Jigsaw

***

Late one winter afternoon, the department business manager steps into my office, wagging her cell phone in my direction. “Kendra Kimball?” she says.

“Pardon me,” I say to the student sitting across from me. “Who?”

Someone must have died, I think, for the department to get a call looking for me. They’ve had to ring Monica, because our faculty offices have no landlines.

“Kendra Kimball?”

***

***

In my mind, I open a door to a vast, empty, light-filled room. A skein of Kendras wings high overhead, all of them faceless. I shake my head. For thirty-five years, I’ve taught English at eight different colleges and universities from coast to coast. I take pride in learning every student’s name on the first day of class, but once I turn in grades, those names fly away.

“From Chico State?” Monica adds.

Chico State, okay, that narrows it down. I taught there eighteen years ago. There were a couple of Kendras. A Kindra. At least one Kyndra.

***

***

I hold up a finger to the student to wait. “No worries,” she motions. I take Monica’s phone. Maybe a reference check, I guess, or a request for a recommendation?

“Hello, this is Mark Hall,” I say.

“Hi, Dr. Hall,” a cheerful, Midwestern voice beams, “It’s Kendra Kimball.”

Still nothing. I cannot find a face to match the name. I cannot place the voice.

“From Chico State,” she continues.

I feign recognition. “Yes, yes. How are you?” Maybe, if the voice keeps talking, something will click, the pieces will fit.

***

***

Kendra talks for a moment. She now lives in Bozeman. Another former student of mine has applied for a job there, she explains. This led Kendra to think of me. She just wanted to reconnect. “Is this a good time to catch up?”

“Actually,” I say, stalling again, “I have a student with me right now. Can I, uh, call you back?”

I write down Kendra’s number, then, alone in my office, I Google various spellings of her name. But Kimball could be a married name, not the name I once knew. I scan LinkedIn pages and Instagram accounts. Finally, I try K-y-n-d-r-a C-a-m-p-b-e-l-l. The puzzle comes together. Ah, yes, from the Chico State University Writing Center. Kyndra was a student in my tutor education course, she was a peer writing consultant, then my teaching assistant. I recommended her for graduate school–in Bozeman.

For months I’ve been adrift, alienated from my work and the joy I once found in it. Now memories of working with Kyndra stir something.

***

***

Perusing her online profile, I see that Kyndra is a college writing teacher and program director, like me. Next to her photo is a long list of professional accomplishments and awards.

My office gets no cell reception, so I hurry outside, without a coat on, to return Kyndra’s call. As the sun dips beneath the horizon and the temperature drops, Kyndra fills me in on the contours of her life: Her children, two boys. Her husband’s recent battle against a rare and deadly cancer. “We almost lost him,” she says. “But he’s in remission now.” Vibrating with joy, Kyndra details the purpose and pleasure she’s found in leading a college writing program.

***

***

“You’ve had such a profound influence on my life,” Kyndra says. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”

I don’t tell Kyndra how my own career has faltered recently. I don’t tell her about the doubt and disappointment that have plagued me. I don’t tell her about the sleepless nights spent questioning the value of my work.

My voice wobbles. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to hear that.”