The Distance Home Read online

  “Did you ever question Jillian about what happened? What really happened?” I meet Simon’s eyes and blink at the sadness reflected in them.

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “Her story never changed. And you never challenged what she said.”

  “Would it have mattered?”

  Our gazes do a clumsy two-step around each other. It wouldn’t have mattered, even though we both would like to believe otherwise. My side of the story would have raised questions neither family wanted out in the public. So I buried my truth and my father made sure the grave remained unmarked.

  A white pickup lumbers up the driveway and pulls into a parking slot next to my rental. A slight woman with a tight ponytail slips out of the cab, followed by a panting golden retriever. Simon and the woman exchange hellos while the dog pokes a twitching snout at each pocket of Simon’s jeans.

  The woman strides to the barn, her black riding boots stamping a familiar beat. My insides clench and I turn away before I have to label the feeling.

  “It was good seeing you, Simon.” I feel his eyes on me as I walk to the car. I watch the toes of my Converses emerge and disappear with each step. Without turning around, I open the car door, then melt into the oppressive air inside the car.

  * * *

  The road away from the stable dips and turns, with only a few farmhouses dotting the green pastures. A sign cautions a ninety-degree turn and a blind driveway entrance.

  A long-suppressed ghost takes control of the car. My foot slams on the brakes. My hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles threatening to pop out of my skin. Sparks shatter in my vision and my breath racks in my ears as pain splinters my ribs. The shrill grating of steel on pavement. The screaming of humans and horses. The slow-motion roller coaster of the truck flipping. Jilli’s head slamming into the steering wheel. The flashing lights and yelling voices. The utter silence of lives shattering.

  Through the distance of sixteen years I hear a honk, then two quick, then a very long one. I blink my surroundings back into the present. A head pokes from the window of the truck behind me and a man’s voice yells for me to move.

  Flipping on the hazards, I release the brake enough for the car to coast to the edge of the road. The driver of the truck revs the engine and lunges past, waving his left hand out the window in what most likely wasn’t a good-bye.

  I close my eyes, waiting for my heart to settle back into my chest. A sedan comes from behind and the driver gives me a curious look as he slides past. I wave him on. Nothing to see here.

  I force my foot to lift, allowing the car to creep through the sharp turn, my hands in a stranglehold on the wheel. The sedan must have turned into the driveway on the right because I see dust swirling.

  The field on the left side of the road looks like every field I’ve passed so far, browning after a hot, dry summer. No skid marks. No mangled steel. No broken lives.

  “Oh my god.” The dark irony slams into my chest. An accident sent me away sixteen years ago. And an accident is responsible for bringing me back.

  The sun envelops the mountain in a soft hug and the fields glow. A magical, peaceful setting for my worst nightmare.

  2

  The morning drive is far more peaceful than the one the night before. Granted, the drive to downtown Emmitsville is the opposite direction from Jumping Frog Farm.

  Downtown has matured since I lived here. There’s a new strip mall with a Subway and a Starbucks, a karate studio nestled between them. A bank sits at the end, its front door facing the other side, like the buttoned-up kid who doesn’t get called for the kickball teams.

  I take a right at the Stop sign my father used to complain was a waste of time and pull up to an old Victorian flanked by two older Victorians, one a coffee shop, the other a used bookstore.

  The door to Crème Café opens, releasing the stomach-gurgling aroma of fresh-baked bread and strong coffee. I’d declined breakfast at the Mountain Inn this morning. Now I wish I hadn’t.

  A woman in a jewel-toned gypsy skirt bumps the door wider with her hip, her hands trying to keep three paper cups and a white paper bag from falling. She negotiates the three steps down, judging each out of the corner of her eye. She looks frazzled already and I wonder if that’s how bystanders saw me on Friday mornings on the way to work—worn by the week, exhausted by the sheer thought of the day ahead. She passes in front of my car, then takes the steps to the bookstore. The sign says they open at 10 A.M. I glance at the clock on the rental’s dash. It’s 8:56.

