cut of their modest will? A diamond ring (which, to my knowledge, still had not been found)?
Suddenly exhausted, I bought a second cup of coffee and sat back down at the same table. As I was prying off the plastic lid, some of the scorching hot liquid splashed onto my fingers and I reacted with a loud “Ow!” When I looked up, I saw that a man dragging a small black wheelie suitcase had paused briefly to look at me.
Mac .
I stood up, accidentally pushing the table and upending the entire cup of coffee. Hot brown liquid seeped onto the floor, just missing my suitcase.
Or a man who looked just like Mac.
“Wait!” I left my suitcase and jogged after him.
A man who looked so much like Mac it was uncanny , walking the way he walked, bracing his shoulders the same way, wearing just the kind of clothes he would wear: jeans, sneakers, button-down shirt, a digital watch. He picked up his pace and I started to run.
“Mac! Wait!”
I couldn’t tell if he knew I was following him or if he even heard me. He kept moving, pressing his way through a swinging glass door and heading directly to a taxi stand at the curb.
“ Mac! ”
His face was obscured as he sidled into a waiting cab, leaned forward to direct the driver, and drove away.
I had caught only the quickest glimpse of him when he paused to note my spill. But it was him. I knew it: It was him .
Was it him?
I stood at the curb watching the car drive down the palm tree–lined road, shrink into a distance of hazy sun, and evaporate like a mirage. How long did I stand there before someone’s suitcase bumped against my leg?
“Sorry,” a woman said as she rolled past.
“That’s okay.” But she didn’t hear me.
“J asmine!” I ran at her as soon as I saw her coming out of her gate wearing a bright yellow halter dress. “ I saw him. Mac, my husband, he was here .”
In front of her now, her up-close expression—astounded—startled me as much as my appearance at the Miami airport obviously startled her.
“Whoa, girl! What are you doing here?”
“I came to surprise you, so you wouldn’t have to spend your birthday weekend alone.”
She smiled. “You really are my friend.”
“Listen, Jasmine, listen to me—”
“Did you say you just saw your husband?” Her tone was too calm; it was clear she didn’t believe me. Why would she believe me? Why would anyone? The case was closed: Mac was dead.
“I was killing time waiting for your flight to arrive and there he was—Mac—walking through the airport .”
“That’s crazy .”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“No! It’s crazy—crazy good. Where is he?”
“He got in a taxi. Drove away.”
“He didn’t see you?”
“He did see me; at least I think he saw me. I called his name. I followed him.”
“And then?”
“He kept walking.”
Her eyes mirrored the deflation I felt when I heard myself saying that: He kept walking .
“So maybe it wasn’t him,” she said cautiously. “Maybe it just looked like him.”
“I don’t think so.” But my certainty was already draining away.
She put her hands on my shoulders, bracing me. “He looked at you. You said his name. And he kept walking.” She pulled me into a hug. “Listen, baby—”
“He looked so much like Mac,” I said, dissolving into tears.
“You ever read that book The Year of Magical Thinking ?”
“Joan Didion?”
“Good book, huh?”
I nodded. Cried.
“She saw her husband everywhere she went for like a year after he passed. And he had a heart attack right in front of her, eating dinner at the table.”
I nodded again. Cried some more. The first time I was a widow, I used to see Jackson all over the place. And Cece. And the two of them together.
“And she still believed she saw him. She kept on seeing him even though she knew he was gone.”
The word she kept avoiding was dead . Didion’s husband was dead . And my husband was dead .
“I’m sorry.” I pulled away so I could wipe my wet face with the
Suddenly exhausted, I bought a second cup of coffee and sat back down at the same table. As I was prying off the plastic lid, some of the scorching hot liquid splashed onto my fingers and I reacted with a loud “Ow!” When I looked up, I saw that a man dragging a small black wheelie suitcase had paused briefly to look at me.
Mac .
I stood up, accidentally pushing the table and upending the entire cup of coffee. Hot brown liquid seeped onto the floor, just missing my suitcase.
Or a man who looked just like Mac.
“Wait!” I left my suitcase and jogged after him.
A man who looked so much like Mac it was uncanny , walking the way he walked, bracing his shoulders the same way, wearing just the kind of clothes he would wear: jeans, sneakers, button-down shirt, a digital watch. He picked up his pace and I started to run.
“Mac! Wait!”
I couldn’t tell if he knew I was following him or if he even heard me. He kept moving, pressing his way through a swinging glass door and heading directly to a taxi stand at the curb.
“ Mac! ”
His face was obscured as he sidled into a waiting cab, leaned forward to direct the driver, and drove away.
I had caught only the quickest glimpse of him when he paused to note my spill. But it was him. I knew it: It was him .
Was it him?
I stood at the curb watching the car drive down the palm tree–lined road, shrink into a distance of hazy sun, and evaporate like a mirage. How long did I stand there before someone’s suitcase bumped against my leg?
“Sorry,” a woman said as she rolled past.
“That’s okay.” But she didn’t hear me.
“J asmine!” I ran at her as soon as I saw her coming out of her gate wearing a bright yellow halter dress. “ I saw him. Mac, my husband, he was here .”
In front of her now, her up-close expression—astounded—startled me as much as my appearance at the Miami airport obviously startled her.
“Whoa, girl! What are you doing here?”
“I came to surprise you, so you wouldn’t have to spend your birthday weekend alone.”
She smiled. “You really are my friend.”
“Listen, Jasmine, listen to me—”
“Did you say you just saw your husband?” Her tone was too calm; it was clear she didn’t believe me. Why would she believe me? Why would anyone? The case was closed: Mac was dead.
“I was killing time waiting for your flight to arrive and there he was—Mac—walking through the airport .”
“That’s crazy .”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“No! It’s crazy—crazy good. Where is he?”
“He got in a taxi. Drove away.”
“He didn’t see you?”
“He did see me; at least I think he saw me. I called his name. I followed him.”
“And then?”
“He kept walking.”
Her eyes mirrored the deflation I felt when I heard myself saying that: He kept walking .
“So maybe it wasn’t him,” she said cautiously. “Maybe it just looked like him.”
“I don’t think so.” But my certainty was already draining away.
She put her hands on my shoulders, bracing me. “He looked at you. You said his name. And he kept walking.” She pulled me into a hug. “Listen, baby—”
“He looked so much like Mac,” I said, dissolving into tears.
“You ever read that book The Year of Magical Thinking ?”
“Joan Didion?”
“Good book, huh?”
I nodded. Cried.
“She saw her husband everywhere she went for like a year after he passed. And he had a heart attack right in front of her, eating dinner at the table.”
I nodded again. Cried some more. The first time I was a widow, I used to see Jackson all over the place. And Cece. And the two of them together.
“And she still believed she saw him. She kept on seeing him even though she knew he was gone.”
The word she kept avoiding was dead . Didion’s husband was dead . And my husband was dead .
“I’m sorry.” I pulled away so I could wipe my wet face with the
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