sticker on the second envelope. Black sweet williams or lobelias.
The third envelope. Olive-green lobelias or sweet williams.
She slides her hands into the armholes of the navy-blue blouse. Buttons it closed one by one from her throat to her lower belly.
The mirrored closet door reflects the petals back at her. She smooths her hands down the sides. Strange little florets. No one will pierce this armour.
Not Lesley, her old supervisor.
Not even Coral. Her former, now returning, colleague. Her sometime ex-inamorata. Her friend.
Whom Vivianne told her to stay away from. – Sometimes, Vivianne told her, her earrings tinkling, – sometimes too much passion is not good for a person. Occasionally, said Vivianne, – in certain circumstances, a person’s unchecked imagination, her misdirected intelligence as it were, can lead her on a journey into an unhealthy place.
– But then maybe I should try to help her?
– Or you could just stay away from her, said Vivianne, sounding like she was smacking her lips. – Not let her speculations and imaginings splash onto you and distract you, jeopardize your reputation as a scholar heading into mid-career under a newer, more energized headship. This next round of your Academic Achievement Overview. You’re not … ah … the most prolific academic, Edith.
Edith’s right eyelid had twitched so hard she’d clapped her hand to her eye. The eyelid bucked twice again under her fingers. Vivianne paused.
– You have a book coming out soon, and kudos for that. But you can’t afford distractions. So that means you have to excel at many things, which you certainly do, I assure you. You just have to excel at a few other things too.
Edith could hear Vivianne’s likely Madeira Wine lipstick smile on the other end of the phone. Why was Vivianne being so cruel?
– But if you watch your p’s and q’s, maintain your work-life balance, stay out of the company of troublemakers like Coral, well, that definitely helps in the long run. Avoid negativity. Correction: flee negativity. I’ve witnessed the positive effects with other clients from the university.
– You really think so?
– I know so. Say this with me: I am the architect of my life; I build its foundation and select its furniture.
Edith had closed her eyes. She would do this right. She would make Vivianne proud of her.
– I am the architect of my own life, Edith said. – I build its foundations and select its fixtures.
– Furniture, said Vivianne.
– Furniture, repeated Edith.
– You, said Vivianne, – you, Edith, are the architect of your life. You don’t have to invite anyone into your house if you don’t want her there.
– You’re right. Thanks, Vivianne.
– You’re welcome, Edith. We’re at the end of our time now. Goodbye.
The phone clicked before Edith had the chance to say goodbye. Her appointments with Vivianne always end like this. The only disappointing thing about Vivianne.
She sits alone in her shiny condo. New clothes, new shoes, new smell, new tank of gas, but barricaded on every side by paper stacks, reports and reviews and letters she doesn’t want to write but should. Must.
She empties crusted clothes from inside the washing machine. Slams the door closed. Unplugs the washing machine cord, then plugs it back in. She programs an extrahot, extralong cycle on the control panel.
Water rushes into the empty machine, and Edith shoots her fists into the air in triumph.
She rustles back into sitting behind her desk. Clicks on the Academic Achievement Overview webpage button.
Oops! This page does not exist, the computer barfs.
Her email pings. An email from Coral. She remembers how bumpily they kissed that one time, their lips refusing to match.
Edith needs to find a new friend.
She unbuttons the top button of her new blouse.
The very next morning, the sun still stretching itself awake, Edith pulls her car into the parking lot by Crawley Hall, refusing to let the frowny building guilt her for working from home yesterday. She’d like to park by the Kinesiology building, but her expensive university parking pass applies only to her assigned space next to Crawley Hall. Unless she wants to pay the parking fee at the Kinesiology parking lot. Ten dollars and fifty-five cents when she’s already paid for a pass! Forget it. She would rather take the seven-minute shortcut through Crawley Hall to get to the pool.
She’ll scoot through Crawley Hall and be side-stroking through invigorating waters in no time. She shuts her eyes and, clutching her duffle bag of swim gear, dashes through the tight hallways, dives past empty classrooms with gaping, vacant student desks, turns corner after corner in the mini-labyrinth, doors groaning as she tugs them open, hissing as they ooze closed behind her. Left, left, right, then left, then left again, then a short flight of stairs, then a final right, then straight through. No direct routes in this building ever, but she’s memorized them all. She avoids the main lobby, determined that the building will not entice her up to her office, to the piles of unopened envelopes and the unread stack of journals she left on her desk two days ago, and the phony satisfaction that comes with shuffling through paper in her office so early in the morning. She’s not teaching yet; she doesn’t have to be here.
She wipes her nose with a disintegrating Kleenex as she run-walks, her nose suddenly dripping for no reason. She dumps the tissue in one of the overflowing garbage bins lined up in an already tight hallway and climbs the last short set of stairs to a tiny landing.
But this door’s stuck or locked, even though it has no keyhole. She tugs and heaves, pushes, and tugs again at the door, slaps it, huffs. Like the door resents her wanting to exercise and improve her life. She has psychic furnishings to buy for her psychic foundation. She contemplates the door, trying to ignore the odour emanating from the walls, the ceiling: dust, mould, or fossilized compost in a recycling bin. She sneezes. Pulls out a nearly fresh Kleenex from her bag. Maybe a mouse got trapped in a nearby vent and expired. She wonders if she should call Security to unlock the door. If she circles back out the building and takes the long way, she’ll miss the first ten minutes of lane swimming. If she phones Security, she’ll also miss the first ten minutes of lane swimming. She can’t let Vivianne down this way, this very first real day of being the architect of her life. She kicks the door with her runner.
Edith jumps when the door thuds open. Shoot! Maybe she broke the door. She hesitates in the doorway. The ceiling lights appear spotty with dust, as though they haven’t been cleaned in years, the insides of the light panels clotted with grime.
And in front of her a matchbox-sized landing, and yet another set of stairs, this time three steps leading down. She doesn’t recognize the landing. Or remember these stairs.
She’s travelled through every part of Crawley Hall since she started her job seven years ago, but this hallway looks unfamiliar, the stairs redundant – what kind of pointless architecture is this? Three steps leading up to a doorway with a tiny nothing of a landing, just to go three steps down again? She’s sure this design must violate some kind of building code. The lights grim, the corridor even narrower, if possible. Maybe it’s the eerily early hour? No matter, she’s late for swimming, and as she steps through the doorway, the door bangs closed hard into her shoulder.
She yelps in alarm, in pain. She rubs her shoulder as she steps carefully down the stairs. At the bottom, empty study carrels line the walls to the right and left of her, a single chair neatly tucked into each cubicle. She registers a flicker of movement at the end of the line of carrels, hears skittering, the far-off scrape of a chair. Probably students necking in the dark. But so early in the morning? Probably the same dorkmeisters who jammed the door closed so they could have their sex;