  We’re both early. My appointment with Thomas Adler is at 9.

  I’m always early though.

  Punctuality, Emma, is a sign of professionalism and respect.

  “See, Dad, you taught me well.”

  Even though the digital clock still shows 8:58, I get out of the car.

  The steps of the old building creak a welcome. A small blue sign by the door confirms I’m in the right location.

  ADLER LAW

  SINCE 1953

  Before I have a chance to knock, a man pushes the screen door open.

  “You must be Emma Metz. You look just like Edward. And you obviously inherited his promptness.”

  I shake off the urge to protest. I’m nothing like my father. I never wanted to be like my father. And yet everything about me seems to be a copy of him.

  “Yes, I am. You’re Thomas Adler?”

  “That’s me. Please come in.” He steps to the side, propping the screen door open with his body while his hands gesture me ahead.

  He’s younger than I expected. Not much older than I. He’s wearing khakis and a button-down shirt, one button open at the throat and folded at the wrists. On his left wrist are two braided yarn bracelets. Friendship bracelets. No fancy watch. A wide band of various metals gleams on the ring finger of his left hand as he waves me into the house. A woodsy cologne pricks at my nose.

  Inside, the old house is remarkably modern. Instead of tiny dark rooms, I’m standing in an open floor plan with sleek desks in the middle, chest-height bookshelves providing partitions between the workspaces. The whirring of a copy machine rattles from the back of the house and a phone rings on an empty desk. A woman in a gray pencil skirt and crisp white blouse swivels her chair between a sleek computer screen and a laptop on the perpendicular surface of an L-shaped desk. I resist the urge to tell her it’s not an efficient setup.

  Thomas Adler gestures me into a room where burgundy leather couches create a striking accent to the light wood floor and lighter beige walls. Two of the walls are covered with whimsical paintings of men playing cards and boules, a man on a bike with a baguette sticking out of a pouch on his back, and a woman reading a book on a park bench. He takes in my surprised expression. “Not what you were expecting?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “My dad knew the artist. They lived in the same apartment building in Paris when they were in their early twenties.”

  A third wall boasts an impressive selection of diplomas. Those I expected.

  He points to one of the minimalist leather couches and folds his lanky frame onto a matching one, pulling at his pant legs as he settles. He crosses his right leg over his left and weaves his fingers together, cupping his right kneecap. He’s not exactly what I imagined, although I’m not honestly sure what I imagined.

  “Have you had a chance to review the documents I sent?”

  I push deeper into the square couch, uncomfortable under his direct gaze and direct approach. “Some. There’s a lot to take in.”

  “Your father was meticulous. He made sure everything was accounted for.”

  That would be Edward Metz. Everything in his life was controlled. It’s what made him a successful psychiatrist. And it’s what made him a failure in his personal life. But maybe I’m the only one who saw it that way.

  He traveled all over the world, lecturing at medical conferences. His articles appeared in prestigious medical journals. He worked endless hours seeing patients.


  Because of his travels, we never went on vacation. Because of those endless hours helping strangers, he was never around to see what was happening in his own house.

  “Ms. Metz?” He’s watching me, a pen poised midair as though waiting for my thoughts.

  I look around the room, stalling, until I’ve made a full sweep and land back on my father’s attorney.

  A week ago I was in my office, on the tenth floor, windows overlooking busy Chicago. I had dinner reservations at a fancy Italian restaurant with a handsome lawyer from the fifteenth floor. And I was blatantly ignoring the e-mail from my father with details on his business trip the following month. We need to talk, he’d said. Please save an evening for me.

  I hadn’t gotten around to answering.

  The last time he’d sent me a “we need to talk” e-mail had led to four months of not speaking to each other. It had started as a rare father-daughter bonding discussion in a cozy French restaurant. He’d inquired about my job, asking questions even if he hadn’t been overly enthusiastic in his responses.

