Summer Session Page 3

  But Harper was beside Hank again. Time stopped. Gunfire hiccuped intermittently; white light flashed with deadly explosive pops. Harper knelt beside Hank, stroking his face, promising him, the others and herself that everything would be all right. Hank was tough. Hank would survive. Unlike Graham – or Marvin, Phyllis, Cooper, Sameh and the boy without a face – Hank would be fine.

  But Hank wasn’t fine. His head had slammed first the chimney and then a concrete ledge, and his brain had ricocheted against his skull. There was damage to the frontal lobe, particularly on one side. For weeks, doctors repeatedly operated to relieve swelling and pressure inside his skull and waited to see how much permanent harm had been done, not sure he’d recover. Harper had prayed, had made deals with God, promising never to curse again, to give to charities, to install solar panels on the house and minimize her carbon footprint, even to make peace with her father – anything if Hank would get well. A month and a half later, though, Hank was still in the clinic of the Cayuga Neurological Center, still not fine.

  Neither was Harper, for that matter. Hunkering down with her weapon raised, she watched for potential suicide bombers and told the suspicious-looking Iraqi boy to halt, but he didn’t; he kept approaching. She called out again, warning him. ‘Stop right there.’

  He didn’t. Two more steps and she’d have to follow protocol, firing at him. Dropping him to the dust.

  ‘. . . you OK?’

  A voice drifted through the smoke and dust.

  ‘Miss? Are you all right?’

  Harper peered out from the alley where she’d sought cover, her gun aimed and ready. Through the clearing smoke, a skinny guy with glasses peered back at her. He wasn’t in uniform. He wasn’t even in Iraq.

  ‘Miss? Can I help you out of there?’ He frowned, not an angry frown, though. A worried frown. And he stepped closer, offering his hand. Why wasn’t he afraid? Didn’t he believe she’d shoot?

  ‘Step back,’ Harper breathed, aiming at him. But when she glanced down, she saw that she wasn’t holding her firearm. Her gun, in fact, was a twig. A short, fat, pathetic twig.

  The guy stepped back but took out his cell phone. ‘Do you need assistance? Should I call somebody?’ He eyed her warily.

  Oh God. Harper closed her eyes, opened them again. The streets of Iraq were gone. The war, her yard where Hank had hit his head, all of it had retreated, fading back into her head. She looked around at the building behind her, the bushes, the skinny guy with glasses who gaped at her. Another man joined him, older, bearded. Wonderful, she was drawing a crowd. She should put out a hat, sing a little tune, get contributions. The two stood watching her, talking. Harper heard them mumbling, ‘. . . needs help . . . maybe campus police . . .’

  Campus police? Oh God, not again. ‘No, no – I’m fine.’ She swallowed, looked around, getting her bearings. She was outside Olin Library, across the quad from White Hall. How the hell had she gotten there? Lord, had she really gone running for cover? Time had passed, but how much? A few minutes? An hour? She didn’t know.

  She stood tall, hoping to convince the men that she was all right. Dropping her twig, she slapped dirt off her hands, brushed off her khaki capris and stepped out of the shrubbery.

  ‘I’m OK – really.’ She attempted a composed, authoritative voice. ‘Just fine.’

  The men didn’t move. They stared, assessing her.

  ‘Seriously. Everything’s cool.’ She straightened her back, met their eyes. Her tone might have been too emphatic, skin too flushed, eyes too wild. But she walked away with deliberate dignity, as if she weren’t smudged with soil and sweat, as if she didn’t still want to dive for cover in the shadows.

  Harper felt the pair watching until she turned at the library and hurried out of their line of sight. Then, looking back, making sure they weren’t following, she stopped, bent over and clutched her stomach. It was over; she was OK. The gunfire, the explosions hadn’t been real. They’d been just another damned flashback.

  She stepped off the path and touched the library wall, scraping her fingers along the rough concrete, making sure. Leaning against it, she pressed her hands against her eyes, pushing away memories. It was almost comical, the repetition. The absurd replays of people blowing up and falling down. If only she could add a little music – piano, like in Charlie Chaplin movies – she’d have some real entertainment. Could sell tickets. If not for the stomach-knotting, heart-flipping fear. If not for the horrific realities behind them, the flashbacks would be hilarious.

