the chocolate chip cookie and look at it closely. “Are you my mother?” I ask. She chuckles. Then I worry she might think I implied she was old enough to be my mother, which is ridiculous, obviously, so I add, “Because believe it or not, she bakes them just like that.” Which is a complete lie. Maybe I’m just saying things to fill the void. Or to stop myself from saying things like, By the way, I was there when Alex died and I can’t stop wondering if he would have jumped had I not been there. Oh, and my husband is probably cheating on me.
She puts a hand on my shoulder. “You look tired.”
“Thank you. That’s what my mother says.”
“Which goes to show you should listen to your mother. You should take a couple of days off if you need them, Anna. I’ll talk to Geoff if you like, make sure your classes are covered.”
“I’m good, really, but thanks.” I take a sip of the coffee, playing for time. Finally, when she makes a move to leave, I take the plunge.
“Can I ask you?”
She turns around. “Yes?”
“I’m trying to understand why Alex told you, what you said yesterday, about how he felt, and his moods…”
“I asked him. I could see something wasn’t right. He’d been quieter, I thought—he’d lost that boisterous energy.”
“He was exhausted,” I say, nodding.
“He was depressed, Anna.” She hesitates. “Could you not see it?”
I nod quickly. “Of course I did.” But I hadn’t. Not really. What I saw was the obsession and the highs and the lows, but I didn’t see that he needed proper help. Not like that.
“It’s not your fault,” she says. And I’m thinking that if she keeps saying it, she must believe it is.
“I know. Thank you,” I reply. Even though it’s a lie, obviously. It is my fault. I may not have killed him, I don’t think so anyway, but he is dead because of me. Because I was there, and he lost the plot.
God. I so don’t want to think about that right now. But I can’t help wondering just how much he’s confided in June, especially considering I had no inkling they were even speaking to each other.
“Did he ever talk to you about me?” I ask.
She smiles. “He said that you were the best and that was why he wanted to do the best possible work he could. Because of you. You deserved it.”
I think about that, wait another beat, but she’s lost in her own thoughts now. So she doesn’t know, clearly, that Alex had changed his mind about me. That he didn’t think I deserved much at all in the end.
“Let me know if you need anything,” she says. “Also, his father called. He said to thank you, on behalf of him and his wife. He said they really appreciated how much you did for their son.”
It’s like someone has their thumb on my throat. I can’t speak.
“I know.” She sighs. Then as she leaves, she adds, “The police will be here in an hour. I know they’ll want to speak to you.”
I breathe in at last. “Me? Why?”
She frowns. “Because, out of everyone here, you were closest to him.”
“Of course. Sorry. Yes, I’ll be here.”
Ten
Talking to the police turns out to be the easy part. Almost perfunctory, I think. There are two of them, a man and a woman whose names don’t register through the white noise of my anxiety. They want to know about Alex’s state of mind. I tell them how very bad it was, how we were terribly worried about him. I echo June’s words. He’d lost so much weight lately. He’d changed so much. He would get over-excited, too much so, like he was on drugs. It dawns on me that I never liked Alex very much. That maybe I knew that deep down, but I never put it into words before. I liked what he brought out in me, I liked myself as his savior, the only person who could comfort him, put him back together when he fell apart, help him find his true genius. But now that he is dead, I have no feelings for him other than the lingering resentment of what he was about to do to me.
The police and I agree on how very tragic the whole situation is and I tell them the university is reviewing how it assesses students’ mental health, which is something that just popped into my head—I make a mental