“I worry about you,” he said, looking at his shoes. It was too painful to look at her. Everything he had done to her was in her eyes. They looked like pools of broken green glass. “This has been hard for us both,” he offered finally, which was hard to believe.
“It's what you want, isn't it?” she whispered, praying he would say no. This was her last chance to say it to him, or so it felt.
“Yes.” He spat the word out like a rock that had been caught in his throat. “It is. But that doesn't mean it's easy for me either. I can only imagine how you must feel.” To his credit, he looked sad and worried about her.
“No, you can't. I couldn't have imagined it either, until it happened to me. It's like a death, only worse. Sometimes I try to pretend that you are dead, which is easier, then I don't have to think about where you are, or why you left.” She was being excruciatingly honest with him. But why not at this point? She had nothing left to lose.
“It'll get better with time,” he said gently, not knowing what else to say, and then mercifully, they both saw Wim running down the road toward them. He arrived like a burst of summer wind, hot and perspiring and out of breath. For an instant, Paris was sorry he had come when he had, and then just as quickly, she was relieved. She had heard all she needed to know. Peter was firm in his decision, and only sorry for her. She didn't want his pity but his heart. The conversation could only have gone downhill from there.
It was easier to focus on Wim, and from then on, they were both busy carrying his belongings upstairs. Once they got into the room, Paris stationed herself in the area of Wim's bed, to unpack what they brought up, and Peter and Wim lugged boxes and bags, a trunk, a small stereo, his computer, and his bicycle up three flights of stairs. They had rented a microwave and a tiny refrigerator from the school. He had everything he'd need, and it was four o'clock before everything was set up. Two of his roommates had arrived by then, and the third appeared just as they left. They all looked like healthy, young, wholesome boys. Two were from California, and the third was from Hong Kong. And they seemed a good mix. Wim had promised to have dinner with Peter that night, and he said he'd be back at six, and then turned to Paris as they walked slowly down the stairs. They both looked tired, it had been a long day, and emotional in every way. She was not only watching her youngest child fly the nest, and helping him do it as she lovingly made his bed and put his clothes away, but she was setting Peter free at the same time, or trying to. It was a reminder of her double loss. Triple, when she thought of Meg. All the people she counted on and loved were now gone from her daily life, and Peter far more than that. He was gone for good.
He turned to her as they reached the main hall, which was graced with a huge bulletin board covered with fliers and messages, and posters of concerts and sports events. It was the essence of college life.
“Would you like to join us for dinner tonight?” Peter asked generously, as she shook her head. She was almost too drained to talk, as she brushed back a lock of blond hair, and he had to fight the temptation to do it for her. She looked like a young girl herself in jeans and T-shirt and sandals. She hardly looked older to him than the girls moving in to the neighboring dorm, and seeing her that way brought back a wave of memories for him.
“Thanks. I'm wiped out. I think I'll go back to the hotel and get a massage.” She was even too tired for that, but the last thing she wanted was to sit across a dinner table from him, or worse, next to him, and see what she could no longer have. As tired as she was, she knew all she would do was cry. She wanted to spare them all that. “I'll see Wim tomorrow. Are you coming back?”
He shook his head in answer. “I have to be in Chicago tomorrow night. I'm leaving in the morning, at the crack of dawn. But I think he's pretty well set, by this time tomorrow he won't want anything to do with either of us. He's off and running,” Peter said with a smile. He was proud of their son, and so was Paris.
“Yes, he is,” she said with a sad smile. It hurt so damn much, no matter how right it was. It was painful for her. “Thanks for carrying all the heavy stuff,” she said, as he walked her to the van. “It didn't seem like that much when we packed.” It had grown exponentially somehow on the flight out.
