The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight(30)
Author: Jennifer E. Smith

She doesn’t want to think about Dad and the wedding she left behind, and she’s not sure she wants to think about Oliver and what she might discover when she finds him. The train is still four minutes away and her head is pounding. The silky fabric of her dress feels far too sticky and the woman beside her is standing much too close. Hadley scrunches her nose against the smell of the place, musty and stale and sour all at once, like fruit gone bad in a small space.

She closes her eyes and thinks of her father’s advice to her when they stood in the elevator in Aspen, the walls collapsing like a house of cards all around her, and she imagines the sky beyond the arched ceiling of the tube stop, above the sidewalk and past the narrow buildings. There’s a pattern to this kind of coping, like a dream repeated night after night, always the same image: a few wispy clouds like a streak of paint across a blue canvas. But now she’s surprised to find something new in the picture that’s forming on the backs of her eyelids, something cutting across the blue sky of her imagination: an airplane.

Her eyes flicker open again as the train comes rushing out of the tunnel.

Hadley’s never sure if things are as small as they seem, or if it’s just her panic that seems to dwarf them. When she thinks back, she often remembers stadiums as little more than gymnasiums; sprawling houses become apartment-sized in her mind because of the sheer number of people packed in. So it’s hard to tell for sure whether the tube is actually smaller than the subway cars back home, which she’s ridden a thousand times with a kind of tentative calm, or whether it’s the knot in her chest that makes it seem like a matchbox car.

Much to her relief, she finds a seat on the end of a row, then immediately closes her eyes again. But it’s not working, and as the train lurches out of the station she remembers the book in her bag and pulls it out, grateful for the distraction. She brushes her thumb across the words on the cover before opening it.

When she was little, Hadley used to sneak into Dad’s office at home, which was lined with bookshelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, all of them stacked with peeling paperbacks and hardcovers with cracked spines. She was only six the first time he found her sitting in his armchair with her stuffed elephant and a copy of A Christmas Carol, poring over it as intently as if she were considering it for her dissertation.

“What’re you reading?” he’d asked, leaning against the doorframe and taking off his glasses.

“A story.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying not to smile. “What story?”

“It’s about a girl and her elephant,” Hadley informed him matter-of-factly.

“Is that right?”

“Yes,” she said. “And they go on a trip together, on a bike, but then the elephant runs away, and she cries so hard that someone brings her a flower.”

Dad crossed the room and in a single practiced motion lifted her from the chair—Hadley clinging desperately to the slender book—until, suddenly, she was sitting on his lap.

“What happens next?” he asked.

“The elephant finds her again.”

“And then?”

“He gets a cupcake. And they live happily ever after.”

“That sounds like a great story.”

Hadley squeezed the fraying elephant on her lap. “It was.”

“Do you want me to read you another one?” he asked, gently taking the book from her and flipping to the first page. “It’s about Christmas.”

She settled back into the soft flannel of his shirt, and he began to read.

It wasn’t even the story itself that she loved; she didn’t understand half the words and often felt lost in the winding sentences. It was the gruff sound of her father’s voice, the funny accents he did for each character, the way he let her turn the pages. Every night after dinner they would read together in the stillness of the study. Sometimes Mom would come stand at the door with a dish towel in her hand and a half-smile on her face as she listened, but mostly it was just the two of them.

Even when she was old enough to read herself, they still tackled the classics together, moving from Anna Karenina to Pride and Prejudice to The Grapes of Wrath as if traveling across the globe itself, leaving holes in the bookshelves like missing teeth.

And later, when it started to become clear that she cared more about soccer practice and phone privileges than Jane Austen or Walt Whitman, when the hour turned into a half hour and every night turned into every other, it no longer mattered. The stories had become a part of her by then; they stuck to her bones like a good meal, bloomed inside of her like a garden. They were as deep and meaningful as any other trait Dad had passed along to her: her blue eyes, her straw-colored hair, the sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

Often he would come home with books for her, for Christmas or her birthday, or for no particular occasion at all, some of them early editions with beautiful gold trim, others used paperbacks bought for a dollar or two on a street corner. Mom always looked exasperated, especially when it was a new copy of one that he already had in his study.

“This house is about two dictionaries away from caving in,” she’d say, “and you’re buying duplicates?”

But Hadley understood. It wasn’t that she was meant to read them all. Maybe someday she would, but for now, it was more the gesture itself. He was giving her the most important thing he could, the only way he knew how. He was a professor, a lover of stories, and he was building her a library in the same way other men might build their daughters houses.

So when he’d given her the worn copy of Our Mutual Friend that day in Aspen, after everything that had happened, there was something too familiar in the gesture. She’d been rubbed raw by his departure, and the meaning behind the gift made it hurt all the more. And so Hadley had done what she did best: She simply ignored it.

But now, as the train snakes its way beneath the streets of London, she’s unexpectedly pleased to have it. It’s been years since she’s read anything by Dickens; first, because there were other things to do, better things to do, and then later, she supposed, because she was making some sort of quiet statement against her dad.

People talk about books being an escape, but here on the tube, this one feels more like a lifeline. As she leafs through the pages, the rest of it fades away: the flurry of elbows and purses, the woman in a tunic biting her fingernails, the two teenagers with blaring headphones, even the man playing the violin at the other end of the car, its reedy tune working its way through the crowd. The motion of the train makes her head rattle, but her eyes lock on the words the way a figure skater might choose a focal point as she spins, and just like that, she’s grounded again.