Chapter 4: Caleb's Mother

Marietta is two hours southeast of Columbus, and I drove it the next morning with the heater on high and my pill organizer in the cup holder.

Caleb Turlock's mother lived in the same yellow house on Third Street where I had eaten grilled cheese after school for ten years.

There was a wreath on her door.

It was made of white ribbon and dried hydrangeas, and a black bow was tied at the bottom.

I knocked anyway.

She opened the door in her apron with flour up to her elbows, and she was healthy.

She stood straight. She had color in her face. She had no hospital bracelet, no cane, no tired shadows under her eyes.

Caleb had told me she was in the hospital with a complication nobody could name.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Then she dropped the dish towel and put both floury hands on her face.

"Mara?" she whispered. "Mara Ostrow?"

"Hi," I said. "It's me."

She grabbed me so hard that I had to put a hand on the door frame.

She smelled like cinnamon and butter, and she was shaking.

"They told me you were gone," she said into my hair. "Caleb called me in March. He said it was your heart. He said the family didn't want a funeral."

"I don't have a family," I said. "Not one that could decide that."

She pulled back and held my arms and looked at me.

"I lit a candle for you every Sunday."

"I know," I said, though I didn't. "Thank you."

She dragged me inside.

The kitchen was the same, with its yellow curtains and the cat clock over the stove.

On the refrigerator was my senior picture from Marietta High, held up by a magnet shaped like a strawberry.

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