But her self-pity grew stronger. Strongest. She hated feeling sorry for herself, but she couldn’t help it. Why do we get the life we’re given? she wondered.

At Mrs. O’Brien’s request, Amelia stirred the pot of sauce with a wooden spoon. Would she and Mrs. O’Brien figure things out? It seemed that after the phone call Mrs. O’Brien was withdrawing a bit, sidestepping the issues.

Except for the cooking sounds—stirring, chopping, running water—the kitchen was quiet. From time to time Mrs. O’Brien hummed—little, broken pieces of melody—which Amelia found disheartening, since Mrs. O’Brien always seemed to hum when she was worried about something.

“Well, now . . . Oh well, then . . .” Amelia said with a casual hollowness, trying to sound mature. Her comment filled the silence for a few seconds, but it did nothing to fill the hollowness inside her.

24 • White Horse

The Professor didn’t come home.

And he didn’t call.

And he didn’t come home.

And he didn’t call.

Dinner was over. The dishes were done. The kitchen was clean.

For the most part, the dinner conversation had centered on the clay studio. Amelia had told Mrs. O’Brien about Louise’s idea for a show. She shared a little more information about Casey, and she asked Mrs. O’Brien if she was worried about Y2K. (She wasn’t.) But the elephant in the room had remained the elephant in the room. There was no mention of the Professor, no mention of Hannah Barnes. There was no figuring anything out.

Then a shift occurred. “I’m not waiting any longer,” said Mrs. O’Brien suddenly. She drew in a sharp, ragged breath. Her pitch changed. “When your father called, he told me to tell you whatever I thought you needed to know. He said that he thought I’d be better at telling you about . . . about what was going on than he would.”

“He did?”

“He did.” Mrs. O’Brien’s cheeks and forehead were glowing, bright pink. The corners of her mouth turned down, as if she were judging the Professor.

“So, in a nutshell, your father—” Mrs. O’Brien stopped for a beat. “Your father was interested in a woman in his department at the university. Another English professor. From what I understand, they went out for a while, and then your father wanted to break it off because he was worried about how you might feel about the situation.”

“How could I feel anything about something I didn’t know anything about?”

Mrs. O’Brien nodded. “Good question.”

“Did you meet her? Is she nice?”

“I did meet her. They came here for lunch one day when you were at school. And, yes, she seems nice. But I can’t say that I know much about her.”

Mrs. O’Brien continued, “From what I understand . . . she, Hannah Barnes, didn’t—doesn’t—want the relationship to end.”

Amelia could tell by the hesitation and pauses that Mrs. O’Brien was thinking carefully about each piece of information, each word, and was, most likely, holding back certain things, speaking as vaguely as possible.