  But she wasn’t laughing. Not even snickering. She was mad at herself for having another flashback, for losing control. Her shrink insisted that the flashbacks weren’t her fault; they were mental scars from the war. From what happened there. Even so, she’d thought she’d gotten better. That the images, the smells of fear and death would leave her alone.

  Until a few years ago, the only dead person Harper had ever seen had been Grandma Emma, who died at eighty-eight, crocheting an afghan in her living room. In her coffin, Grandma Emma’s face had been brightly rouged, her eyelids dusted with startling blue shadow, her silvery hair elegantly coiffed. She had been dressed in a rosy Jones New York suit fit for the symphony.

  But then came Iraq. Harper had seen the dead without styled hair or cosmetics. Often without limbs or faces. There, she’d learned not just what death looked like but what it smelled like. What it tasted like.

  This knowledge, like a parasite, had moved into her mind and made a home there, ready to rear up at the slightest trigger, dominating her thoughts, overcoming reality. In the war, Harper had sustained physical injuries, but they’d been neither as permanent nor as painful as her invisible, mental ones.

  The diagnosis was PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Harper had learned all about its causes and symptoms; the condition was epidemic among veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan, as common as a cold. Like many other vets, Harper saw a therapist and had pills that were supposed to but didn’t really help. The fact was that there was no cure for her condition, so she tried to tough it out and control it on her own. And, even after Hank’s fall, she’d managed to reduce the frequency and intensity of the flashbacks.

  Until today. Until Graham Reynolds’ death. On her watch.

  Sweat dripped down her back, beaded on her forehead. Harper tried to get her bearings. The sun had risen high overhead; a cluster of students picnicked under a nearby tree, others sat on a bench eating pizza. So it was lunchtime. Between noon and one. Harper stretched her sore leg and looked around, missing something. Her big leather bag. Damn. Where was it? Back in those bushes? Or had she dropped it while running for cover? Without its weight on her shoulder, she felt naked. Defenseless, as if she’d lost her gear. Her mind rattled off the list: Rifle, 175 rounds of ammunition, gas mask, canteens, chemical suit, boots, medical kit, helmet, bulletproof vest, compass, knife, baby wipes. Stop, she told herself. Stop. She wasn’t separated from her gear – she didn’t have gear any more, wasn’t in a combat zone, wasn’t in actual danger. She was looking for a sack, not a survival kit. Still, all her stuff – phone, keys, papers, books, money, driver’s license and credit cards – everything was in that bag. Lord. Where was it?

  And then she remembered. Her students had taken their things out of the classroom with them, but in the confusion she must have left her bag in the building, upstairs. That had to be it. Smearing sweat from her forehead, Harper started back across the Arts Quad to climb the stairs of White Hall yet another time.

  The room was just as they’d left it; apparently, no other class had been held there yet. The lights were still on. And the fan. The chairs were jumbled, shoved randomly out of order. Harper moved one, putting it back in place, but stopped. The arrangement of chairs and neatness of the room didn’t matter. She needed to stay on task, get her bag and go before her mind began replaying what had happened, taunting her with what she might have done to prevent it.

  Quickly, Harper found her leather sack, stuffed her papers into it, jammed th
e grade book on top and started for the door. Glancing back, though, she noticed a single green book bag in the middle of the room.

  Graham’s?

  It had to be. And, on his desk, his unfinished quiz.

  Maybe Graham had written something on it – maybe a note that would explain what he’d done. Harper made her way through the scattered chairs and picked up his quiz. A piece of paper slipped out from under it, drifting to the floor. She scooped it up. But, no, it wasn’t a suicide letter. Just a bunch of numbers. Was it a cheat sheet? No, not unless the answers were coded. There were no letters, no A, B, C or D for multiple choices. Maybe a phone number. Or a student ID, or a computer password. Well, it didn’t matter. She stared at the digits – 16719220702 – wondering if they were the last things Graham had written. But that didn’t matter, either.

  Harper stuffed the numbers and Graham’s quiz into her bulky leather sack and picked up Graham’s book bag. Wait. Maybe he’d left a note in it? She set it down, unzipped it, pulled it open.

