Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,26
that I have to get out of North Star before I make any new memories to run from. One of those résumés has to work. One of those résumés will be my ticket out of North Star.
Before I think better of it, I burst through Merry Carole’s front door and into the tiny guest room. My clothes are mostly in the dresser thanks to Merry Carole telling me that I wasn’t “a hobo” and should put away my clothes like a normal person. I pull the smaller piece of luggage from the closet and pull open the zippered pocket on the inside. I pull out the mangled manila folder just inside. I dump the contents on the floor and sit down quickly next to the messy pile. I sift through my passport, my birth certificate, an old photo of Merry Carole and me, a baby picture of Cal, various slips of paper with old recipes and dish ideas I’ve had over the years. I pull my hand away from the pile as if the mere presence of it has set it aflame: the card Everett gave me when I was eleven and the dried and flattened flower that accompanied it. Pink construction paper with my name in blue crayon written across the top of the card. He’s drawn a girl with a crown at the bottom; a crudely drawn horse grazes on lines of green grass that edge the bottom of the card. There is an arrow pointing to the girl with the crown and the word “YOU” next to it. I run my fingers over the rough construction paper.
“You,” I say, a reverent whisper. At eleven, I was a queen to Everett.
I open the card and in no rhyme or reason are the words “your great!,” “I love you!,” “the lone star state,” and “E + Q.” He’s drawn the same girl with the crown from the front of the card, but this time she stands hand and hand with a golden-haired boy holding a horse. Underneath the couple are the words “you and me forever.” The little Crayola couple is smiling and happy. I sit back against the bed, carefully holding the pink construction paper card.
“You and me forever,” I say, closing the card and letting my hand linger. I hold the card as a believer would cradle a Bible. Everett was what I believed in. And he made me believe in an us. He made me believe I would get out of the hellhole I was in and that I could be happy. He made me believe that I was lovable. I choke back the tears I’ve been running from for decades.
“It was cruel to show me that kind of love at all,” I say, my eyes to the heavens as if saying my own kind of grace. I pull my knees in close and sob, my tears momentarily staining the pink card red. I can’t catch my breath as that feeling of mystical vastness I felt at the cemetery overtakes me. I honestly don’t know if I could stop crying at this point. I’ve been holding this in for years.
After an unknowable amount of time, my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I’m shaken out of my nervous breakdown as I check the phone number—it’s the area code for Shine. It’s the prison. Jesus, Juanita is a study in efficiency. I sniffle and breathe; the phone buzzes again.
“Get it together,” I bite out, wiping the tears away. One last breath and I answer the phone. “Hello?”
“Ms. Wake, this is Juanita from Shine Prison,” she says.
“Sure, what can I do for you?” I say, my throat choking and burning less and less. My breathing is steadying, shaky exhalation by shaky exhalation.
“The warden would like you to come on in and interview for the position. Are you free this afternoon?”
“Oh wow,” I say.
“Well?”
“Oh right. Sorry. Yes, I’m free,” I say, standing. I’m still clutching the pink construction paper card.
“Great. How does two thirty sound?” Juanita says, going through directions and instructions on how to get to the prison. I walk into the kitchen, find an old receipt, and scrawl the information on the back.
“Two thirty is perfect. I’ll be there,” I say, finally.
“We’ll see you then,” Juanita says, signing off. I beep my cell phone off and look around the front room in a fog. I focus on the receipt with all the information in one hand and the pink construction paper card in the other.