"You could put it under the bed with a garbage bag around it—just to hide it. Then we could figure out how to move it later, bring it up to my house or take it to the dump."
"I don't know about the dump," Patrick said. "It would be like throwing her away."
"No dump," Willow said.
"The garbage bag is a good idea. That's what I'll do. So . . . " He stood. "I'll miss you. Love that T-shirt." He meant what was underneath. She wiggled in her chair, pleased.
"I've got the day off tomorrow," she told him. "I'd love to see you."
"Good deal. Here, after work?" They agreed and she watched him leave, walking slowly. She wanted to tell him about her decision, but he had a lot on his mind. It could wait until tomorrow. Also, that would give her another day to make sure it was for real. She knew it was, but it wouldn't hurt to sleep on it one more night.
In the morning, she wrote to the Dean at Stanford, requesting a leave of absence. Willow (Clara) Brown, she signed it. It's my name, damnit, she said to herself. Every one has always called me 'Willow.' I can't help it if Dad is a Brahms freak. I mean, there's nothing wrong with Clara, but Willow is my name. She was working herself up to call home. Writing the letter first made the decision more of a fait accompli, even though she hadn't mailed it.
She rode her bike into town and dropped the letter through the slot inside the post office. "That's that," she said and felt better. She called collect from a pay phone and got her mother.
"Hi, Mom."
"Willow, dear!"