  At some point the conversation shifted to my then live-in boyfriend. Gavin, my father thought, was using me. I was being naïve and gullible and he was here to make sure Gavin was moved out of my life.

  The irony was that I’d already planned on kicking Gavin out. My father’s parental declaration bought Gavin another two months. It was another two months before I started speaking to my father again. And a few weeks beyond that before I let it slip that the go-nowhere boyfriend was gone.

  Another “we need to talk” e-mail stank of crispy feelings. So no, I hadn’t answered. And yes, I was carrying that extra poundage of guilt. My left thumb picks at the cuticle on the ring finger. Don’t do it. Don’t chew on it.

  A week ago, my ghosts were safely tucked several states away, and under years of emotional baggage.

  Then someone popped the lock on the suitcase of my past.

  The phone call had come while I was in a meeting. An unfamiliar Maryland number. I’d let it go to voice mail. Another thing I’d learned from my father—answer the phone only when you can give the caller your full attention. I guess that’s why he usually let calls fall into voice mail.

  My return call was answered immediately. Thomas Adler’s voice stutters through my mind. “I’m sorry to tell you … car crash … so sorry … dead … instant … nothing they could do … so sorry … I’ve arranged a flight and hotel … if I can help … so sorry.” He’d said “sorry” more times than was necessary.

  My father had left strict instructions that I was to come to Maryland in the event of his death. But why? He’d orchestrated every get-together as far from here as possible. Now that he’s dead I’m summoned back?

  “Why am I here, Mr. Adler? This could have been taken care of without me having to upturn my schedule.”

  “I don’t know his motivation. Maybe he hoped that making peace with the past would help you move forward?”

  “I moved forward. My life is in Chicago. There’s nothing for me here. This,” I gesture at the papers on the low table between us, “could have been handled by mail.”

  “It’s not just about signing a few papers.”

  “Then what? You’re taking care of the practice. And I could have hired someone to clean out his condo.”

  He pulls his lips into a tight circle and I wait for him to release the words he seems to be tasting. “The service?”

  I tighten the distance between my shoulder blades and pluck at a thread in the throw pillow by my elbow.

  “What service, Mr. Adler? You read his instructions to me over the phone. I heard his words in your voice, ‘There is to be no public service. My body is to be donated to Johns Hopkins University Hospital. My daughter, Emma Metz, is to have a private moment at the grave of her mother, my wife.’” I wince, equally horrified at the explicit instructions he’d left and at my brain for memorizing those instructions verbatim.

  We fall into an uncomfortable silence, office sounds suddenly too loud in the adjoining rooms where Mr. Adler’s colleagues are talking on phones and photocopying papers.

  “How long will you be in town?”

  “A week. Why? How long do you expect this to take?”

  “The paperwork part won’t take long.”

  The paperwork part.

  “What other part is there?” The private moment at mom’s grave is nothing more than a moment on my drive back to the airport. I square my shoulders against the mounting dread that even from the grave my father is controlling my future.

  Thomas pulls in a long breath, his fingers fussing over the stacks of papers on the coffee table between us.

  “I think you should take the time to go through your father’s things. I’ve taken the liberty of pulling some of the personal effects from his office. The extra keys to the condo are in here, too.” Thomas taps the top of a box on the floor next to his feet.

  After a long moment of listening to muffled office sounds and my own breathing, I look up and make eye contact. What I see knocks me into the back of the couch.

  “What are you not telling me, Mr. Adler?”

  A shadow darkens his green eyes and in his voice I hear sadness.

  “I’m sorry, Emma. The answer isn’t with me. But please do as he asked. I think you will find it beneficial.”

  * * *

  The Mountain Inn is at the base of a “hill,” but the locals call it a mountain. The drawing on the sign at the foot of the long driveway depicts the house with a not-to-scale mountain behind it. Although I suppose if you’re lying on the ground, looking up with one eye closed, it looks about right.