  Inside, she found no note. Just Graham’s textbook, his phone, a half-eaten bag of Doritos, a Mountain Dew, a vial of prescription pills. And, at the bottom, lying beside three tens and six crisp one hundred dollar bills, a shiny black nine-millimeter handgun.

  Harper sat down, staring. A gun? Why did Graham have a gun? And, if he’d wanted to commit suicide, why hadn’t he just shot himself? Why did he bother to jump out the window?

  It made no sense. Graham seemed too oblivious and gawky to be involved in anything as dark as a gun. She wondered what the pills were for. And the money – it was a lot for a college kid to carry around.

  The heat was suffocating, made it difficult to think. And Harper reminded herself it wasn’t her responsibility to investigate Graham. The bag and its contents would go to the authorities. She’d call that detective – what was her name? Waters? Harper checked the detective’s card. Rivers. Charlene Rivers.

  Harper pulled out her cell, made the call, arranged to meet the detective at three. She had almost two hours. Hoping to fill them, she made another call.

  ‘Hey. I was wondering – taking a chance you have an opening today. To see me.’ Harper hated to sound needy even to Leslie, her therapist, so she kept the message brief. ‘Something happened—’ She stopped herself, avoiding a whine. ‘Anyhow, let me know?’

  Harper hefted her bulky bag on to one shoulder, Graham’s gun-laden book bag on to the other, and made her way around the jumbled desks to the door where she stopped, unable to leave yet. Steeling herself, tightening her fists, she turned and made herself look.

  It was just a window. Wide open. No fingers grabbed at the sill. No curls dropped from sight. Harper waited, but there was no flashback; all she saw was the empty stillness of framed glass and painted wood.

  Letting out a breath, she turned off the fan and the lights and left. Halfway down the steps, her phone beeped a text message from Leslie. ‘CU 4 p.m.’

  Harper stood outside White Hall with nowhere to go. Almost two hours until she was to meet Detective Rivers, three until her appointment with Leslie. She felt like calling a friend, but, in truth, not many were around. Even before Iraq, she hadn’t had a huge social circle, preferring small intimate groups to crowds. But since her return, she’d kept even more to herself, uncomfortable with most people unless she had to perform a designated role – like instructor. Maybe it was her damaged leg, but probably it was deeper. The war, what she’d seen and done, had changed her. Harper felt different from ‘civilians’. Well, except for Hank.

  Hank wasn’t like other people; he’d been in Iraq – a consultant. He understood. But apart from Hank, Harper had spent the last three years primarily in her own company, except for a few close friends. But most of them were gone for the summer. Janet and Dan were in Italy, Ruth in Maine. Ethan and Cathy on a dig in Belize, and Vicki and Trent – supposedly her closest friends – had been scarce since Hank’s fall. Before the accident, Trent had wandered into their home as easily as his own, and Vicki had come over daily for morning coffee. But not lately. Harper hadn’t talked to them in days. Possibly weeks.

  So, lugging Graham’s book bag and her own leather sack, Harper wandered the quad, alone. Ignoring the ache in her leg, she followed the path to her favorite spot, the Suspension Bridge, and crossed it halfway, stopping to gaze down into the gorge, at the greenery bursting from its steep rock walls. And the rushing stream at the bottom, slowly, patiently carving its way through rock.

  Harper loved this view; it was the opposite of the desert but had the same effect. The stream gave perspective, demonstrated how small and fleeting life was, how time and nature went on despite human concerns, oblivious to suicides or injuries or even wars. After a while, calmer, she turned and backtracked, crossing campus the other way, towards College Town. From there, she kept moving, wandering along Dryden Road down to Eddy Street and up again. She walked for miles, ignoring the burn of her leg muscles, passing head shops, coffee houses, pizza parlors and bars, noticing none of them. Harper focused only on her body’s motion. One foot after another, sweating, lugging heavy bags, Harper walked until she was light-headed and thirsty. Only then did she realize that, although she’d gone in a roundabout way, all along she’d been heading back toward Hoy Road, to the only place she really wanted to be – the Neurological Center. And Hank.

