But there were times, Dear...

Continued from this story.

I took it very hard, the death of my Dean, not only because she was an incredible woman who did not deserve to die so early — though she was, and she didn't — but because her death came as a complete surprise to me. You see, I learned too late that everyone knew she was dying, everyone except me, that is.

It was almost exactly one year ago, a warm day in early May, a week after I'd flown to San Jose for my interview at USJ, when the phone rang in my condo in Toronto and it was her, the Dean, calling to say that she would like to offer me a tenure-track position, and that a letter was being drawn up, and then she elaborated on the terms and asked, was I inclined to accept. I can still hear her voice, her Norwegian accent.

I replied: Probably.

You know the rest, Gentle Reader. I decided to accept, and then I moved to California.

The day after classes began in January, an email came from the Dean's office, from the Dean herself. She had cancer, she said, and she would be taking a leave, effective immediately. She would be back as soon as she could, she said, and I never doubted it, not for one moment. People get cancer every day. They have surgery, chemo, radiation; they get better, they come back to work, and the people who love them get to love them a while longer.

Especially the tough ones; the tough ones always come back, and she was tougher than most, my Dean. She was tough with me, and I respected her for it. I'd been throwing myself into academia, serving on committees and writing grant proposals and conference papers, and I was going to show her she'd made the right decision, hiring me, that I was worth what I'd asked for, the terms we'd negotiated, you bet I was.

Three weeks passed, or maybe it was five, and another email came, this time from the associate dean, inviting all to attend a reception — that was the term they used, a reception, fucking euphemisms — that was to be held a week hence in the Dean's honour. A reception, what a silly idea, I thought, what was the point of that, when she'd be back in her office, maybe not as good as new, but good, and soon, and I would see her then, and so because the time and date of the reception were not convenient for me to attend, I did not attend, and only when she died two weeks after that did I realize that the reception had been held so that we might say goodbye.

I did not say goodbye, it's my stupid fault that I did not say goodbye, and I did not thank her, or tell her that I wouldn't let her down and that I'd never, never forget her, so I cancelled my classes Monday, because I was going to that funeral, you better fucking believe I was. I didn't know how I was going to get there, or how I was going to get home, but if I had to walk the 20 miles to Palo Alto that's what I'd do, and that's when he called: Jack. He called exactly when I needed him to, like he'd been hearing my thoughts with some sort of emotional radar. He asked what time I needed him to pick me up, not whether I needed him or what I needed, because he knew, he only asked when and where and said he'd be there. He'd cancelled his business trip, and he'd be there, because I needed him to be there.

He and Beauty arrived right on time, both of them dressed in black, and we drove to the church, and I was quiet because I was thinking about her, the Dean, for real this time, and Jack knew that, of course he did, and when I was a little too quiet he would ask me about her, so that I could tell him about her, even though they'd never met, and would never meet.

He sat at my side through the service, and he listened to her loved ones tell stories about her, and he laughed when they laughed, and he looked sad when they were sad, and he said, she was quite a woman, wasn't she, and I agreed that she was. There were five hundred people in that room. Five hundred people who cared about the Dean, and one who cared about me. One who I'd thought had let me down, but I was wrong, he hasn't let me down for a long, long time, and I wouldn't be here, I mean in California, if it weren't for him, not because I came here for him, but because I wouldn't have been able to come here without his help. He's the best man I know. I need to stop doubting that.

The Dean's son talked about his mother, and maybe because it made me think of my mother, and about how she died of cancer, too, but not suddenly; no, not at all, that I started to cry then, just a little, and I reached into my purse and rummaged to find the tissues that I knew were there, but I couldn't find them, and then, like he was Cary Grant in an old black and white movie, with one graceful swoop of his arm, Jack pulled his white linen handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, and handed it to me.

The final speaker was the Dean's husband, who told the story of how they'd met, more than three decades ago. How they'd been dating for a few months when she said to him, you talk about marriage, but you haven't actually asked me to marry you, so he proposed right then and there, will you marry me, he asked, and she replied: probably.

Jack laughed heartily at that. I laughed, too, but not quite as hard, because I could hear her speaking the words even though her husband had been the one telling the story. I could hear her saying it.

He'll never ask, I know that, no one every will again, it's too late for that, but if, just if the moons line up just right one day, and Jack asks me the question that I'd always thought I'd answer immediately with yes, well, I think now what I'll say is this:

Probably.