“What?” I breathed. I must have misheard. Misunderstood. There was no way Brian had just told me Debbie was gone.

“She’s dead. Michael found her this afternoon. They were supposed to meet for lunch and she never showed up. He went to her house and found her in bed. I guess she never woke up.”

I had never heard Brian’s voice sound like this before. Like a scared child who didn’t want to believe the words that were coming out of his own mouth could possibly be the truth.

Meanwhile, I was struggling to process the reality of what he’d said -- Deb was gone.

The woman who had been a true mother to Brian at a time when he’d so desperately needed one. The woman who had welcomed me into her home, no questions asked, when I had nowhere else to go, even though she’d only known me for a few weeks. The woman who had been the matriarch of Liberty Avenue, always there with whatever she felt you needed, be it advice or a caring touch or a lemon bar or a gentle smack upside the head. She’d been a mother and a caretaker over the years to so many lost souls struggling to find themselves and their place in this world. And now, she was gone.

Her presence had always felt larger-than-life. It was hard to imagine that light -- her light -- being extinguished. But that was the reality.

As that reality sank in, I felt its heaviness weighing me down as a mixture of emotions rose up within me -- shock, disbelief, and an overwhelming sense of sadness. Tears welled up in my own eyes and started to fall as I felt Brian’s arms come around me, pulling me in close -- but now, instead of Brian clinging to me, his touch felt protective. Now, he was comforting me as we cried together, mourning the loss of the woman who had been a lifeboat to both of us at a time when we’d been left adrift in a sea of confusion and uncertainty.

Brian and I sat there for a long time -- holding each other, crying in our walk-in closet -- before Brian loosened his hold and pulled back a little so that we were face to face, then said, “I have to finish packing. Our flight leaves at 9:30.” His voice was still hoarse and unsteady, and too quiet for Brian.

“Okay,” I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I slid off of Brian’s lap and picked up the shirts I’d set down on the shelf, so I could carry them out to the bedroom and help Brian finish the task he’d started for both of us.

Brian reached out and grabbed my wrist, stopping me. He looked up at me, with eyes that were still so sad, and I could tell that he wanted nothing more than to keep doing exactly what we were doing -- just being there for each other. Supporting each other in a situation that felt so unbelievable -- like there was no possible way it could be real. But it was real, and we had to face it.

“We’ll get through this,” he said. His voice sounded strange, and I wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince me or himself.

I nodded, not able to find words at that moment -- or maybe I just didn’t want to say them out loud because that would be one more step in making it real.

Brian let go, and I turned and walked out of the closet. He followed behind me, then rounded the corner to go into the bathroom. Together, we finished packing our suitcases, making sure we had everything we would need for a funeral. Still wishing that wasn’t why we were going.

We’d been going home pretty regularly since Brian had bought the house in Pittsburgh. At first, he’d claimed it was merely an investment property, but I eventually got him to admit that what had triggered him to buy it was my saying that I missed my mom. I’d known for a long time that Brian would do anything for me, but that certainly proved it.

We tried to visit every other month if at all possible -- sometimes just for a weekend, other times for a week if it was during a break from school. But the last few months had been crazy for Brian and me -- the start of my second school year as a full-time teacher, and Brian hiring a few new employees as Kinnetik NYC’s market share grew. So we hadn’t made it home last month.

The last time we’d gone back was for Carl’s funeral, three months before. He was older than Debbie, and he had a heart condition, so it wasn’t entirely unexpected, but Deb took it hard. I knew Michael had been worried about her because she wasn’t taking care of herself -- I’d overheard enough of Brian’s phone calls with Michael to know that. But I never thought it was that bad -- that she’d be dead herself within a few months’ time.

To be honest, I don’t think I’d ever really entertained the idea that Debbie Novotny was, in fact, a mere mortal. I guess I assumed she’d live forever. I think we all did.

Brian was sliding his laptop into his carry-on bag and holding the phone with his shoulder, apparently lining up our ride to the airport with the car service, when I rolled both of our suitcases into the living room. Fifteen minutes later, we were in the backseat of a black town car, headed to the airport.

It took a long time to get there, and I could feel Brian’s agitation in the tension of his muscles as he held my hand. He was worried that we weren’t going to make it in time. I could tell that all he wanted was to be home in Pittsburgh right then, with our family -- he didn’t have to say that for me to know it. I felt the same way.

