By Any Other Name(59)

“I’d love to,” I say. I’m flattered that he thinks his mother would like me, and that he wants me there.

“Really?” He smiles. “It wouldn’t take long. I’d get you back to Union Station for a later train. I don’t know how she’ll be today, of course. Some days are better than others.”

“Yes,” I tell Noah. “I’d be honored.”



* * *





Calla Ross’s apartment at the Chevy Chase House is small and neat, roughly the size of Noah’s studio in Pomander Walk. It smells like lemons and clean sheets. I wait there alone while Noah and his mother meet with the doctor in the care center down the hall.

There’s a La-Z-Boy, a double bed, a TV tuned to reruns of Jeopardy!, and several half-completed knitting projects strewn across the couch. The most prominent feature in the room is a large white bookcase near the window. It is filled exclusively with Noa Callaway books. His mother has all the foreign editions—the Turkish Ninety-Nine Things; Twenty-One Games with a Stranger in Hebrew; even the brand-new Brazilian edition of Two Hundred and Sixty-Six Vows. I take it off the shelf and study the cover, so different from Peony’s punchy graphic design. There aren’t this many Noa Callaway titles in my office, or in Noah’s library on Fifth Avenue.

A queasy feeling comes over me, and when I face it, I know it’s envy. I’m envious of this simple presentation of a mother’s pride. Of all the things I miss about my mother, a sense that she’d approve of me is what I crave the most.

There’s a knock at the door. When I turn around, I see Noah pushing his mother in a wheelchair through the threshold. Calla is thin and frail, but the similarities between mother and son astonish me. She has Noah’s eyes—not just the bright green color, but the same shape and twinkle and intensity. Her hair is curly like his, though long and a silvery gray. He got his nose from her, too, and the same slow, cautious smile, which she is giving me right now.

I put my hand in hers. “Mrs. Ross.”

“Call me Calla, honey.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Calla.”

Noah sits on the couch facing his mom. I put the Brazilian edition back on her shelf and join him.

Calla nods at the books. “My son loved these stories growing up.”

I glance at Noah, unsure how to respond. His face gives away nothing, and my heart goes out to him. As much as I’ve lamented not getting an adult relationship with my mother, I can’t imagine her forgetting me.

“I love them, too,” I say.

Calla smiles at me more broadly now. “Which one is your favorite?”

I lean in closer, drop my voice. “I hear Noa Callaway is writing a new book. It’s supposed to be the best one yet.”

“Did you know that?” Calla asks Noah. “A new book from Noa Callaway!”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Noah says, his eyes on me.

“My tender boy,” Calla says. “I worry for you. Love is never so easy as it is on the pages of a book.”

“Mom,” Noah says, his tone half tease, half earnest plea for her to stop. “Bernadette embarrassed me enough in front of Lanie last month. Let me keep a little dignity, if you can.”

I look at Calla, but when I see the blankness in her expression, I understand she doesn’t remember who Bernadette is. I think back to the picture in Noah’s office, when they’d all been young and smiling and well. I look to Noah, wondering what he’s thinking, but he’s looking away.

“That’s nice, dear,” his mother finally says, her tone more distant now. “Have you had breakfast yet? I put the cornflakes on the table.”



* * *





An hour later, we’re back at D.C.’s Union Station, and our rapport feels different, like we’ve come through something together. Noah will stay the night in D.C., but first he’s walking me to my train. He signals for me to wait as he slips inside a newsstand. A moment later, he returns, a bottle of water and two peppermint patties in his hands. He tucks them in the tote bag slung over my shoulder.

“How did you know I love these?” I say as we walk down the stairs to the quay. The train’s already boarding. I wish we had more time.

He scratches his chin. “I believe it was our email exchange on the afternoon of October twenty-third in the year twenty—”

“Okay, wise guy—”

“You told me once, and I remembered.”

“Because we’ve been friends,” I fill in what he’d been about to say, “for seven years.”

“And counting.”

We stop before the train. Noah turns to me and meets my eyes. We’re standing close enough that I get a little dizzy.

“Thanks for today,” he says. “I hope it wasn’t weird for you?”

“Not at all.” I want to thank him, too, but the words don’t feel right. I enjoyed today. Meeting Calla Ross was unexpected and illuminating. It felt profound to see Noah with her, the intimate family they make.

He seems tired, and I understand. I remember how much I slept the year I lost my mom. He has a hard road ahead of him with Calla’s care, and I want him to know I’m here.

I step toward him, put my arms around him. My face presses to his chest. I exhale when I feel his arms around me. He’s warm and firm and somehow not at all what I expected. Maybe it’s just the way he holds me back that takes me by surprise. Like it’s natural. Like we’ve done all this before. It leaves me breathless, and I realize I don’t want to get on that train.