente de Piedra , and that was enough to represent him in a bid for the rights to translate the whole collection.
The early morning light had woken him on Saturday, leaving him with a ghost of a dream about dark hair and innocence. He had jumped out of bed at once and almost bounded to his study, the Spanish of Sister Alejandro asking his English to dance.
After keeping him on hold for nearly 10 minutes, Madeleine greeted him with jubilance.
“Malcolm! It’s been too long! How are you?” she practically sang.
“Fine....I’m fine, I—”
“And how is J.J.? What has it been? Three years since I last saw the both of you?”
Oh, no.
He had never grown used to it, the ritual of announcing their end to others. And it had been so long since he had last had to do it, that Malcolm was taken aback. The fact that Madeleine Percy—that anyone—
still believed that they were together pierced him anew. Disabusing her of the notion would be akin to killing an endangered bird.
He felt suddenly hollow and as though he would cave in on himself.
He couldn’t speak.
Seconds passed.
Malcolm’s heart began to race.
“Malcolm....?”
Panic threatened to close his throat. It was clotted and cold, swallowing him into itself. Malcolm shut his eyes and ransacked his mind for any thought that would save him. There was nothing. Only failure.
“Malcolm?....Are you still there?”
He had failed in every way that mattered. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He should just hang up, hang up now. Why? Why had he even called her?
Why?
And despite the icy darkness, the answer floated to the surface of his mind.
Beauty.
There was something beautiful mixed in with all that addled him. He clung to the thought and managed to drag breath into his lungs.
What was it? What was the beautiful thing?
Ah, yes, the poems...and...
“I’m...here,” he exhaled and breathed again. “I’m sorry Madeleine. J.J. and I...are no longer together.”
Malcolm heard Madeleine’s faint gasp, her stammered condolences, but he barely processed them, intent only on filling his lungs and slowing the scamper of his heart.
“Yes, I....It’s all right. It’s been a long time now...almost three years....Madeleine, there is a book of poems,” he began and did not let her speak until he had told her everything about La Fuente de Piedra and Sister Alejandro. While they spoke, Malcolm emailed her a PDF of the three poems he had translated along with copies of the originals.
Madeleine told him that
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