Forever, Joan

August 1998

oming home from vacation is always a hectic time and it’s even more so when you’re a teacher and it’s the start of the school year. I was an English Literature professor at the University of Michigan in 1998. I hadn’t taught that summer but had gone to London, my hometown, for the entire break. I had gone to all my favorite haunts and visited all my friends. Most importantly, I had finally finished the novel I had been trying to write for the past five years, and, by finished, I mean it had a beginning, a middle, and an end. The trip had been wonderful.

When I got out of my Lexus on campus that Monday morning, late in August, I had barely readjusted to the time zone. I knew I should have returned earlier, but I was having such an excellent time, I couldn’t make myself. That summer in London had made me miss the country of my birth.

August in Michigan is hot and humid, and that year it was no different. The summers can sometimes be as brutal as the winters with the mosquitoes biting and the air oppressive. That first day back was no exception. I had been in the states for fifteen years at that point, and often felt more American than British. That summer, though, I had rediscovered England. I had moved to Michigan originally for the woman I had married, but that had ended very badly with an incredibly acrimonious divorce. I didn’t feel the better for having gone through it either. She was a malicious woman, never happy. I tried to make her happy, but it was an impossible task. Unfortunately, I didn’t discover this truth until we’d married and I had moved my life to the States. Maybe she changed from the time we dated, or maybe I did. All I know is that it took us only eight months to discover that we loathed, rather than loved, one another.

I had dated many women after my marriage, but had found no one with whom I was willing to make a second trip down the aisle. That summer I was content in my bachelor life and, I’ll admit, a little gun-shy. I had women with whom I had dinner and more intimate experiences. I had someone on my arm at parties and was often invited to escort others to theirs. No attachments had formed, though, and I was fine with that.

Sarah Barker, the most recent woman whose companionship I had sought was lovely and bright and I found her fun to be with. I had just started seeing her before I had gone to London, and wondered if she’d still be available once I returned. My life, at 53, was exactly where I wanted it to be. The completion of my novel was icing on the cake. I was ready to get down to another semester of teaching 18 to 22 year olds about the Romantic Era in English Literature.