Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,8

truths have presented themselves in the last forty-eight postfiring hours. While I’ve bragged about living in the greatest cities in America, I have yet to actually become a part of any of them. I’ve worn the carpet threadbare on the tiniest piece of real estate these cities have to offer. I’ve created an agoraphobic triangle between the inside of a kitchen, the closest restaurant to catch my fancy, and whatever subway station is the nearest to the aforementioned. As I lay awake last night, I realized that it never mattered what city I was in, I never interacted with any of them. I vowed in the panicked haze of my last early morning in New York City that I would jump in with both feet to my next job in the next city. My future decisions can’t be based on just not wanting to be in North Star, Texas. Deciding not to be somewhere is no choice at all.

As the sun comes up on my last day in New York, I put my clothes in the same two suitcases I’ve been lugging around for ten years. As I fight with them while leaving my room, the door clicks shut behind me. No fanfare. Nothing. Instead, my last moments in that New York City hotel room were a frustrated symphony of various four-letter words aimed at inanimate objects. The elevator dings open and I step in with all the other exhausted tourists who are ready to go home.

I’ve already pulled around the 1998 Subaru Outback I bought in Brooklyn yesterday and parked it in front of the hotel. I bought the car for three reasons: 1. it was cheap; 2. it has a hatchback; and 3. it has New York plates. Apparently having a few epiphanies in the early morning haze doesn’t trump sheer pettiness (thank God).

I walk through the lobby of the McCormick one last time. Sassy Keryn is not working today. Too bad. I go out the revolving door to where the car is parked with its hazards on.

“Checking out?” the doorman asks. I’ve worked with this man for six months.

“I used to work here,” I say, opening the hatch and lifting in one of my bags.

“Oh, oh. You need help?” he asks, lifting the other bag in and closing the hatch.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, now awkward. Do I tip him?

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, watching me fumble around in my jeans pockets for any loose change.

“Thanks again.”

“No problem. Good luck then.” I nod and smile.

I walk over to the driver’s-side door and climb inside. The doorman walks around and shuts the door behind me. He scans the busy street and gives me a tap on the roof of my car when it’s safe to go. I give him a wave and pull out from the curb.

The leaving is always so painless. One minute I’m in New York and the next I’m hurtling through Pennsylvania, Maryland, and then crossing into Virginia. I have officially left. But leaving one place means I’m going somewhere else, right? On to the next. I turn up the radio and sip the tea I bought just outside Roanoke.

After driving for sixteen hours the day before, I finally crashed at a motel just outside Birmingham, Alabama. The drive from New York to North Star is just over twenty-four hours and I completed a little more than half of it. Twelve hours to go. I called Merry Carole and let her know I’d be getting to North Star that night around dinnertime. She said she hadn’t told Cal yet that I was coming. She did that not because she wanted to surprise him, but because she doesn’t trust me. I’ve said I’m coming home a thousand times, then called with regrets from some new place.

In that scratchy bed, with the seemingly unending scan of headlights hitting my motel room window, I couldn’t sleep. Guilt. Going home to Merry Carole and Cal made me feel apologetic and heavy. Did I abandon them? Or was it better for Merry Carole not having me in town? I wanted to believe my absence made it better. Merry Carole was always way more palatable without me around—well, me and my temper anyway. As I gathered my things early that morning, I knew the answer. I’d been selfish. I guess I just didn’t know what else to do.

Despite promises several times to come home, I’ve only been back once. I put everything I had into getting into the University of Texas.