When we finally arrived at the airport, Brian’s disposition changed. I saw a version of Brian that I hadn’t really seen before -- one that was focused more on getting onto the plane and getting to Pittsburgh than anything else. He wasn’t demanding a seat in the first row so he could avoid the indignity of being pushed down the aisle by a member of the flight crew. He wasn’t grumbling about any of the little inconveniences we ran into where people hadn’t thought about accessibility. He simply nodded and took everything as it came, seeming almost numb.

We barely made it to the gate on time because it had taken forever to get Brian through security, but even that process -- one that normally pissed him off -- didn’t faze him that night. He just sat there through the full body pat-down. Still numb.

Our flight was on a tiny commuter jet, and it was full, so to say it was tight and uncomfortable would be an understatement. But Brian didn’t say a word. He took it all in stride. The only words he spoke to me through the entire process were to ask if it was okay if he took the window seat so his knee wouldn’t be in the aisle. That was fine with me, of course -- I just wanted him to be comfortable.

As we watched the lights of New York get smaller and smaller as the plane ascended, Brian reached over and took my hand, interlacing our fingers.

For the next hour, it was just us -- Brian and I -- cut off from the outside world, but still unable to ignore the harsh reality that was weighing heavily on each of our minds.

Debbie had meant a lot to me in my life, but I knew that she’d meant a lot more in Brian’s. I knew what Brian’s home life had been like, even though he never would tell me much about it. Mostly, he insisted that it was in the past and there was no point in dwelling on it. So I didn’t know specific details, but I did know that his parents had been physically and emotionally abusive, and I still saw the lingering effects of that in my partner, mostly in the way he saw himself. He’d come a long way in the years I’d known him, but I also knew that there would probably always be a part of him that felt he was unworthy of love and caring.

Debbie had probably been the first person in his life to try to prove to him that he did deserve those things -- and that he didn’t deserve the way his parents treated him. She’d treated him as if he was her own -- nursing his wounds, celebrating his achievements, and calling him on his shit. For all intents and purposes, she was his mother. More so than Joan Kinney ever had been or ever would be.

So for Brian, this wound would be deep, and it would be painful. And it would probably take a long, long time to heal.

I laid my head on his shoulder and felt his cheek come to rest against the top of my head. He let out a loud exhale and tightened his fingers around mine.

“We should have gone home,” he said, his voice low. “I should have made time to go.”

I lifted my head up and turned to look at him, my eyes meeting his, which were full of pain and regret.

“Brian,” I said, knowing that Brian probably wasn’t going to truly hear any of what I had to say but also knowing that I had to say it anyway. “You couldn’t have known. None of us could have known.”

“I did know, though. Michael kept telling me -- how she kept forgetting to take her medication, how he could hardly get her to eat a decent meal, how she kept insisting that she was ‘needed’ at the diner and that was why she came out of retirement again. But I didn’t feel like there was anything I could do.”

“There wasn’t. There wouldn’t have been anything you could have done that Michael wasn’t already trying to do. Debbie would have done whatever she wanted to do, regardless of whether you were there or not. You know that.”

“At least the last time I saw her wouldn’t have been at a fucking funeral.” Brian turned his head and looked out the window into the dark nothingness of the night sky at 10,000 feet. “I could have told her one more time that I loved her. I could have fucking called. I don’t know why I didn’t. I owed her that. I at least owed her that.”

“Brian, listen to me,” I said. He turned back to face me, and I could see the tears in the corners of his eyes before he blinked them away. “Are you listening?”

He didn’t say anything, but he held my gaze in silent affirmation, so I continued.

“She knew. She knew you loved her. She didn’t need you to tell her to know that. She was so proud of you, for so many things, not the least of which was your success with Kinnetik. She understood.”

Brian looked out the window again and sighed. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“Beating yourself up isn’t going to make it right either. She wouldn’t want you to do that. She’d want you to honor her memory by continuing to kick ass at whatever you do. No excuses, no apologies, no regrets.”

Brian snorted. “I’m pretty sure she hated that mantra.”

“But the thought still stands -- she would hate that you’re sitting here in pain because you wish you’d told her one more time that you loved her. You told her over and over again -- with your words and with your actions. She knew.”

He was quiet for several seconds, just gazing out the window. When he spoke, he sounded like he was on the verge of tears again.

“I still can’t believe it,” he said. “I don’t want to believe it. I’m not sure I do yet.”

“I know,” I said, squeezing his hand more tightly and laying my other hand on his forearm. “Me either.”

Brian spent most of the rest of the flight staring out the window, occasionally swiping a hand across his face to wipe away tears he probably hadn’t wanted to fall in the first place. I spent most of the flight holding his other hand, watching him, and wondering what we were both going to be in for whenever he did start to believe it.