Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,112
you belong here. This is your home, Queen Elizabeth.”
“I just don’t know.”
“Do you remember that first morning after you got here? You kept asking where you could get a cup of coffee even though you had a cup right in front of you?” Merry Carole asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Drink the coffee that’s right in front of you, Queen Elizabeth.”
“It just all seems too close, you know?” I say, still feeling trapped.
“It’s good to be close. Maybe take a walk over there after church on Sunday and look at it with fresh eyes. Can you promise me that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“I’m going to ask if you did, and I always know when you’re lying, Queen Elizabeth,” Merry Carole says.
“I know,” I say.
“Okay then,” Merry Carole says, kissing me on the cheek. She continues, “I’ve got Grandma Ackerman’s color in ten minutes, I’d better head over. But I’ll check in every now and again, and you can count on us around seven.” Merry Carole blows me a kiss and goes back into the house, closing the sliding door behind her.
I walk over and stand in the kiddie pool, wiggling my toes in the cold water. The temperature is already climbing and it’s not even eight AM. I sip my coffee and think about being close to someone. I spent my life thinking about love and closeness in the context of Mom. Loving Mom felt like running after a train that never stopped. Then I started defining love by what it felt like with Everett. Loving Everett felt like dunking my head in a bucket of ice and then setting myself on fire. Over and over again. Over and over.
But loving Merry Carole? Tears spring immediately to my eyes as I think of the life I’ve shared with her. Loving Merry Carole is the best of everything. I’ll walk over after church. But she’s deluding herself if she thinks there are no ghosts on that land.
I spend the day basting and trying to stay out of the heat. I watch terrible daytime television and run up to the salon when I can. I find Cal’s cowboy hat on the bookshelf and decide to wear it. I need the shade it offers. If nothing else, it’s designed exceptionally well. This is what I tell myself as I get another glimpse of myself in the sliding glass doors. Smoking brisket, standing in a kiddie pool in cut-off jeans, a tank top, and a broke-down cowboy hat.
This is you. This is now.
“At least I don’t have a piece of straw hanging out of my mouth,” I mutter, tearing my gaze away from my reflection. I’ve got the hot dogs and hamburgers in the kitchen, ready to go. I figure Reed can handle those on the little grill I’ll get ready for him so we can eat sooner rather than later. I’ll focus on the meat (or murderer meat as Merry Carole likes to call it) in the smoker. I also did a potato salad, some homemade potato chips, and I’ll make a Texas sheet cake later on. I hope the kids will get a kick out of that.
As seven PM nears I hop in the shower and try to wash the smoke and heat off of me to no avail. My eyes are bloodshot and I can’t stop coughing. I put my cut-off jeans back on and find another tank top that’s not stained with barbecue sauce (yet). Once the salon closes, Merry Carole fusses around the house, cleaning and dusting. Cal takes a shower and is still . . . off. Not himself. And I get it. He just needs some time, but we all can’t help but worry.
At seven, the guests arrive.
“So let me get this straight. You’re smoking a brisket and we’re having hot dogs?” Pete asks. Fawn shushes him and tells him the brisket is for “my job.” She actually does giant air quotes around “my job.”
“I’m doing sausage and ribs, too,” I say, with a wink.
“Now you’re just being cruel,” Pete says, bending over to pull a beer from the cooler. Fawn and Pete settle in around the table. Merry Carole has the fans going and a big swamp cooler set up so the temperature is somewhat comfortable. Of course, all bets are off by the smoker. Which is where I am.
Shawn and Dee arrive with their brood. The boys are wearing eight coats of sunscreen and swimming trunks. Dee is overloaded with canvas bags filled with dry clothes, toys, hats, and