The Mark (12 page)

Lucas looked at me hard, a small smile at the corners of his mouth. “What an interesting dilemma, Ms. Renfield. Let’s ask the class.”

Cop-out, I thought. I waited for Professor McMillan to jump in and answer, but he only watched as hands shot up around the room. For a while, I listened to the discussion, but my classmates gave me nothing. I’d already covered every scenario, every opinion they had, on my own.

Plato had talked about reconciling what we knew we
should
do with our fear of doing it and our desire to do something else. But his arguments assumed I knew what I should do. I didn’t. Same with Kant—I couldn’t do my duty if I didn’t know what it was.

It was frustrating. Throughout the room, students were debating, some passionately—definitely our best discussion so far. Great. The abstract was fun in class, but I wanted the concrete in my life. I needed, as Aristotle said, a target to aim at. It made me think of Tasha standing in her garage, facing the concentric circles of the hay-bound target what felt like a hundred years ago. I wished I could go back there, challenge her to a winner-takes-all round of archery, the stakes nothing more than coffee and a chocolate chip muffin from Jake’s Deli.

Around me, zippers were being opened, papers rustling, books snapping shut. At the front of the room, Professor McMillan reminded us of our assignment for the next week. “Great discussion,” he said as people started to file out of the room. “Ms. Renfield, thank you for getting us started.”

I gave him a quick nod and hurried past. Outside the classroom, I caught the end of one girl’s comment to her friend: “… Lucas Canton? Totally choiceworthy.”

chapter 16

He walked into Cuppa the next day, as I was finishing my shift. Instead of going to Doug at the counter, Lucas came to my station, resting his tanned arms on the high granite surface of the bar.

“You have to place your order over there,” I told him, trying to ignore the way my heartbeat had suddenly gone staccato. “No special deals, not even for my TA.”

“I came to see you. Can I take you to dinner?”

My stuttering heart felt like it had stopped. I looked quickly at Doug, stalling for composure, but he was busy counting the till. “Tonight?”

“You’re almost finished here, right?” And, in fact, I was. He had timed it as if he knew my schedule.

Lucas waited for me on a bench outside, which was a relief. I didn’t want to talk about him with Doug, or worse, not talk about him and just let the awkwardness of my maybe-date hang in the air. I could picture Doug’s raised eyebrows and disappointed eyes, the lower lid wincing ever so slightly. But he never noticed Lucas, which meant I never had to explain why I was leaving with him when I’d never been willing to even have lunch with Doug, who’d really been nothing but wonderful since I’d met him.

“What are you reading?”

I’d startled Lucas, totally immersed in the tattered pages of his paperback. Watching him unguarded in the seconds between the door and the bench, I thought I could see how he’d been in high school: quiet, shy, too serious, but gorgeous behind the glasses and thick books. He seemed the kind of boy girls had secret crushes on because he was just a little too distant to encourage them. I wondered if he’d gone to homecoming or prom and who his best friend had been.

He smiled and flipped the cover closed to hold it up:
A Prayer for Owen Meany
.

I was glad to see a novel instead of something academic. “Great book.”

He nodded. “I think this is my third time through it.” Lucas marked his page with a dog-eared corner, then slid it into the worn messenger bag he carried to class. “You like Italian?” He stood, less than a foot from me, and I could smell his aftershave, clean and crisp like a breezy day at the beach. Intoxicating.

“Sure,” I answered, perfectly hiding how my pulse raced at his closeness.

“A friend of mine owns a place just a few blocks away,” he said as we started walking. “Mostly Northern Italian. Delicious.”

It was that part of summer where days go on forever. Nearly eight o’clock and the streetlights were hardly needed. I’d been nervous that it would be awkward with Lucas, but our conversation danced lightly over common ground. Something about the evening, the long, easy days of summer, made me feel like it would have been perfectly natural for him to slip his hand in mine as we strolled the comfortable sidewalks of Bering. He didn’t. But I kept hoping he might.

The restaurant was on a side street that I’d never been down.

“Gianna,” he said, returning the owner’s air-kiss greeting, “this is Cassandra.”