  Now that she had a clear destination, she picked up her pace. She was going to see Hank. Her Hank. She pictured their first meeting in Iraq, at a reception for civilian contractors and consultants. She’d been on duty, but Hank hadn’t cared; he’d offered her a Martini and tried to pick her up. He’d been swarthy and strong, his dark eyes twinkling when he looked at her, as if seeing her amused him. She’d refused the drink and walked away, thinking him cocky and full of himself. She’d thought nothing of it until she’d run into him again at a briefing. When a colleague introduced them, Hank had grinned, feigned a wince and covered his crotch.

  ‘I’ve already met the lieutenant. It took her maybe ten seconds to bust my balls.’

  Everyone had laughed. Sexism, overt and unashamed.

  Harper hadn’t blinked. ‘Ten seconds? That long?’ she feigned surprise. ‘I must have been having a slow day.’

  Hank had laughed. And hung around. Harper quickly found out that he wasn’t just another horny guy with a handsome face. Hank was gutsy and quick, smarter than almost anyone she’d ever met. At thirty-six, he was not only consulting for the army in Iraq; he was also up for tenure as a professor of Geology at Cornell. Hank had changed her view of the world. And herself. With him, she had dropped her guard, had discovered how to love and trust. With Hank, she’d found the confidence to pursue her PhD in Archeology and begin a career. And, with Hank, she hoped to have a child, raise a family. That’s why they’d bought the house. That’s why they’d been rehabbing it. Again, Harper saw Hank climb the ladder to the roof where Trent was examining shingles.

  No. Harper slammed the door on that image, refusing to revisit Hank’s fall. Not just his, but Graham’s, too. She would think only of this moment. Of Hank. As she walked, her steps seemed to pound out his name: Hank, Hank, Hank, Hank. She walked in rhythm with his name, up the driveway to the massive, ultra-modern Neurological Center, and when the automatic doors whooshed open and the cold of the air conditioners assaulted her, she could still hear it repeating, strong and simple, like a mantra in her head.

  Harper stopped for a drink at the water cooler, but, in the suddenly chilled air, her thirst seemed to have died. She signed in and greeted Laurie, the perky receptionist at the front desk, and, wearing her visitor’s pass, took the elevator to the third floor where she found that Hank wasn’t in his room. The nurse at the desk wasn’t Lulu, who worked in the morning, or Sybil, who worked evenings. This one was new; her name tag said Marcy. Marcy seemed reluctant to speak to Harper, eyed her oddly.

  ‘Mr Jennings is off the floor for a procedure,’ was all she would say, nothing about what kind of procedure or when he’d
be back.

  Having nowhere else to go, Harper set her bags on the floor of Hank’s room and sat in the reclining chair, waiting, trying not to think. She turned on the television, but the talk shows and commercials annoyed her, so she turned it off and watched the blank pale-green walls, the doors of the built-in pine closet, the view into the white-tiled bathroom. The place was impersonal. Cold. Depressing. Institutional. Well, it was an institution, and Hank wasn’t there for the decor. And his stay was only temporary.

  Chilly, Harper got out of the chair and on to his bed, pulling up the blanket, trying to recall his bear-like warmth. How long had it been since they’d slept in the same bed? A few minutes? A century?

  Aching, she pressed her face into his pillow, searching for his scent, but the pillow smelled sterile, like bleach. There was nothing of Hank in this room, not his wit or his passion, not even his smell.

  Harper got out of bed, unable to stay still. She fidgeted with the flowers her mother had sent, removing dead blossoms, pinching off wilting petals. She watered the potted plant from Hank’s cousins, removed the withered grapes from Trent and Vicki’s ageing fruit basket. She avoided the Godiva chocolates from Dr Hayden, Hank’s department chair, and tacked the cards from various colleagues and friends neatly on to the bulletin board. Maybe the room looked cozier now. She sat again, looked around. No, the room was still impersonal, still institutional, just dotted with Hallmark cards. Harper gazed out the window. The sky had darkened; thick clouds had blown in. Maybe there would be a thunderstorm. Maybe the heat would break.

  Meantime, she hadn’t eaten lunch. And the chocolates looked awfully good. Rich and dark, filled with nougat or caramel or raspberry cream. Maybe she’d have just one. Or two. They were small.

  Six chocolates later, she heard voices – an orderly telling the nurse that he was bringing 307 back to his room. 307? That was Hank’s room; Hank was back.