Free Learning to Stay by Erin Celello

Afghanistan, how Brad and I met, how Brad is doing, and what our plans are now that he’s home. By the time I look up at the clock, almost two hours have gone by. I feel like I’mon a first date that’s gone spectacularly well. So well, in fact, that I’ve almost forgotten that Sondra is well on her way to California by now and that I’m sitting here with her husband, whom she has abandoned.
    “I should get going,” I say, making a move to get up from my chair, “but thanks for a really nice visit.”
    “Thanks for dropping in,” Antony says. “And don’t be a stranger. Come on by again.” He fixes me with a toothy grin.
    “I’d like that,” I tell him, though I’m not sure how that would work. If he were in Madison, I’d make sure to drop on by. But I doubt I’ll be making the eight-hour round-trip to see him again.
    I linger a moment, wondering whether I should say more, though I’m not sure what.
    I’m nearly out the door when Antony calls after me, “If you see Sondra, tell her it’s okay.”
    I turn toward him. I get the sense that she never told him she would be coming to visit in the first place. Maybe she knew this was how the trip would end. Maybe she didn’t want to admit it, or hoped that if she just got herself here, inertia would take over and keep her from leaving.
    “I’m sure she’ll be by,” I say.
    He’s smiling, but his eyes are as sad as a bloodhound’s when he says, “Naw, she won’t. That girl’s as gone as the day is long. They amputate more than your injured parts in here, you know. But it’s okay. You tell her that for me.”
    “I will,” I say. I struggle for something to add. “Get well soon,” doesn’t quite do it. Neither does, “Take care.”
    “Be well, Antony,” I say, finally. But when I do, his eyes are closed and his head is tipped back. Maybe he would signal or wave if he could. Maybe he wouldn’t.
    •  •  •
    The sky is dark as my plane descends into Madison, the city spread out below like a fantastic model of itself, sparkling like a million tiny diamonds with the Capitol sitting like a crown jewel among them.
    As the plane taxis to the gate, I power up my cell phone and try to call Brad again. I’d like a ride, but I’d also like to have dinner with my husband. There’s a fantastic and affordable little bar–turned–Italian restaurant on the way from the airport to our house that would be the perfect place to reconnect with Brad and tell him about this surreal trip.
    But his phone goes to voice mail—again, and again, and again, when I’m at the baggage claim, after I call for a cab, and as I’m on my way home in it. Weaving through the streets of Madison in the back of the cab, I feel like a tourist in the town I’ve called home for the past five years. By the time I hand over a twenty-dollar bill to my driver and tell him to keep the change, I’m fighting mad. I’ve been trying to call Brad since this morning, and he hasn’t answered or returned any of my calls. He hasn’t so much as sent a message in response.
    By the time I walk into our darkened house, I’m irate.
    Ever since I read Sondra’s note this morning, the one constant thought I’ve had is that I can’t wait to talk things over with Brad. All day, I imagined that he’d pick me up and that we’d stop off for a bite to eat on our way home. I’d tell Brad about Sondra, the note, and Antony, and he’d help me make sense of it all. We’d talk about how glad we were that we had dodged the proverbial bullet of those kinds of troubles. How glad we were to have our lives back to normal.
    That’s what we should be doing tonight. Instead, I’m alone, eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich and watching
Jeopardy!
I have just correctly guessed the eight-hundred-dollar question (“This ex-Cowboy joined Keith Jackson and Howard Cosell on the first
Monday Night Football
telecast”—“Who is Don Meredith, Alex?”) when Brad walks in the door. His face is soft