Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,4
four hotels, two restaurants, and one Starbucks. Before that I was in Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Diego, Las Vegas, Albuquerque, Taos, Branson, Aspen, Dallas, and Austin, where I was during and right out of college at the University of Texas. I don’t have to stay in the U.S. What about Dublin? I could get a job at a hotel somewhere; they’re nuts for comfort food, aren’t they? “Down-home whatever” as Brad put it. Food that’s good, but not great enough to tolerate someone being “kind of a bitch” is surely sweeping the Irish culinary world. I push away my plate and let my head fall into my hands. I rub my eyes and push my hair out of my face.
“Can I get you something else? Is the sandwich okay?” the waitress says, noticing my dramatic rejection of the food.
“The sandwich was great. Thank you.”
“So just the check then?”
“Sure. Thank you,” I say; the girl tears off my check from her pad of paper and begins to set it facedown on my table. I continue, “Hey, are you guys hiring by any chance? I can do anything. I’m trained as a chef, but I can work behind the counter, wash dishes, whatever you . . . whatever you need,” I say.
“Oh, uh . . . we’re not hiring. For any positions.” She slides the check across my table and can’t look at me. She mutters a quick “Thank you,” and leaves.
“I’ve been here before,” I whisper to myself. I sneak a peek at the two girls next to me as they cautiously look away. To them, I’m now someone who mumbles to herself just after begging for a job. I feel wave after wave of nausea begin to roil. I quickly pay my check and hit the sidewalk at a pretty good clip. I need to be somewhere quiet and private. I’m on the verge of a meltdown of epic proportions and I can’t let anyone here see me lose my cool. As I wind and dart through the streets of the West Village, I realize I’ve never said the word “home.” Not even to myself. The place I’m looking for isn’t here. I want to feel safe right now. I have no idea where to go to feel that.
My breathing quickens. The nausea continues to come in waves as my face flushes, alternating wildly between hot and cold. I’m on the verge of vomiting in public. I launch myself down the stairs into the subway, push myself through the turnstile, and try to regain control of myself as I wait for the train. The rush of air, the platform shifts forward, and we all board as a herd. I close my eyes, gripping the metal bar as we shift and jostle back toward Midtown. I probably wouldn’t be the first person to vomit on this train. Hell, I wouldn’t be the first person to vomit on this train in the last hour. No one here knows me.
No one here knows me.
I open my eyes. It’s Friday night and everyone is getting off work. This train is alive with life and freedom. A man holding a bouquet of flowers sits next to a woman who carries a small present in a gold gift bag. An accordion player hops on at one stop, his wife holding out a hat for spare change. A young woman reads a book and tunes out the world.
It’s not as if this city can’t be home. It was just never my home. Actually, none of the cities I’ve passed through in the last decade has felt right. I can’t remember the last time I felt at home.
I think of North Star. I’ve been back only once since I left at eighteen to go to college. The last time I saw Cal, my nephew, he was in diapers and now I hear he’s going to be North Star’s starting quarterback at just fifteen. My sister, Merry Carole, has made sure I’ve been kept up to date on the town gossip. She’ll smile and be polite because she not only needs the business at her hair salon, but it’s always been important for Merry Carole to fit in. Which is exactly why the people of North Star love keeping her out. I’m actually curious as to how they’re dealing with Cal’s prowess on the football field. However you praise the Lord, be it Baptist, Methodist, or Catholic, the true religion in Texas is football. So for a Wake