Calling Me Home: A Novel

by Julie Kibler

  “It’s hard to keep up relationships where they’re in your face,” I said, thinking about all my fears about trusting men, and the disaster with my child awaiting me at home. These things seemed almost petty to me now. But they were mine.

  “I was lucky, you know, Dorrie,” she said, surprising me out of the blue the next day. We’d finally stopped overnight in another generic roadside hotel. We’d been too tired to converse after we’d climbed in the car that morning. “I was loved by two good men.”

  I thought about it. I had to agree. “I hope to be so lucky one day,” I said, “but I hope I don’t have to experience as much heartache to get there. One good man is plenty, thank you.”

  “Remember this, Dorrie: Some men are just plain bad news. Then there are good men. They’ll do. Then there are good men you love. If you find one of the last kind, you’d better hang on to him with everything you have.”

  She was right. I had a feeling Teague was one of the last kind. I wondered if he’d heard my message, and if he’d be patient enough to wait while I got my mess with Stevie Junior all straightened out, then patient enough to deal with me. Because I had another feeling. I had a feeling I could love him if I pushed back the barriers in my own heart.

  We pulled into her driveway late that afternoon, bone-tired and weary. Before I reached to open my car door, Miss Isabelle put a hand on my closest one. “When I learned Robert had died, I thought my life was over. I eventually loved Max in my own way, and Dane was a good boy and I was a good mother and I loved him, of course. But it always seemed like something was missing, like losing my little girl and losing Robert had left two holes in my heart.

  “But then I met you, and you stuck with me even when I was cranky and acting like a foolish old woman. God gave me a blessing. He brought me a little piece of the family I’d lost. Through you, Dorrie.” She shushed me when I started to protest—not because I wasn’t honored, but because I couldn’t accept that the things I’d done, so small, could begin to touch the empty places in her heart. “Don’t deny me now. Dorrie, you’ve become like a daughter to me.”

  The tears bubbled up and poured out of my eyes. I couldn’t help blubbering like a fool.

  “Oh, stop now. You’re embarrassing me. I just love you like you’re my own child, Dorrie. It’s simple and nothing to get excited about. It’s not like I have a pile of money to leave you. I’m probably more trouble than I’m worth.” I laughed through my choked throat, and she patted my hand.

  I pulled her suitcase from the trunk and moved mine to my car. I walked her into the house, checked all the doors and windows. Everything was secure. I put the crossword books on her kitchen table, but she pushed them back at me, saying I should keep them as a memento of our trip. She snorted after she said it. But I would keep them, and I’d remember every bit of her story when I thumbed through them, even while so many of the squares remained empty.

  It felt different, leaving her that night, as though she’d changed while we were on the road, going from a feisty old woman who’d needed a little extra help to a fragile thing I was scared to leave alone. I forced my feet to walk to the entryway.

  “One more thing, Dorrie.”

  I turned back. She supported herself against one of the chairs, which looked like it had been in her formal living room thirty years or more. “I’m firing you.”

  I gawked. What in the hell? I’d been doing her hair over a decade—no way I’d quit now, no matter what she said.

  “If you’re like a daughter to me, should I be paying you to come over here and do my hair every Monday afternoon? You ought to be doing it for free.” She chuckled then, and I did, too, though my heart did a jiggity jig, uneasy about these things she kept springing on me.

  She pulled her key chain out of the massive purse of mystery. “There’s an extra house key on here. Take it off and keep it. You go ahead and let yourself in whenever you come by. If you have time to work on my hair while we visit, you can.”

  I shrugged, but we both knew I intended to show up every single Monday morning and do her hair like I always had. I’d never take another dime from her, either. “Okay, Miss Isabelle,” I said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  It was awkward then. Was I supposed to hug her? Kiss her? Now that I was her honorary daughter, it seemed appropriate, but neither of us was the touchy-feely type.

  Maybe, though, one day in the future, I’d surprise her with a quick hug and peck on the cheek. I mean, I’d seen her in her underwear, right? What secrets were left between us?

  42

  Dorrie, Present Day

  STEVIE JUNIOR WAITED for me at home, subdued and all hangdog, like I was going to tear into him, rip him to pieces right there. A few days earlier, I probably would have. But I’d realized now what was most important. Part of that was not pushing my son away when he needed me most.

  “Hey, sugar. What’s the latest?” I called out, letting myself in the house, dragging my suitcase behind me and dropping it on my bed. I’d worry about unpacking later. Stevie was sprawled on our ratty old sofa. I’d wanted to replace it for years with something that would make our house look a little classier. Today, it looked familiar and comfortable. It looked like home.

  Stevie dragged himself to a sitting position and hunched over his hands, which he clenched in one overgrown fist under his chin. He looked surprised at my casual greeting, his shoulders stiff and tensed up, as if my mood were too good to be true.

  I dropped into the recliner catty-corner to the couch, equally familiar and welcoming. My list of what seemed important a week ago had different entries now. “Bailey talk to her parents?”

