I heard a woman call my name as I walked through the crowded corridor of the third floor of the Cathedral, between the Japanese room and the Armenian room. I wanted to keep walking. Maybe this person had me confused with someone else. At such a big school like Pitt, surely there was more than one person here named Elisabeth.
Nobody ever called for me at Pitt, and I sort of liked it that way.
The woman’s voice called again. “Elisabeth.” It became closer and louder. And I had no choice to turn around. I didn’t want to. But when I did, it was Nicole Santario, who had been a lecturer at Smith when she was working on her master’s degree.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, hugging her as students rushed by us to get to their next...
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