Sylvia

An assistant professor was assigned to drive me home. Her name was Cecilia, and she had been quiet, even reserved through the dinner, so I was surprised when she asked if we could have a drink in the hotel. She had something important that she wanted to talk to me about. Curious—make that mystified—I agreed.

She parked the car and we met in the hotel bar. She asked a little about my research—out of politeness, since she clearly had read some of my recent papers—and then asked about my family. She smiled when I told her of my wife Terri's career in lab medicine, and of our daughter's journey through college.

She smiled and asked if the name "Sylvia C___" was familiar to me. I nodded, and waited.

"She died two years ago. Metastatic ovarian cancer. She was my mom."

Cecilia continued her story. Sylvia had married a businessman in 1980. Together they raised Cecilia and a son, Philip. In 2002, Sylvia's husband died in his sleep from a ruptured brain aneurysm. Sylvia had been alone since his death, and mother and daughter became much closer.

"You're different than I imagined you," Cecilia said.

I looked at her, wondering how much she knew.

Anticipating my question Cecilia continued, "She kept her promise and said nothing. Not a word as long as she lived. Occasionally, she would read a professional paper of yours. In fact, she passed one along to me that you had written for Nature. She thought it extraordinarily clear and insightful. She always prized good writing and good speaking. But I never understood why she your papers, even though they were not in her field."

I smiled inwardly, remembering that summer day.

"And...?"

"After she died, the task of cleaning her apartment fell to me. She was a diarist."

I hadn't known that.

"You read her diaries."

"All nineteen volumes of them. Including the summer of 1975."

"Aspen. The meeting."

"Yes."

We sat in silence, sipping our drinks.

"She always regretted leaving that meeting. You filled five pages of diary. I think she wrote nonstop on the flight home."

Cecilia paused. "She followed your career closely. Professionally."

She continued.

"She wrote that it was the most wonderful sex she'd ever had. From the moment you were in her room together. Pure eros. Pure happiness. She never wrote that again. Not once in the next 16 volumes of her diary. But periodically she would mention you. I think she replayed that night in her mind many times."

Cecilia finished her drink and rose to leave.

"So I bring thanks from both of us. Thanks from me that you kept your promise, and she lived her life, and I was born. And thanks from my mom, 37 years late, for what was a very special night in her life."

I watched her disappear from the bar, and signaled the bartender that I wanted one more before turning in.