  For the second time in twenty-four hours, I wonder why Thomas booked me here, instead of a hotel in DC or Bethesda or any of the larger cities for that matter. And for the fiftieth time in twenty-four hours, I wonder why I haven’t moved myself.

  The quiet here is suffocating. I’ve been away from Chicago for one day and I already crave the sound of traffic, the grunts of buses, the muttering of commuters.

  The sign for the inn boasts “an idyllic country setting that will restore your sense of well-being.” I snort at the idea. My well-being just needs to get back where it belongs. My well-being is in desperate need of a double-shot, low-fat, hazelnut latte.

  I push the door open and startle at the loud intrusion of the bell above the door. My heart hammers and my hand white-knuckles the door handle. This is not helping my well-being.

  The young lady who checked me in yesterday steps out of a back room and smiles when she sees me. I force a smile and silently vow to find a hotel where I’m just another body moving through.

  “Welcome back, Ms. Metz. Please let me know if I can be of any help. We have menus for nearby restaurants if you’re looking for ideas, or we have a few open tables here if you’d like to join us.”

  “Thanks. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.” Which isn’t exactly true since the smell of something baking has my stomach performing aerial acrobatics.

  The young lady, whose name is floating in a hazy cloud at the back of my mind, smiles, says I should be free to call on her if I need anything, then returns to the room she came from, leaving me alone with the quiet.

  Quiet is good. I’m used to quiet back home. After all, I live alone, and since I’m rarely in my apartment, I generally forget to turn on the TV or radio when I am there. And my apartment building has the hushed acoustics of music-practice rooms.

  The music department was my favorite place to study in college. I’d walk down the hall, peeking through the small glass windows in the doors until I found an unoccupied room. Room 6 was usually open. In room 7, there was almost always a dark-haired girl practicing cello. I’d stand outside watching through that small window. Regardless of the season she’d wear a colorful wool scarf loosely wrapped around her neck. She played with her eyes closed, releasing herself to the movement of her hands. She never acknowledged that I was standing there and we never spoke. Once I saw her walking
across the quad, wool scarf waving behind her. I’d been tempted to chase her down, ask her name, ask the name of the music that so captivated her. But I hadn’t. Then one day she wasn’t in room 7 and I never saw her again. I wonder what became of her.

  But even in the halls of the music department and the halls of my apartment building you can hear muffled sounds of life. I take the steps to the bedrooms and stop on the landing, listening for a whisper of noise. Nothing. Not even an air-conditioning unit or the mumbling of a television set. This isn’t quiet. This is floating in uninhabited space.

  My room is large, with french doors opening to a small balcony overlooking an open field that ends at the base of the mountain. I set the box on the small table in front of the french doors and shake out my arms. It’s not heavy yet feels like it weighs a ton.

  I lift the top and flip through the envelopes. Each has a white label at the top-right corner, the contents cataloged in 12-point Times New Roman. The top one contains his death certificate. He died three days short of his sixty-fourth birthday.

  “Oh god.” The words echo in the room. I hadn’t even remembered his birthday was coming up. That’s not exactly true, the date was in the back of my mind and marked in blue ink in my calendar. But I was busy and the timing slipped behind all the meetings and deadlines and the comfort of the standing order with Godiva. Did the box of chocolates arrive before he died, or will I find it neatly wrapped with the message typed in whatever font the Godiva store uses?

  I don’t think I can stomach looking at the box of chocolates and knowing that was the last time my father may have thought of me. It’s because of him that I started sending them. He had a standing order with Tiffany for my birthday. Except he still knew what they sent each time. I only knew it was a box of chocolate.

  When was the last time I handpicked a birthday gift for him?

  When was the last time we celebrated a birthday together?

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to capture the memory. Thirteen. It was my thirteenth birthday. I was home sick with strep throat and Dad had canceled his afternoon patients to take me to the doctor. On the way home he stopped to buy me a soft-serve ice cream from Joe’s Cones. Happy birthday, Emma.