Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,13
plan on staying, you might want to drive by the cemetery and place a nice bouquet on her grave.”
A moment passes.
“You ever think about her?” I ask.
The room goes cold. Merry Carole circles the rim of her coffee mug with her manicured fingers. Her face is twitching with all the energy it’s taking to remain neutral.
“Sometimes,” Merry Carole says, finally looking up to meet my gaze.
“I check on her, you know,” I say.
“You what?”
“You can check on the prison Web site, you know . . . how she’s doing, if she won all those appeals.”
“She murdered two people in cold blood and got the death penalty—those appeals are offensive.”
“She murdered her own husband and the woman he was cheating on her with in her very own bed. A woman who was her very best friend right up until she cocked that shotgun,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. My hands are shaking.
“Yvonne Chapman is a monster and that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.”
“Yvonne Chapman let us stay in her home for several weeks—right up until our mother got herself killed in it.”
“How dare you take that woman’s side.”
“Honey, I’m not taking her side. I’m just saying that it’s a bit more complicated than Yvonne Chapman being a monster.”
“I know that. Of course I know that.” Merry Carole’s entire body is tight. Her mouth is pulled into a hard line. She just keeps shaking her head, like a child trying to get out of eating their vegetables. “Sometimes I wish it weren’t . . . complicated, you know?”
“I know.”
Merry Carole reaches her hand across the table and takes my hand in hers. I give her a comforting smile and she squeezes my hand tight.
It’s easy to be detached about my mom’s tragic end when I know it came as such a relief to Merry Carole and me. Whenever she was around, it was hell. So all we wished for growing up was for her to be gone and away. When the principal walked into my classroom on that ill-fated day with the news that she’d been killed, by Yvonne Chapman of all people, the first thing I felt was . . . free. Merry Carole was just eighteen, so she became my legal guardian and life got better for us, especially when Cal came along a few months later. I’m not delusional (well, not about this) to be afraid there aren’t major repercussions because of her death.
It doesn’t take a team of psychologists—or perhaps it would—to understand what I’ve been running from all these years. Why it’s like a religion for me to travel light and keep moving should not be a mystery to anyone—least of all me. But knowing my mom was a bad person doesn’t mean I understand why she didn’t love us—didn’t love me. Whatever that was at the cemetery was probably more about innocence lost or some other bullshit.
“Weren’t you saying something about a cup of coffee?” Merry Carole stands.
“I don’t want to fight. Please.”
“I know that, I really do. It’s just weird having you back.”
“You’re telling me,” I say. The front door opens and shuts.
“Mom? Aunt Queenie?” Cal comes barreling into the kitchen, sweaty and red faced. He dumps his football pads by the door.
“Hey there,” I say, smiling and happy for the distraction.
“You’re still here,” he says, his entire being exhaling.
“Of course,” I say, my heart breaking.
“Your breakfast is ready, sweetie. It’s warming in the oven. I’ve got to get to work.” Merry Carole bends over Cal and gives him a kiss on the top of his head.
Merry Carole gives me a quick nod and hands me the directions for the coffee place that’s “just around the corner” but apparently still fifteen miles outside town. I thank her hoping we’re not mad at each other anymore. Back to normal? I don’t know what our normal is, so maybe I’m just hoping that my New Car Smell hasn’t worn off yet. Cal pulls his breakfast out of the oven and pours himself a cup of coffee.
“I’m heading over to that coffee place. The Around the Corner one?” I say to Cal. He looks pointedly at the full mug of coffee in his own hand as well as the mug in front of me.
“You know you have coffee in that mug right in front of you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Just checking.”
“I just need something to do. I’m getting all contemplative, and that, I assure you, is not a good thing.”