  “Um, no. I actually don’t think she’ll be talking to them, Mom.”

  My heart felt like it had stopped for a few beats, then resumed beating dully in my chest, as if it didn’t want to but would plug on. So, it was too late to talk over anything. Too late to assure Stevie I’d support whatever choices he made as long as he tried his best to use the brain the good Lord had given him. I sighed.

  “She lost the baby.”

  I jerked my head back and stared at my son. His eyes gleamed. I knew then how seriously he’d taken this whole mess. It wasn’t in his plans, but now he was experiencing a loss he’d never expected to deal with at only seventeen years old.

  I pushed myself up and dropped down next to him, wrapping my arm around shoulders that seemed so broad, but were the same ones I’d held all the years he’d been mine.

  “Honey, really?” I couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit relieved. It was only human, I guess, for the mother of a kid who’d done something dumb to feel relieved the consequences wouldn’t be so harsh. But I hurt more than I expected, too. This had been my grandchild, after all. Even if I wasn’t ready to be a grandma, a piece of my heritage had passed into another realm without me having a chance to love the little guy or gal.

  “She started bleeding yesterday, like a heavy period or something. We went to the emergency room. They said she’d miscarried. It’s early enough she doesn’t have to do anything else. It’s just over. But Mom?” He looked up, pain naked in his eyes. “It hurts. I didn’t know it would hurt like this.”

  “Oh, son, I know. I’m so, so sorry.” I held him closer as his shoulders quaked and he choked on his tears, trying so hard to act like a man. “It’s okay, Stevie. It makes you more of a man to cry. Trust me.”

  A last wave of sobs rumbled through his body like a fading thunderstorm. After he’d finally calmed himself and wiped his face clean with a tissue, I talked.

  “I’m not going to lie. I’m disappointed, Stevie. Disappointed you didn’t come to me to begin with, tell me what was going on and what you thought you needed. Maybe I could have helped you make some logical decisions instead of going against everything I thought I’d taught you—breaking into the shop and taking the money and, basically, letting Bailey’s fear corner you into bad choices.”

  “I know, Mom. I’m so—”

  “Now, wai
t. Hear me. I also know you’re still a child in ways. You’re going to do some more dumb things before you’re all grown. But I want you to try to remember that if you’ll include me in the decisions you aren’t sure about, maybe I can help. Yes, they are your decisions, and we may not always agree. In fact, I’m sure we will strongly disagree sometimes. But you don’t have to do this all on your own, son.”

  We spent the next hour or so figuring out other things—not so serious, but as important to his future: how to approach the school counselors about getting back on track, how he intended to repay me for the damage he’d done to the shop door and my filing cabinet.

  I hugged Bebe long and hard when she came home from her friend’s house, and by the time I was ready to pay someone else a visit, it felt like things were at least a little normal again. Like we were going to make it.

  * * *

  I ASKED TEAGUE if he’d meet me at the shop. He jumped on it, sounded eager—as if he not only wanted to talk things over but maybe even had missed me. A man who’d missed me after all the messing up I’d done over the last week was maybe a man to hold on to.

  He burst out of his car when I got there—he’d already parked and was waiting for me to arrive. He hurried to me and pulled me close in a hug that felt so, so good. Then he tilted my chin up and dropped a kiss on my lips.

  It was a welcome-home kind of kiss. A kiss that said more than any kiss I’d had. It said I like you. I am a patient man. I am willing to wait for you to work all this out.

  I smiled. I couldn’t help myself.

  “Let’s talk.” He pulled me toward the shop door. I braced myself before viewing the mess my son had made of the lock and door frame.

  One of the first things I did was admit I was a smoker—trying to quit, but a smoker—just in case I’d managed to pull a fast one on him. He laughed, said he’d wondered when I was going to spill the beans. He wasn’t crazy about it, but he’d been a smoker, too, for years. He understood how hard quitting was, but he was willing to help me if I was willing to do the work. I’d hardly had time to miss it on the road with Miss Isabelle, but the first thing I’d done when I got in my own car was light up. Of course I had. Old habits were hard to break.

  Later, after I’d reminded him of all the things and people I was responsible for in my life—my kids, my mother, and even Miss Isabelle—he’d recited his own laundry list. He reminded me he had three children who depended on him completely because their mother wasn’t present most of the time, who would turn into teenagers soon enough, with their own unique problems and issues. He reminded me he had a job that took a lot of time and energy and caused him loads of worry on occasion. Like I did. Then he shared extra burdens I hadn’t even known about.

  “Wouldn’t we make a fine pair, Dorrie? I’d say we’re pretty evenly matched here. In fact, I’d be surprised if you wanted to take me on. I’m kind of a handful.”

  I laughed and swatted his arm.

  “Are you ready to trust me?” he asked after he’d drawn me close again, sitting himself down on my hair chair, pulling me onto his lap. In the past, I might have bristled, thinking he was treating me like a little girl instead of someone who could take care of herself just fine, thanks. But I understood some things about love now. I understood he was offering me a deal I couldn’t pass up: a good man. One I was pretty sure I already loved, though we still had a ton of getting to know each other to do and a lot of history to build before we could call it a sure thing.

