Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,44
voice is low and frantic.
“Prove it,” I say, pulling away from him and taking in the people streaming past us on their way home. Everett is quiet. Still. Tortured. I continue, “That’s what I thought.” I turn and finally walk away.
I don’t look back.
I burst through Merry Carole’s front door and straight into my little guest room. I strip off all of my clothes and wrap a towel around my body. I put Merry Carole’s dress and all of my undergarments into the washing machine, measure the detergent, twist the knobs, and close the lid. I don’t let myself think. I don’t let myself stop. I press my lips together and try to erase the taste of Everett still on them. I walk out of the laundry room and into the guest bathroom, turning on the shower. I lock the door behind me and let the towel fall to the ground. My mind races with thoughts of Everett. I try to stay ahead of them as I step inside the shower, letting the water fall over me.
I feel light. The weight of loving Everett had held me so tightly for so long, it’s all I knew. I feel a sense of panic move through my body. I steady myself on the tile wall.
“What am I going to do without him?” I whisper, the sobs finally coming. I let the water wash over me as I think of a life without Everett. No more fantasies. I need to see the reality of what we have become. We’re not happy. Whatever momentary joy we have can never equal the love that’s felt when you commit yourself to someone and decide to live out your days together. The peace of mind that comes from building a future with someone is not even in the same ballpark as the scraps we’ve been living on. Time. The promise of time is something we never got. What kind of future would we have based on a past and present filled with stolen moments?
The truth is, I came back to North Star because I left something here. And it wasn’t Everett. Or Merry Carole. Or Cal. Or even my mother. I didn’t leave it somewhere in high school or even as I sat at that blinking red light at the edge of town just before getting on that first highway that took me anywhere but here. No, I lost this when I was a little girl. And now I want to find it.
I want to be happy again. Be happy for the first time.
Maybe the first step is doing something just for me without judging it or fearing the consequences.
I shut off the water and step out of the shower. I wrap the towel around my body, grab another towel for my hair, and walk into my guest room. I find my cell phone and dial.
“Shine Prison, how can I help you?”
“Warden Dale Green, please?”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Queen Elizabeth Wake.” The woman puts me on hold and I settle on my perfectly made bed. The prison has music playing while you’re on hold, which I find odd. As I try to towel-dry my hair, I find myself singing along with Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue”: “Well, I grew up quick/And I grew up mean . . .”
“Ms. Wake, happy Fourth!” Warden Dale says, cutting through the music.
“Happy Fourth to you, sir,” I say.
“You got an answer for me, Ms. Wake?”
“Yes, sir. I would like the job, if it’s still available,” I say, my wet hair sticking to my damp shoulders.
“It sure is. I appreciate you calling me back. How about if you come on in tomorrow and have Juanita give you the walk through? I’d like you to cook the Death House crew supper that night and then we’re going to need your last meal services this Friday. You can understand why I was pressing you for an answer,” Warden Dale says.
“Yes, sir,” I say. This Friday. My first last meal. I can do this.
“Now, Juanita’s got today off, but I’ll hand you back over to one of the other fine ladies at the front desk and she’ll set you up with all the details. I’ll see you at ten AM sharp tomorrow morning.”
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Can I bring knives?”
“Pardon me?”
“Knives, sir? I have a set of knives I prefer to use.”
“Oh, we’ll have Juanita inventory them and you’ll have to check them in and out when you come to work. That suit you?”