Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,12
starts at six AM. He should be home soon, actually.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“That’s just the first practice. His second one is tonight when the sun goes down.”
“So, where can I get a cup of coffee around here?” I ask.
“Right there in the coffeemaker,” Merry Carole says, now leaning against the kitchen counter.
“No, I mean like buy a cup of coffee. Is there a Starbucks here yet?” I ask.
“You can go to the Homestead,” Merry Carole says.
“I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”
“Well, I heard there’s a new coffee place called Around the Corner. It’s fifteen miles outside of town,” Merry Carole says, taking a seat at the table with her steaming mug of coffee.
“Maybe I’ll try that,” I say.
“Or you could just have a cup at home from that coffeemaker right there, you know—for free.” She sips.
“I think I’m looking for stuff to do, you know? A plan,” I say, hopping down off my stool and walking toward the coffeemaker. I pour myself a cup.
“The creamer is in the fridge.” Merry Carole guides.
“Thanks.” I pull open the refrigerator and am way too excited about the assortment of International Delight creamers that line the door. I choose the French Vanilla and pour it reverently into my mug. I breathe it in.
“You’re welcome to help me out in the salon anytime you want. I know Fawn and Dee are dying to see you.”
“I’d like that.”
“Really?” Merry Carole is caught off guard.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking forward to telling and retelling the tale of the string of epic failures that have led to me returning to a town I basically gave the finger to lo those many years ago.” I sit down at the dining room table and take a sip of coffee.
“Sure.”
Merry Carole and I fall silent.
“Cal’s a great kid,” I finally say.
“Isn’t he?”
“And he looooves you.”
“He’s all I’ve had through all—” Merry Carole stops herself. That guilt that settled on me in that motel room in Birmingham becomes heavier. Did Merry Carole want to go with me all those years ago? No. She loves North Star. Why don’t I? With my single-minded kitchen life in all those cities, I didn’t have time to ask these inconvenient questions. Finally. Something positive that came out of all those years. Merry Carole speaks quickly. “I don’t mean to make you feel bad. I just . . .”
“No, you’re right.”
“I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me, too.”
We are quiet.
“But you’re thinking about the next city already, right?” Merry Carole asks, her voice clear, her eyes focused.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is North Star that bad?”
“For me? Yes.”
“That’s just ridiculous.”
“Are you trying to tell me they’ve gotten better?” I say, motioning to the world just outside Merry Carole’s sanctuary of a home.
“Are you trying to tell me that whatever life you had in New York or Los Angeles or whatever that place was with all the turquoise—”
“Taos.”
“Taos? Are you saying that Taos is worth what it took out of you?” Merry Carole motions at me and the shadow I’ve become.
“So you admit that they’re still just as shitty.”
“So you admit that all those cities were just shitty.”
We are quiet.
“Cal’s just like you. All he wants to do is leave,” Merry Carole says, not looking at me.
“I know.”
We fall silent again.
“If you’re looking for something to do, you can go visit Mom,” Merry Carole says.
“Please don’t tell me you’ve been going there.”
Merry Carole says nothing.
“I don’t know what you think you’re going to find. It’s not like she can apologize or make amends,” I say, sipping my coffee.
“It’s called forgiveness, Queen Elizabeth. It’s the Christian thing to do.”
“Well, seeing as how she’s dead and buried, I imagine it makes it a lot easier to forgive her.” The last time I was in North Star I was feeling particularly dramatic and drove over to the cemetery that’s just off the church in the center of town. I got out of my car and immediately crumpled into tears—the kind of tears that feel so vast it’s alarming and mystifying at the same time. Then, just as quickly, I swept all those emotions aside and decided never to return. I do that a lot.
“Don’t talk like that.”
“You don’t talk like that.”
“Me? Me don’t talk like that?”
“Don’t you dare try and make a hero out of that woman. I swear to God,” I say, leaning on the dining room table.
“I’m not making a hero out of her, for heaven’s sake. I’m just saying that while you’re back in town for the twenty minutes you