  So, it seemed like a good idea to take Miss Isabelle’s advice and see where it led my family and me. The answer to Teague’s question came easy. I kissed him first this time.

  43

  Dorrie, Present Day

  MONDAY MORNING, I was doing Miss Isabelle’s hair, like always, as I had promised to do, even though I hadn’t spoken it out loud when I left her. She knew.

  It seemed different now, of course. More intimate than before. The shampoo and rinse I massaged into her hair made it gleam. While I waited for the curls and waves to set, I studied her face and marveled at her skin, so soft and unlined in spite of all her heartache and loss.

  I let my mind drift. Perhaps I’d be so lucky. Maybe I’d faced most of my demons in my younger years and my remaining ones wouldn’t age me quite so fast. Maybe I’d enjoy the rest of my life with people I loved—even if things didn’t always turn out how I planned. Maybe the time Miss Isabelle and I had shared on the road had been my education in how to be a happier person.

  “I think everything’s going to be okay, Miss Isabelle. My boy—I have a good feeling about him. I think this thing woke him up, scared a little sense into him. I have to believe he’ll stick to the values I taught him now and use them to make something of himself. I really do believe that. Now, if only I can get Bebe through the dramatic years, I’ll be all set.”

  I chuckled, trying to imagine my sweet little Bebe girl causing me any real heartache. It was hard to picture now, but I supposed at some point she’d give me a run for my money. I hoped it would be simple things—too much makeup or shorts too short. But I supposed she’d put a few cracks in my heart, too, before all was said and done.

  “And Teague. Oh, Miss Isabelle. Sometimes I think he’s too good to be true. I keep waiting for him to mess up, so I can say, ‘See, I told you so, there’s no such thing as a good man.’”

  But he’d been there the day we got home from our journey, and the next day, too—Sunday, when I’d needed a real grown-up to accompany me to take care of one of the hardest things I’d ever done. Something I’d never expected to do so soon, but in the end, it didn’t surprise me at all.

  Miss Isabelle’s lips curved in a gentle smile. They reassured and encouraged me, telling me one more time that everything was going to be fine.

  Her hair was dry now, and I gently combed the curls into the soft waves she preferred, framing her face like a silvery blue halo. She’d never been perfect—I knew that for sure now—but she was the closest thing to a guardian angel I’d ever have. My eyes misted as I thought of everything she’d come to mean to me. I hoped I’d been a blessing to her, too.

  I used her favorite styling spray to keep everything neat and smooth, the way she liked it, then stepped back to study my handiwork. Pretty good, if I did say so myself. She looked good. She looked beautiful, as always. “What do you think, Miss Isabelle? Should I charge you extra this time? I did my best work today, you know. Yes, I do believe I’ve outdone myself here. All because…” I choked as I tried to say the last few words.

  All because I loved her.

  I remembered my thoughts from Saturday, when I’d debated whether to turn around for a hug or a kiss. This time, I didn’t hold back. I stepped close to her again. I leaned down to reach her frail shoulders, then gathered her as close as I could to embrace her. She didn’t seem surprised at all. Not at that, and not at the kisses I gingerly placed first on her forehead, then on both of her papery cheeks, which were scented lightly by the products I’d used to style her hair, as careful as I’d been to shield her face from them.

  I ran a finger over her lips, then covered her hands, which were clasped carefully at her waist around her tiny silver thimble, with my own. I marveled at our differences again, at the contrast between our skin tones, like rich earth and sun-bleached sand.

  So different. So much the same.

  I heard a rustle at the doorway. I looked up to see Mr. Fisher, who waited there, patient, but with a question in his eyes.

  “She’s ready. As pretty as ever. Between us, we did good,” I said.

  The undertaker nodded and patted my arm. I stepped back.

  She was with Robert now. And Pearl. And probably Max and Dane and everyone else who’d loved her but had gone on ahead.

  I believe Miss Isabelle was ready. This time, she wore a celebration dress.

  About the Author

  JULIE KIBLER began writing Calling Me Home after learning a bit of family lore: As a young woman, her grandmother fell in love w
ith a young black man in an era and a locale that made the relationship impossible. When not writing, Julie enjoys travel, independent films, music, photography, and corralling her teenagers and rescue dogs. She lives in Arlington, Texas. Calling Me Home is her debut novel.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  CALLING ME HOME. Copyright © 2013 by Julie Kibler. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  Cover photograph by Zave Smith/Getty Images

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress has catalogued the print edition as follows:

  Kibler, Julie.

  Calling Me Home: a novel / Julie Kibler. — First Edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-250-01452-8 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-01453-5 (e-book)

  1. Interracial dating—Fiction. 2. Female friendship—Fiction. 3. Self-realization in women—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3611.I27C35 2013

  813'.6—dc23

  2012041949

  eISBN 9781250014535

  First Edition: February 2013