“Aunt A died. I have to go home.”
The words left my mouth without warning, but hearing them aloud, I knew Ellen was right: I had to go home. I owed it to the memory of my mother, and more importantly, I owed it to Aunt A, who had taken care of me when my mother wouldn’t. Aunt A had given so much of herself to be a rock for my sister and me, and I couldn’t let her go through this without support.
“Oh, no,” Caleb murmured, wrapping an arm around me and holding me close. I burrowed into his thin chest, squeezing my eyes shut and stifling wails as images of my mother flooded my mind. I saw nothing but happy memories from a long time past: my young, beautiful mother with her hands in my hair, weaving the thick black strands identical to her own into a braid; my mother smelling of chamomile tea as she leaned over to kiss me good night, her long hair tickling my face; my mother wearing that apron with ruffles at the shoulders, putting a dab of vanilla under my and Lanie’s noses while baking cookies.
“I’m so sorry, love,” he said softly. “I know your aunt was like a mother to you.”
I stiffened at the reminder of my lies. Unaware, Caleb continued whispering comforting words in my ear. I didn’t deserve having this wonderful man console me when I had lied to him about my tragedy—the immediate one and the many others that made up my life—and I pushed him away.
I yanked my suitcase from underneath the bed and flung open the closet. Shaking off Caleb’s attempts to help, I seized every article of black clothing within reach and threw them haphazardly into the suitcase. It didn’t matter what I wore. I wasn’t going home to impress anyone. I hoped I wouldn’t even see anyone, especially—
I cringed, wondering if she was still in Elm Park, if he was. Ellen, a committed gossip, certainly knew, but she knew better than to breathe either of their names to me. I had made it abundantly clear that I wanted both of them erased from my life.
“Yes, thank you,” I heard Caleb say clearly in the hallway. “I need to book travel from JFK to Chicago O’Hare, please . . . Today, if at all possible . . . Yes, I know I can do this online, but I need the bereavement fare.”
Caleb’s nurturing spirit was what had first attracted me to him. We had met in Zanzibar, where he was working with underprivileged schoolchildren. I had been bumming around the idyllic island, ignoring not only the local Muslim sensibilities by drinking too much and wearing too little but also the very same children Caleb was trying to help. We had crossed paths in the night market when one of his students had approached me to practice her English. Caleb’s patience and kindness captivated me immediately; what he saw in me, I never understood.
I peered around the corner to see him in our small hallway. He stood there in only his pajama bottoms, the phone hooked under his stubbled chin, a pencil in one hand and our grocery list, flipped over to make room for flight information, in the other. He was nodding and jotting notes even though his eyes were half closed and crusted over with sleep. In that moment, I would have given anything to stay with him, in this comfortable, happy life we’d constructed for ourselves, for just a bit longer. Just a few more afternoons spent drinking coffee beside him on the couch, tag-teaming the New York Times crossword puzzle; racing him to Prospect Park, dodging baby carriages and dogs the whole way; cooking curries together in the small kitchen, bumping elbows as we chopped onions and measured out spices; all the little things that made life worth living.
“Yes, I need two tickets. The first passenger is Jo Borden. B-o-r-d-e-n. The second passenger is Caleb Perlman. P-e-r-l-m-a-n.”
“No!” I objected suddenly. “Just one! Just me. Just one.”
Caleb politely informed the airline representative he would call back and then turned to me with a befuddled expression. “What are you talking about? Don’t you want me to come to the funeral with you?”
Of course I wanted Caleb to come with me. More than that, I needed him to come with me. There were very few people in my life on whom I thought I could rely, and Caleb was far and away the most solid of this small group. He kept me grounded, steady, and largely sane. If anyone could protect me from being drawn into the madness that was my family, it would be him.
But, of course, it was my family that was the problem. I could still remember the sticky, moonless night that Caleb and I spent perched on a retaining wall overlooking the Indian Ocean, smoking cigarettes and talking until dawn. The whole thing had felt so cinematic that when he asked about my family, I not only trotted out my rehearsed lie about dead parents but I embellished it by killing them off in a car accident, borrowing details like the country road and the drunk driver from the deaths of my mother’s parents. He had looked appropriately sorry for asking, and I had nodded bravely and offered a half-truth about being raised by my aunt. I thought it a lie I would live with for a week at most, but I remained enmeshed in it five years later.
“Caleb, honey, I want you to come. I do.” My voice quivered with emotion on that I do; I needed him to understand how much I really needed him. “But I can’t drag you to Illinois. You just got home. You need to rest, and I’m sure you have a ton of work waiting for you in the office.”
“None of that matters. You matter. I want to take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Caleb sighed, his face softening. “I know, babe. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”
My aching heart warmed. Sometimes I worried Caleb had a savior complex, and that he mistook a desire to save me for love. I was buoyed to hear him cite one of my more redeemable qualities as a basis for his love, and I could not help but press for more. “Really?”
Caleb smiled and smoothed back my ruined hair. “Really. You’re a very capable woman, Jo. You traveled the world on your own for years. I don’t know anyone else who could have done that, and I know a lot of travelers. Most people get burned out or can’t figure out a way to make money, but you kept yourself going for five years. I admire that kind of independence.”
“Thank you,” I said, squeezing back a fresh round of tears. “But, Caleb, really, this is something I can handle on my own.”
Caleb scratched his chin with the eraser end of the pencil. “How about this: you go to Illinois alone today, and see how you’re feeling. I’ll come whenever you need me. Just say the word, and I’ll be there. Okay?”
I nodded in feigned agreement, fully intending to be back on the East Coast before Caleb got near a plane. Then I kissed him, trembling with the thought this might be one of the last times our lips met. Holding his face in my hands, I stared into his soft gray eyes, wondering if he could ever understand. If I came clean, if I got out ahead of things, could there be a chance to salvage our relationship? The truth sat on the tip of my tongue, but before I could open my mouth and release it, I swallowed it again.