Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,121
usual trappings didn’t weigh me down. The joke was clearly on me. I hauled the burden of Mom’s unceremonious death, my abandonment of Merry Carole and Cal, and my cowardly heart that I never really risked on Everett everywhere I went. It’s ironic that after spending my whole life believing in ghosts, I became one.
I didn’t live in those cities. I haunted them.
As I sit in church that Sunday, I think about what’s real. I look to my left and see Merry Carole, Reed, Cal, and the girls sitting together for the first time. That’s real. What’s also real is that none of them has urged me to get on my way or leave them be. They’ve made sure I knew I was family. What’s not real are the gossiping ladies and whispering townspeople who snicker behind gloved hands about Reed and Merry Carole: the new, scandalous couple. What’s finally sinking in is the knowledge that their opinions are only reflections of themselves and how unhappy they are in their own lives. I should know. I’ve spent years snarling at people because of how lonely I am. Angry. Sad. Angry is just sad’s bodyguard. I gaze up into the high-coffered ceiling and let the sweeping, epic music wash over me. That’s real, I think to myself as I relax into the morning.
As we file out of the church, I’m still in a bit of a haze. We all congregate on the edge of the church’s front lawn. Reed takes the girls to the table where the punch and cookies are. Rose pointed it out as we walked in. I secretly believe it’s why she comes to church. Cal followed them over, but soon got sidetracked by members of the Stallion Batallion wanting to know if he’s ready for the big opening game coming up. I saw Everett inside, but haven’t yet spotted him out here.
“It’s almost Monday,” Merry Carole says.
“Yes, Monday customarily follows Sunday.”
“Queen Elizabeth, don’t be flip.”
“I still don’t know, but I’m taking it seriously,” I say.
“That’s it, Momma. Enough,” Whitney yells from the other side of the churchyard. The entire lawn of people screeches to a halt. Merry Carole and I look around and see Cal standing right in the thick of it. Next to West.
Oh shit.
Merry Carole and I immediately hightail it over to where Cal is standing.
“Whitney Shelby Ackerman, this is not the time or the place.” Whitney’s mother, Cheryl, is all tasteful, matching separates, helmet hair straight from the salon.
“Sweet pea, I know you—” Whitney’s daddy, DeWitt Ackerman, always did coddle that girl.
“Momma, my name is Whitney McKay. I’m a McKay. And so is he,” Whitney says, reaching up to West’s shoulder and pulling him close.
“This needs to stop right here and now, young lady. I am not too old to put you over my knee,” Cheryl Ackerman says in a low growl. You could hear a pin drop in this churchyard.
Whitney turns West around and faces him, her hands still on his shoulders. She looks up at him, squinting in the sun, as her chin quivers from tears that are now pooling in her eyes. West shifts and shoots a quick glance at Cal. Cal steps in close. Merry Carole is ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
“Sweetie, I’m so sorry. To be doing this here. Like this. But mommas fight for their kids, and I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long to stand up for you. Baby, I—”
“I know,” West says, his low voice cutting through the thick humidity like a bell.
“You what now?” Whitney asks, stumbling over her words.
“I know. We’ve known for a while,” West says, looking over at Cal again. Cal steps even closer. Merry Carole inches forward.
“Yes, ma’am,” Cal says, now shoulder to shoulder with West. Seeing them both there. Together. Whitney finally looks at them. Really taking them in. And she just loses it. She claps her hand over her mouth and begins to sob. Wes steps up and takes her in his arms.
“I’ve never . . . I couldn’t bring myself to really look at him,” Whitney says, referring to Cal.
“Why didn’t you say nothing?” Wes asks the boys.
“It just . . . it seemed really important to you that we didn’t know. So we kept it to ourselves,” West says, looking from Wes to Cal.
“For how long?” Whitney moans.
“Maybe four years,” West says, looking at Cal for confirmation.
“Junior high school, so three years,” Cal corrects.