39. Caleb
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Caleb
Bringing my palm to my eyes, I rub the sleepiness out and loose a yawn, drawing the Berry’s attention from across the room. I didn’t hear Marnie leave this morning, and while I was grateful for the extra few hours of sleep, I wish I could’ve seen her off.
I put on a pot of coffee and join Berry on the front porch.
She sits beside me, and we watch the hummingbirds flit between the feeders, listening to the bird songs echoing down from the trees.
The cool morning breeze is light, but it still sends a small shiver down my back, a stark contrast to the warmth of my coffee.
The serenity of the setting lets my mind drift to Marnie.
She should be pulling into the Boston Historical Society any minute.
Protectiveness surges through me at the thought of her alone with Irene.
I offered to go with her, but she insisted that she needed to do this on her own.
I knew she was right, but I still wish I could’ve been there, even just for moral support.
My headstrong, stubborn woman.
I take the final sip of my coffee, the heat from the ceramic lingering on my hands, and head back inside.
I set the mug in the sink and my eye catches the wrapped gift on the table.
Linny gave me a nice blue paper to wrap it in, and I was grateful that the rectangular shape helped me hide my horrid wrapping abilities.
I never managed to give it to Marnie before now, since Irene blew her life up the day that I originally intended to give it to her—the day the article dropped.
Today is as good a day as any to surprise her with it.
That way, regardless of how her trip to Boston goes, she can have something to open when she gets home, either to cheer her up, or make her day even better.
It’s a quick drive up the road to my father’s house from mine, and I let myself into the house using the emergency key that’s been under the same rock since I was a kid.
The lights are on when I enter, but I’m greeted by an empty house.
Everything is exactly how it was the last time I was here.
If I didn’t have confirmation he was still living here, I could’ve been convinced that he skipped town with how untouched everything looks. “Hello?”
“In here,” he calls from the office.
Following his voice around the corner, I find him at his desk.
His back is to me, hastily writing something on a piece of paper.
“Give me a minute, I’m just finishing up something for a client.
” He pauses his movement, peeking over his shoulder at me.
“Grab a drink and meet me on the porch,” he adds, before turning back around.
My stomach bottoms out at his words, a wave of nausea coming over me. Just as I predicted. He wants to sit me down and talk to me. I feel like I’m ten years old again, getting in trouble for sneaking dessert before dinner.
I walk over to the fridge and peek inside. I settle on a glass of fresh lemonade and head over to the back porch, leaving the sliding door open behind me.
The furniture fills the small area: two large loungers pushed together to form a sectional with a coffee table in the middle and a pair of wicker chairs on the opposite side that overlook the yard.
I select the chair furthest from the door, place my drink down on the side table, and peer out into the backyard.
The same yard where I learned to swing a baseball bat, and practiced rollerblading so the grass would cushion me if I fell. The same yard where I first tested out my tool kit, hanging on my father’s every word, my mom watching proudly from her hammock.
A highlight reel of childhood memories flashes through my mind, and I start to wonder where it all went wrong.
The selfish part of me wonders if my mom were still here, would I have a better relationship with my father?
Would I enjoy working for him? Would I still be resentful of the future that was intended for me?
Heavy footsteps interrupt my trip down memory lane and draw my focus back to the present.
I watch my father curiously as he takes the empty seat beside mine.
“Thank you for coming by,” he begins. It comes out awkward and unsteady, like he doesn’t know how to start the conversation.
“I was surprised to get your call,” I answer honestly.
It was true. Before yesterday, we hadn’t spoken since the dinner fiasco over a month ago.
I didn’t have anything left to say to him, but instead of addressing it, I threw myself into the exhibition.
Any spare moment not working, I spent with Marnie, and I had been completely content with that.
I had no desire to dredge up anything from that night.
An awkward silence comes over the room.
“Listen, if you called me here to talk about the dinner, I’m not interested.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about that. At least not right now. Not until the time is right.”
“Then why did you call me here?”
