Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,10
shorts and a white tank top.
“What are you doing here?” Cal asks again. He continues, “Does Momma know you’re here?” Cal looks into the warmly lit house just behind us.
“She sure does. I think she wanted to surprise you. That and she didn’t believe me when I said I was coming on home for real this time,” I say, reaching up to swipe the bangs out of his eyes.
“I don’t know why you’d want to,” Cal says, with a sidelong glance and rolled eyes.
“Want to what?”
“Come back to North Star,” Cal says.
“Well, despite the time apart, it appears we are definitely related,” I say, laughing.
“Last I heard you were in New York.”
“Yep.”
“I can’t believe you’d want to leave a place like that.”
“It’s just not what it’s cracked up to be, sweetie. At least it wasn’t for me,” I say, lacing my arm through his and walking up the manicured pathway flanked by gold marigolds and white perennials (the North Star Stallion colors) to Merry Carole’s crisp red front door.
“I’d like to put that statement into the column of things people say who haven’t been cooped up in North Star their whole lives.”
I can’t help but smile.
Cal opens the front door and I am met with . . . a home. I haven’t been inside a house, a real house, in years. I worked at this one restaurant in Las Vegas during the holidays and I got to attend the boss’s Christmas party—meaning, I was on the catering team who worked the affair. Merry Carole decorates in that way I’ve always appreciated: not hip enough to be someone you’re friends with but inviting enough to be like the friend’s mom’s house you coveted when you were a kid. There’s abundant usage of the Lone Star flag, bits and bobs of Christmas whimsy (after her birthday and name), and the occasional black stallion; Merry Carole’s house defies designer labels. I let it wash over me and breathe in the familiar smell of her cooking. I crane my neck past Cal and am now itching to see her. How have I been away for so long?
“Don’t tell me! Now, don’t you even tell me that that is my baby sister you brought in with you, Calvin Jaques Wake!” Merry Carole comes out of the kitchen, unlacing her Lone Star apron and poufing up her hair.
“He found me outside,” I say, bringing Merry Carole in for a tight hug. The smell of her rose-water perfume mixed with Aqua Net tickles my nose just as it always has.
“I can’t believe the surprise is ruined,” she says, slapping Cal on the arm and then quickly smoothing it over to “make it better.” He smiles, wrapping his arm around her.
“The surprise isn’t ruined, Momma. It just happened outside,” Cal says.
“Just . . . just look at you,” Merry Carole says, her voice catching.
“You look just the same,” I say, taking her in, my smile wide. Blond Texas hair as high as she can get it and the tightest wardrobe only she, and her Jayne Mansfield–like curves, could pull off.
The room falls silent as Merry Carole remains quiet, her face haunted and unable to hide that I, unlike her, do not look just the same. Cal, sensing her mood, rubs her back and tugs her closer. Great. It seems Merry Carole must be consoled by her only son to soldier on in the face of my gaunt appearance. My face flushes as my smile fades. The once welcoming living room now feels tight around me.
“You just look thin and tired, sweetheart. The drive must have really taken it out of you . . . I, uh . . . you need to eat and get out of those clothes. Then I’m gonna burn everything you brought with you. Oh, speaking of, Cal dear—can you go get Queenie’s bags?”
“You don’t have to . . . really,” I say, trying to gather myself.
Merry Carole just looks at me. I dig my keys out of my pocket and flip them to Cal. He immediately heads outside.
Once Cal is outside, Merry Carole walks over to me, her eyes welling up, black mascara rimming them. Her hand is clutched at her breasts, a silver cross suffocating in their depths. I can’t help but feel ashamed as she looks at me. What have I let happen to myself? Who have I become? Why didn’t I notice how bad I’d gotten? How much of myself did I erase?