“So nice to meet you.” Gianna had a trace of an accent and a warm smile. She led us to a courtyard table in back. “Please. Let me know if you need anything. Wallace will be with you in a moment.”

There were four other tables, only two of them occupied, surrounding a small stone fountain on the patio. Candlelit sconces and flickering lights on each table made it feel secret and intimate. If it hadn’t been owned by his friend, choosing someplace like this would have left me no doubt about Lucas’s intentions.

Our waiter appeared with bread and water and Lucas ordered a carafe of wine.

“You’re not twenty-one,” I said when the waiter left.

“No, but Gianna would be disappointed if we didn’t have a glass with dinner.” He smiled. “It’s the Italian way.”

I thought about our lesson from last week, Socrates preferring death to breaking the laws of Athens, then shook my head. Too much philosophy on the brain.

“So, how do you know Gianna?” I asked.

“She’s a friend of my mother’s, actually. Years ago, she owned a bakery back home. Gianna and her husband moved here when he got a job running Food Services at the U. When I decided to come to Lennox, my mom and she reconnected.” He reached across the table for the butter, his hand nearly brushing mine. “Gianna’s a great cook, but a fantastic baker. You have to try the desserts. They’re amazing.”

The wine came and Lucas and I watched Wallace fill both our glasses midway. We ordered our meals and Lucas raised his glass, his eyes meeting mine. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I agreed, clinking his rim softly.

He’d chosen a merlot, fruity and warm. I sipped gently, familiar enough with alcohol from Nan’s tea and the occasional holiday toast to know how quickly it can go to your head.

“So, are you enjoying our class?”

“I am,” I answered. “It’s challenging, as you said it would be, but I like it.” I sipped again, looking up at him as I added, “I thought you were good yesterday.”

He smiled. “I thought you were good yesterday too. I can’t say that was in my lesson plan, but that’s the fun thing about philosophy. You never know when you’re going to get a great back-and-forth going.”

I took a piece of the bread he offered. “How’d you wind up majoring in it? It’s kind of an unusual choice.”

“Yeah.” Lucas shrugged, flashing a small, embarrassed smile. “My mom went through a Buddhist phase when I was in high school. You know, Zen, karma, the whole thing. It got me thinking about why we’re here. I took a few classes back home and was hooked.” He paused, looking down as he added, softer, “I think we all have a purpose in life. I guess I’m just trying to figure out exactly what mine is.”

I’d never heard a guy be so honest. Maybe Jack, but only about small things. There was a vulnerability about the way Lucas said it that made me feel warm and trusted and special, like we were cocooned here in this quiet place together. I took another sip of the wine, letting his words sink in. Purpose. I didn’t really want to think about the mark, but for once, it seemed like the right time to bring it up and Lucas the right person.

I watched him carefully as I said, “You know, you never answered the question in class yesterday.”

“About …?”

“The doctor’s responsibility. You tossed it out to the group but never gave your opinion.”

He answered without hesitation. “I think the doctor should tell what he knows.”

“Why?”

“Remember what Aristotle said about using pain correctly? The path to happiness isn’t always fun.” He leaned in, his closeness making my head a little fuzzy. “But dealing with hard things, like a terminal diagnosis, can lead to greater happiness. No pain, no gain.”

I thought of the woman in the park playing with her dog.

“But what if time was so short …” I stopped, knowing it would be nearly impossible to convey the full scenario. Lucas would think it was ridiculous.

“Go on … so short that …”

I shook my head. “Nothing. It’s just a hypothetical.”

“Isn’t all of this?”

“Yeah … but this couldn’t really happen.”

He leaned back, smiling. “Try me anyway. I’m interested.”

I could tell, his eyes, his attention totally focused on me. It was a thrilling feeling that I didn’t want to let go. “Okay,” I said, “what if time was so short that there was really nothing the person could do? What if they had less than twenty-four hours to live, were in no pain, totally unaware of their fate and enjoying their time.” I decided to go for it. “What if they were spending a beautiful day outside, in the sun, playing with their dog or their child? Would you interrupt that day with the news that they were about to die?”

“I thought they were at the doctor’s office.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe they were in the park that morning, before their appointment.”

“And the doctor figures out they’re going to die that day? That couldn’t happen.”

