“A friend told me that you never know what will get you working again, what will fuel you.” What Smith had said to me, something I’d almost forgotten, and he was right.

“That’s great to hear,” Alex said. “Are you back to teaching?”

“Yes, and that feels better too.” And it was true. I’d been enjoying it, feeling like I really knew my subject and wanted to be there. “It’s sort of funny,” I said. “I now see the mystery in art history and think I convey some of that to my students.”

“Now there’s a good course title, ‘The Mystery in Art History.’ It even rhymes.”

I smiled then fell silent, and so did she. There were so many things I wanted to say that I could almost feel the words at the back of my throat, but I wasn’t sure Alex would want to hear them.

“I’m glad you’re doing well,” she finally said.

“And what about you?”

“I have a lot to sort out.”

“I’m sure you will,” I said.

She thanked me, started to get up, and I said, “Stay, please,” no longer caring if I sounded needy.

She sat, tentative. “I’m thinking about going away.”

“Oh? For how long?”

“Until I’m…healed.”

“I thought you were.”

“I’m not talking about my lung. I just need…more time. I have to be here for my mother, so it won’t be long.”

I was happy to hear that much, though I wanted to say, And what about me? What about us?

Alex stood.

“Wait—” I couldn’t control the urgency in my voice. “There are…things to say.”

She sat again but perched as if ready to flee.

“Nothing bad,” I said. “Just something I’ve been thinking about.”

“Okay,” she said, chewing her lower lip, like she was expecting me to say something accusatory or terrible.

For a moment, my mind went blank, all the thoughts, all the rehearsed sentences, gone. Instead, a question formed in my mind, something I had been thinking about since I’d come home. “Would you say the past influences the present, or the present influences the past? I mean, what we discover about the past, does that influence our present, who we are now, or is it the reverse?”

“Very philosophical,” she said, and the worry on her face eased. She tapped a finger to her chin. “I’d guess I’d say it’s a little of both.” She was quiet a moment, looked away, then back at me. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about too, something I want to ask you.”

I waited, those few seconds some of the longest in my life.

“Can we ever forget the past? What was said and done. Get past it. Get over it?”

“Yes,” I said, relieved, and reached for her hand. “I know I can.”

Alex didn’t say anything, just let out a breath as if she’d been holding it in for a very long time. Then she gently wrapped her fingers around mine.

The South of France

Summer had come early this year, the middle of May, the sky a hazy blue, the sun strong and hot. Simon crept through tall purple irises and grass so new and green it looked fake. Vincent watched, sweat on his face and arms, soaking the back of his shirt. He had finished clearing logs from the house into the small shed he’d built so that he and Marguerite and the boy would have more room. Now he watched the boy, just three months shy of his third birthday, make his way across the lawn with intent, then saw what it was that had captured the toddler’s attention: a frog, leaping away each time the boy reached out to snatch it, each time failing and falling onto his side, laughing as if it tickled. Vincent laughed too.