Nothing—absolutely nothing—could’ve prepared me for the next words out of his mouth.
“I want to talk about your mother.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. I’m pretty sure I stop breathing, too. I’ve been waiting to hear those words for a decade.
My mouth turns dry, and I wish I had something stronger than lemonade in my glass.
He doesn’t speak right away, but I want to give him time to get this out. There’s no way I am going to interrupt or talk first when I have no idea where he is going with this.
“I want to talk about your mother,” he repeats, “because I know you and I have not had the easiest relationship since she passed.”
Understatement of the decade.
He bows his head, like he heard my silent retort and agrees. “I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve kept you at a distance, however unfair that was, to try to preserve any possibility of a relationship.”
The confession sinks in, but frustration bubbles over.
“Why didn’t you try harder?” My voice cracks on the last word.
“You didn’t have to try to preserve anything.
Nothing was going to change between us, at least not on my end.
If anything, I thought it would bring us closer together, not drive us further apart. ”
“I can’t make any excuses for how I chose to process my grief.”
“I always thought you resented me. For being there in her final days, and when she passed. For not getting to say goodbye. For all of it.”
“Resent you? No, you’ve got it all wrong.
” Hurt paints his face and his body sags lower into the seat.
“I was . . . ashamed. Of myself. For making you deal with that all on your own. For not being there for you when you needed me. For not knowing how to be there for you, because no one was there for me.”
Guilt washes over me as I take in his words. I never thought about it like that before—that he had no one to lean on because he was expected to be strong for me.
He reaches for his glass, hands shaking. I silently watch him as he takes a large gulp of water and I wait for him to continue, too afraid to interrupt.
Minutes pass, neither of us daring to speak. The weight of his words sits in the air like a thick fog.
Just when I think he’s closing off again, his next words surprise me.
“I’m going to therapy again,” he says softly, staring into his glass.
For the second time during this conversation, I’m left speechless.
“How long?”
He meets my eyes, resting his elbows on his knees. “A few weeks now. Started right after our dinner.”
“Why? Why now, after all this time?”
His gaze falls once more. “I’ve been going off and on for years, but I didn’t sleep that night after I left your house.”
It’s too difficult to hold eye contact, so I focus on the wringing of his hands in his lap. I can tell this is difficult for him, so I just wait, giving him time to form his words.
“It took far too long for me to swallow my pride and admit that I needed help. That dinner . . . hearing Marnie tear into me over you . . . it was the kick in the ass I needed. And I spent that entire night thinking about it.”
That pulls a small chuckle out of me. The knowledge that my feisty, fearless Marnie was the one to make my father finally do some self-reflection.
“I have to change, because I can’t lose you, too.” His voice breaks and my heart shatters all the same. When the tears start to fall, I can’t do anything to stop them. “I don’t want to miss out on any more of your life than I already have.”
Suddenly, I feel his hand rest on my shoulder, and I welcome the touch.
Then he stands and sets down his glass before pulling open the sliding door.
I think that is the end of the conversation, but he stops in the doorway, looking back at me.
“There’s something else. Another reason why I called you.
My therapist gave me some homework, and it includes you.
” With that, he disappears into the house and up the stairs.
A few minutes later, the stairs creak, and he returns with something in hand. It’s only once he’s almost reached the doorway that I can make out what it is. A white ceramic container with delicately painted flowers rising from the bottom.
No, not a container. An urn.
Holy shit.
I swallow thickly, my throat already tight. I can feel my heart beginning to pound.
He walks back over to me. There’s a sincerity in his eyes. Vulnerable and genuine. “It’s time.”
I know what he’s saying—implying—but my mind is still catching up from his earlier confessions. I study the intricate, hand-painted details of the design and ponder his words for a moment. Then a thought hits me. “I know just the place.”
We’re floating a few miles from the shore when we reach our destination, in perfect view of the Edgartown Lighthouse.
The drive to the harbor and the boat ride over to the lighthouse were quiet, words not needing to be exchanged. The gravity of what we were about to do weighed heavily on us both.