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Authors: Menna van Praag
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matter. I don’t even notice. She wrote to me. I called her. She’s really quite lovely.”
“Oh.” Sebastian scratches his nose. “I see.” But that is a lie. Another sin to add to his infinite list, though of course there was only one that really mattered, the one he tries every day to forget.
“I’m not being fickle,” Walt protests, as if finally giving up on a twenty-year-long unrequited love could be interpreted as being capricious. “I’ll always care for Cora, of course I will. But I’ve got to get over her. She’s never going to love me back and I need … I need to be loved back.”
Sebastian traps another sigh—of deep longing—in his chest and holds it there. He’s always had very strong willpower, beengood at fasting, at holding secrets, denying himself sustenance and rest. But not love. He’s never been able to stop loving someone simply because he should. If only. Then the last fifty years of his life would’ve been considerably more bearable.
“Of course you’re not fickle,” Sebastian says, suddenly realizing the boy might interpret his silence as judgment. “No one could say that of you. And I’m happy. You’ve found someone. If you’re lucky you’ll fall in love. I’m happy for you, I truly am.” The priest’s nose twitches again and he scratches it. Another lie. He’ll have to chant Hail Marys while polishing the vestry windows tonight.
“Thank you,” Walt says. “I’m happy too.” But, although this is certainly true, although Walt feels happier than he has in his whole life, something the priest said is starting to trouble him. Will he fall in love again? Is it possible? Because, since he decided to finally let go of Cora, he hasn’t felt his heart at all. Not a quickening, not a skip, nothing. It just sits in his chest, beating out its dull monotone, ticking out the time for the next fifty years, until it reaches its last beat, never to be moved or touched or captured again. And Walt is starting to suspect that perhaps neither he nor his heart is actually capable of loving anyone else.
Cora stands on the steps of the Oxfordshire Police Station. Now that she’s actually here, she’s unsure whether she wants to go in. It has taken her all morning to get there. When the bus dropped her off in the city center, Cora had intended to hurry directly to her destination. But instead she found herself dragging her feet, forgetting directions, taking wrong turns. She lost hours counting leaves and bricks and cigarette stubs dropped on the streets, drifting around Oxford, avoiding personal places and stumbling across famous ones: Bodleian Library, Balliol College, Ashmolean Museum.
Cora can’t remember the house she lived in as a girl, so she couldn’t purposely avoid it, but she stayed clear of New College, where her parents worked. She has no memories of being there either yet isn’t ready to confront any memories that might return to her, now that she knows things weren’t as she’d always thought.
“Are you all right?”
Cora blinks and brings herself back. She’s standing on the steps—on the 7th of 17—of a police station. A tall young man is standing beside her with a slight look of concern.
“Are you all right?” he asks again.
Cora nods.
“Can I help you with anything?”
She frowns at him. “Are you a police officer?”
He nods. “I’m a detective.”
It seems to Cora that he wants to touch her arm, to reassure her of something though he doesn’t know exactly what. Over the last few days she’s been getting these senses of strangers, little snapshots into their hearts, and wonders if it’s normal. She’s spent so much of her life disconnected, wrapped up in her head, that she doesn’t know what it’s like to connect, to see and know other people.
“I want,” Cora begins, “I’m here to talk to someone about … my parents.”
The police detective nods and waits.
“They died twenty years ago,” Cora says. “Here in
“Oh.” Sebastian scratches his nose. “I see.” But that is a lie. Another sin to add to his infinite list, though of course there was only one that really mattered, the one he tries every day to forget.
“I’m not being fickle,” Walt protests, as if finally giving up on a twenty-year-long unrequited love could be interpreted as being capricious. “I’ll always care for Cora, of course I will. But I’ve got to get over her. She’s never going to love me back and I need … I need to be loved back.”
Sebastian traps another sigh—of deep longing—in his chest and holds it there. He’s always had very strong willpower, beengood at fasting, at holding secrets, denying himself sustenance and rest. But not love. He’s never been able to stop loving someone simply because he should. If only. Then the last fifty years of his life would’ve been considerably more bearable.
“Of course you’re not fickle,” Sebastian says, suddenly realizing the boy might interpret his silence as judgment. “No one could say that of you. And I’m happy. You’ve found someone. If you’re lucky you’ll fall in love. I’m happy for you, I truly am.” The priest’s nose twitches again and he scratches it. Another lie. He’ll have to chant Hail Marys while polishing the vestry windows tonight.
“Thank you,” Walt says. “I’m happy too.” But, although this is certainly true, although Walt feels happier than he has in his whole life, something the priest said is starting to trouble him. Will he fall in love again? Is it possible? Because, since he decided to finally let go of Cora, he hasn’t felt his heart at all. Not a quickening, not a skip, nothing. It just sits in his chest, beating out its dull monotone, ticking out the time for the next fifty years, until it reaches its last beat, never to be moved or touched or captured again. And Walt is starting to suspect that perhaps neither he nor his heart is actually capable of loving anyone else.
Cora stands on the steps of the Oxfordshire Police Station. Now that she’s actually here, she’s unsure whether she wants to go in. It has taken her all morning to get there. When the bus dropped her off in the city center, Cora had intended to hurry directly to her destination. But instead she found herself dragging her feet, forgetting directions, taking wrong turns. She lost hours counting leaves and bricks and cigarette stubs dropped on the streets, drifting around Oxford, avoiding personal places and stumbling across famous ones: Bodleian Library, Balliol College, Ashmolean Museum.
Cora can’t remember the house she lived in as a girl, so she couldn’t purposely avoid it, but she stayed clear of New College, where her parents worked. She has no memories of being there either yet isn’t ready to confront any memories that might return to her, now that she knows things weren’t as she’d always thought.
“Are you all right?”
Cora blinks and brings herself back. She’s standing on the steps—on the 7th of 17—of a police station. A tall young man is standing beside her with a slight look of concern.
“Are you all right?” he asks again.
Cora nods.
“Can I help you with anything?”
She frowns at him. “Are you a police officer?”
He nods. “I’m a detective.”
It seems to Cora that he wants to touch her arm, to reassure her of something though he doesn’t know exactly what. Over the last few days she’s been getting these senses of strangers, little snapshots into their hearts, and wonders if it’s normal. She’s spent so much of her life disconnected, wrapped up in her head, that she doesn’t know what it’s like to connect, to see and know other people.
“I want,” Cora begins, “I’m here to talk to someone about … my parents.”
The police detective nods and waits.
“They died twenty years ago,” Cora says. “Here in
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