“That’s why I said it was a hypothetical.” I shook my head. “Forget it.”

“No, no. Okay, I’m with you.” He thought for a minute. “I’m not sure.”

“Maybe it’s a case-by-case thing?” I suggested hopefully. “If the person seems fine, untroubled, you don’t tell them?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Lucas said, pinching his lip absently. “How could the doctor really know their state of mind? Or how they might use the news that they had such a short time to live? Maybe there were things that had to be done to secure happiness for the child or someone else important.”

I nodded. I had thought that too, and had a creeping suspicion that the right answer was the one I didn’t really want. The harder choice.

Our dinners came then. Lucas was right, the food was delicious. I hadn’t been doing much cooking at the apartment. I’d learned the basics from Nan and together we’d made lasagnas and stews and soups and fish. I’d come to associate cooking with companionship. It wasn’t the same doing it alone and just for me, so I’d been living on easy meals like a true college student: tuna fish, cheese sandwiches, pizza—sometimes takeout, sometimes frozen.

“Now, this …,” I said in between mouthfuls, shaking my fork at the half-empty plate. “This is food.”

“An astute observation,” Lucas said, his grin making me smile too. “See, I knew you were smart …”

Lucas asked about my job, told me a little about his. The behind-the-scenes work of a teaching assistant sounded like a lot of reading, lesson plans, and pipe smoking with Professor McMillan.

When we’d finished our meal, Wallace took our plates and our tiramisu order—one to share. Lucas poured the last of the wine, leaned back, and asked, “What would you do with your final hours if you knew you only had a few to live?”

“I think,” I said slowly, giving the impression of contemplating, “my first impulse would be to find another doctor—and another after that, if necessary—and try to prevent it.”

He nodded. “For the sake of discussion, let’s assume the diagnosis was irrefutable and somehow you accepted that.”

“Okay,” I said. “I think my next impulse would be to do something crazy—try to squeeze in some of the things I’d meant to do but never got around to. See the Eiffel Tower or Statue of Liberty. Go bungee jumping. The problem with having only a few hours, though, is that it’s too short to accomplish anything important. No time for the life goals you haven’t made happen yet, whatever they are: write a book, have a family, try out for Broadway.”

“Those are your life goals?”

“Not mine personally, but you know what I mean. The kind of things that take work and planning.”

He nodded. “So you’d take a trip somewhere on your last day?”

“No,” I corrected. “That would be my first impulse, but I think I’d realize all the problems with it. I mean, what if my flight were delayed? Would I want to spend my final hours sitting in an airport? Just to see some building somewhere?”

Lucas waited, quietly fingering the stem of his wineglass and watching me intently.

What I’d thought about most the many times I’d considered this question was how Nan had reacted: calm, fully in control. I hoped I could be that way.

“I think what I’d really do—and this may sound nuts—is nothing. I mean, there’d be a little business to take care of. I’d write a few letters, make sure I got them in a mailbox, and then I’d take my book and my favorite sweatshirt and find a comfortable spot—the park or a coffee shop—and try to enjoy the time I had left.”

Lucas was silent for a minute, still watching me, still fingering his glass. “That’s a very rational response,” he said finally.

I shrugged. “Well, it’s one thing to say it and another to act it out. Who knows how I’d really be.”

He didn’t say anything, so I asked, “What would you do?”

Without hesitation, he said, “I’d take the first flight to LA.”

“To see your family?”

“To see my family.”

I nodded. I might have said the same thing if I had any family to see.

We finished our wine with dessert. The tiramisu was amazing, as Lucas had promised. When the bill came, Lucas deftly took it from the waiter, shooing away my offers to go Dutch. “Of course not,” he said. “I asked you to dinner. Besides, you’re a poor college student.”

“So are you.”

“Oh. Right.” He handed Wallace an American Express card. Gold. While we waited, I took another look at our courtyard. The other tables had cleared and we were alone with the gentle gurgle of the fountain, candles all around. I could feel Lucas looking at me and turned to him.

“What?” I demanded.

“Nothing,” he answered, smiling. “You’re an interesting girl, Cassandra Renfield. How old are you?”