Coming Home To You. Liesel Schmidt
reason, I was too drained to be offended. It was actually almost a relief. There comes a certain point that having to say, “I’m fine,” one more time becomes an agony in itself, when you’d rather avoid the sympathetic looks that everyone gives you when they hear what happened.
The phone continued to ring as I rifled through the contents of my over-stuffed purse. I was curious by now at who it might be, who might dare risk calling the grief-stricken pseudo-widow.
That’s what I was.
Not quite a wife, not quite a widow.
I was without definition.
I found my phone and hastily flipped it open, not even bothering to check the caller ID.
“Hello?” I croaked.
“Zoë? Is that you?”
“Kate?” I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like her.
Kate, who’d been my best friend since the third grade and had been there for every major event in my life.
Every one except this one.
“I’m on my way, Zoë. I’m here,” she said so quietly it was almost a whisper.
Hearing her reminded me of how much I had missed her, and not having her to lean on these past months had left me feeling even more alone. I knew that if she could have been there with me, she would have. She would have dropped everything and come running the minute she heard.
Simpler said than done, though. Kate had spent the last year in Africa doing relief work, living in poor, dangerous conditions that afforded few luxuries and complicated travel. She hadn’t been able to come home for Paul’s memorial, but we’d written to each other constantly. She gave me every bit of support possible, but I still missed her like crazy.
Technically, she wasn’t quite home yet, but she was at least finally back in the country. She’d dialed my number the minute her plane had touched down at LaGuardia, her first domestic stop in the long succession of airports and layovers that was to come over the next hours. Knowing Kate, she probably hadn’t even waited until the stewardess had granted permission for cell phones to be turned back on.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Just come over.” It was all I could manage without crying.
Kate and I had met in the third grade, after one of the sadistic little boys in my class decided he liked the contents of my lunchbox more than his and attempted to lay claim to them. Fortunately for me, Kate’s innate sense of seeking justice for the underdog had kicked in early, and she came to my rescue. The freckle-faced little pipsqueak never even saw it coming. One minute, he was twisting my arm behind my back in an effort to persuade me of the merits of relinquishing my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The next, he was flat on his back with a bloody nose and one hum-dinger of a black eye.
The mean right hook was a move she’d learned from one of her five older brothers, while her self-appointed role of school-ground superhero seemed an attempt to mirror the values that her parents had been trying to teach her. I’d always known she would pursue that fierce passion and channel it to do something important with her life; but, on that day, she was my guardian angel.
Over the next two decades, Kate and I took our cafeteria meeting and cemented our bond to become closer than the sisters we’d each always dreamed of having. My house became her house, her house became mine. Had we been able to occupy the exact same space at the exact same time, we would have been one person, and sometimes I think our parents forgot which kid belonged where.
We differed in so many ways that our friendship might have given other people pause. Not only in personality, but also in physicality. While I was small-boned and athletic, Kate was tall and regal, even as a child. My light brown curls were in direct opposition to the thick blonde mane that cascaded down her back like hair in an expensive shampoo commercial, my large green eyes like foliage to be watered in the wash of her impossibly bright blue ones. I maintained an “athletic” build, never managing to fill out my bras, while Kate could rock a 34C like nobody’s business.
When boys entered the picture, none was allowed access to the inner realm unless approved by the uninterested party and a rigorous battery of tests was passed. After high school, we moved in together and pursued our respective futures at local colleges instead of flitting off to far-flung universities that would strain both our finances and our relationship. Despite the fact that we knew life might eventually send us off in different directions, we were determined to walk the road side by side as long as we possibly could.
The year after graduation proved to be the beginning of our diverging paths. Kate enthusiastically signed on with Oxfam, while I fell into a job at an area accounting firm. She was active while I was complacent. She had a passion while I had a job, and I would have been lying if I said there wasn’t part of me that was more than just a little bit jealous that she knew what she wanted from life and wasn’t afraid to go after it.
Kate was everything I wanted to be when I grew up.
Just without the running off to third world, impoverished, and war-torn countries part.
I was a little too fond of indoor plumbing and other modern conveniences.
Kate had loved Paul the minute she met him, nicknaming him “Six” and telling everyone he was the sixth brother she’d never known she always wanted. Her work with Oxfam and various other programs kept her traveling, so she didn’t have much opportunity to spend time with us; but the time we did share, no one seemed out of place or ill at ease. Everyone fit together as seamlessly and easily as though they had known each other for years instead of the brief period that it truly had been. Even Paul’s best friend Sam had met with her approval, and I’d briefly entertained the thought that the two of them might one day end up together, making us all one big happy family. A relationship like that, though, would have needed more of a foundation than merely the week-long visit she’d had with us during the two years Paul and I had been together.
Despite the miles and the time apart, though, Kate and I had kept our friendship as strong as possible, never allowing contact to lapse—even when we had to resort to book-length letters sent through the slowly moving channels of regular mail. Paul’s death had been a devastating shock to Kate, as well, since the two of them had become close through their own exchange of letters.
And now, she was finally coming home.
I woke the next morning to the sound of my alarm clock, a wretched, wrenching, jarring sound that seemed to be a cross between a school bell and a fire alarm. It was the first of my five alarms to go off, each set at three-minute intervals so that oversleeping was made nearly impossible.
I opened my eyes to glare at the glowing digital numbers and smacked the snooze button.
It was Saturday, not that it really made that much difference to me anymore. Saturdays were just another day to survive like all the rest.
I rolled out of bed, barely managing to escape landing in an ungraceful heap on the floor, all tangled up in my sheets. I hadn’t slept well last night, though that hardly proved different from any other night. There was a decided difference in things, though—I felt different. I felt tired of it.
I shuffled into the bathroom to grab my morning handful of vitamins and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked like death.
“Good morning, beautiful,” I said sarcastically to the unrecognizable face I saw staring back at me. I looked haggard. My skin was dull, my eyes were puffy, and I was desperately in need of a haircut. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had one. What had happened to the woman Paul had fallen in love with? I wondered if maybe she had died with him.
I felt as though she had.
I felt as though I was an empty shell, completely unsure of what to do and who I was anymore.
I was still