A Watershed Year Read Online Free
Author: Susan Schoenberger
Tags: United States, Literary, Literature & Fiction, Family Life, Genre Fiction, Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Women, Religious, Christian, Women's Fiction, Domestic Life, Christian Books & Bibles
manifestation of divine care or direction.’”
“What’s the next one?” Sean asked, but Lucy didn’t answer. She stared at the word: “Providence.” She felt the density of the calendar’s pages in her hand—as if she were holding the days themselves—and it seemed to her suddenly that 2003 would be a watershed year. Shehad no evidence for this, only the conviction that all her yearning would latch onto something eventually. It had to.
ON THE FIRST DAY of classes in the new year, Lucy found a prominent place for her Word of the Day calendar on the kitchen counter and tacked the “Providence” page on her small bulletin board to remind her that guidance might arrive when she least expected it. She brushed her long hair into a low, serious ponytail and applied enough lipstick to make it look as if she had pulled herself back together, which somehow made her feel as though she had.
With her book bag over one shoulder, she took the stairs down two floors and left her apartment building—only one step up from living in a dorm—and followed the narrow path between the arts center and the gymnasium, passing a rusted iron sculpture that had always looked to her like some kind of weird urban cactus. The sharp smell of the rusted iron, the bite of cold dry air, and the evidence of frost on the ground surprised her. It was winter now, as if the seasons would go on changing just as they always had, without any regard for Harlan’s passing.
She crossed the main quad and nodded at the freshmen running past her, late to class. A year from now, those same freshmen would either schedule later classes or walk in with a coffee after class had started, nodding casually to the professor, and new freshmen with different faces but the same expression would run past her. The cycle of academic life.
Lucy’s small book-lined office in the Arts and Humanities building was on the second floor. She felt fortunate to have the type of office designated for assistant professors in line for tenure, which meant that it had five shelves instead of four and a chair for students in addition to the one behind the desk. The short-term-contract professors had offices that were little more than closets, and the adjunct professors hired to teach individual classes didn’t have officesat all. But as she put down her book bag, she wondered if she deserved that fifth shelf, which was so crowded with books that it looked as if it might collapse under the weight.
She made a silent vow to redouble her research efforts and crank out at least one notable work of original thought before the end of the school year. She picked up the phone and began dialing Harlan’s number—he had a way of helping her clarify her research ideas—when it struck her again, with fresh pain, that he was gone. It seemed, at times, that her need was great enough to bring him back. Who else would let her rattle on about saints or shake her shoulders when she started feeling sorry for him or for herself?
After Harlan’s death, there had been days so dark they ran into each other like flickering silent movies. The anticipation of missing him, the thumbtack inside her chest, had turned out to be nothing like the real thing, which was an anvil of terrifying weight that seemed to restrict her breathing.
She sat down at her desk, every muscle aching as the anvil pressed down on her. She heard a knock at the door.
“Lucy?”
Angela poked her head in, then rested it against the door frame.
“Hi,” Lucy said, surprised at her ability to speak with so much weight bearing down on her body.
“You’re back,” Angela said.
In the days after Harlan’s death, Angela, who worked in the admissions office, had insisted on coming to see her. She was one of those people who could never seem to sort out her own problems but seemed to enjoy untangling other people’s messy lives. It had been Angela who told her the dean was worried about her, concerned that she had stopped
“What’s the next one?” Sean asked, but Lucy didn’t answer. She stared at the word: “Providence.” She felt the density of the calendar’s pages in her hand—as if she were holding the days themselves—and it seemed to her suddenly that 2003 would be a watershed year. Shehad no evidence for this, only the conviction that all her yearning would latch onto something eventually. It had to.
ON THE FIRST DAY of classes in the new year, Lucy found a prominent place for her Word of the Day calendar on the kitchen counter and tacked the “Providence” page on her small bulletin board to remind her that guidance might arrive when she least expected it. She brushed her long hair into a low, serious ponytail and applied enough lipstick to make it look as if she had pulled herself back together, which somehow made her feel as though she had.
With her book bag over one shoulder, she took the stairs down two floors and left her apartment building—only one step up from living in a dorm—and followed the narrow path between the arts center and the gymnasium, passing a rusted iron sculpture that had always looked to her like some kind of weird urban cactus. The sharp smell of the rusted iron, the bite of cold dry air, and the evidence of frost on the ground surprised her. It was winter now, as if the seasons would go on changing just as they always had, without any regard for Harlan’s passing.
She crossed the main quad and nodded at the freshmen running past her, late to class. A year from now, those same freshmen would either schedule later classes or walk in with a coffee after class had started, nodding casually to the professor, and new freshmen with different faces but the same expression would run past her. The cycle of academic life.
Lucy’s small book-lined office in the Arts and Humanities building was on the second floor. She felt fortunate to have the type of office designated for assistant professors in line for tenure, which meant that it had five shelves instead of four and a chair for students in addition to the one behind the desk. The short-term-contract professors had offices that were little more than closets, and the adjunct professors hired to teach individual classes didn’t have officesat all. But as she put down her book bag, she wondered if she deserved that fifth shelf, which was so crowded with books that it looked as if it might collapse under the weight.
She made a silent vow to redouble her research efforts and crank out at least one notable work of original thought before the end of the school year. She picked up the phone and began dialing Harlan’s number—he had a way of helping her clarify her research ideas—when it struck her again, with fresh pain, that he was gone. It seemed, at times, that her need was great enough to bring him back. Who else would let her rattle on about saints or shake her shoulders when she started feeling sorry for him or for herself?
After Harlan’s death, there had been days so dark they ran into each other like flickering silent movies. The anticipation of missing him, the thumbtack inside her chest, had turned out to be nothing like the real thing, which was an anvil of terrifying weight that seemed to restrict her breathing.
She sat down at her desk, every muscle aching as the anvil pressed down on her. She heard a knock at the door.
“Lucy?”
Angela poked her head in, then rested it against the door frame.
“Hi,” Lucy said, surprised at her ability to speak with so much weight bearing down on her body.
“You’re back,” Angela said.
In the days after Harlan’s death, Angela, who worked in the admissions office, had insisted on coming to see her. She was one of those people who could never seem to sort out her own problems but seemed to enjoy untangling other people’s messy lives. It had been Angela who told her the dean was worried about her, concerned that she had stopped
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