Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,96

car in gear and pulls away. I watch his red taillights dim in the humid haze of the evening. The center of town is quiet except for the cicadas singing their song.

Go ahead and have your fun with Mr. I Like Him and He’s Nice. I know how this ends and so does he.

As I walk down the manicured path, past Cal’s football sign and into the darkened house, I can’t get the words to stop repeating in my head.

Everett knows how this ends? What does he know that I don’t?

20

Inmate #HB823356:

Tamales, ensalada de noche buena, cabrito served with Mexican rice and beans, churros with Mexican hot chocolate and cajeta, Fanta orange soda, and a pack of Starburst

While I was shopping for Tuesday’s meal, I found myself in the candy section staring at all the different kinds of Starburst. When did there get to be ten thousand different flavors of Starburst? Back in my day there was just the one kind and everyone ate all the red and pink ones before passing off the yellows to friends as a “kind gesture.” But now? Summer Fun Fruit? FaveREDs? Tropical? Sweet Fiesta? What’s a Flavor Morph? I grabbed one of each, just in case.

Then it was Tuesday morning. Today I’ll make my second last meal for a man who’s trying to re-create Christmas. Could I get some dramatic, last-minute phone call telling me the inmate has been pardoned? I’ve loaded all the groceries into the car after not sleeping very well and am pouring coffee into my travel mug.

“You’re leaving early,” Merry Carole says, cinching her robe closed.

“This one’s going to be tough,” I say, tightening the lid on my travel mug.

“Remember—”

“I know,” I say, cutting her off.

“When it’s too much, we’ll have another conversation,” Merry Carole says, coming into the kitchen and pouring herself some coffee.

“I think we’re probably going to be having that conversation sooner rather than later,” I say, feeling utterly exhausted after this week’s ramp-up.

“Well, you let me know,” Merry Carole says.

“Cal’s on his run. He just left,” I say.

“Good.”

We are quiet.

“Meaning, if you want to talk about things . . .”

“Oh. Oh, no thank you,” Merry Carole says, politely.

I wait. Merry Carole stares out the sliding glass doors and into her backyard. The sun is coming through and her blue eyes twinkle in the morning light. I begin to walk toward the front door, but turn around.

“When I first got here you were . . . bigger,” I say.

“You mean fatter?” Merry Carole smooths her robe over her curves.

“Of course not. I mean bigger.” My arms shoot in the air like an explosion.

“Honey, using the same word but only adding your own personal game of charades to the mix doesn’t make it any clearer.”

“It feels like you’re disappearing. A little,” I say, hating how harsh the words sound.

“Does it?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“Not yet, no. No, thank you.”

“Okay.” I nod.

Merry Carole gives me an obliging smile.

I continue, “Should I be worried? Because now I’m worried.”

“No, it’s good. I honestly don’t think I’m ready to even say it out loud. Funny, isn’t it? I need it to just be mine a bit longer,” Merry Carole says.

“That makes a lot of sense,” I say.

“I know it does.”

“So we’ll talk later?”

“I’m sure you’ll be crawling in bed with me later tonight,” Merry Carole says, walking with me as I head toward the front door. She opens it for me and I step outside.

“Yeah, probably,” I say, unashamed.

“Go on now. Good luck,” she says, with a wave. I unlock my car and climb inside. The quiet of the car surrounds me. Focus on the food. I buckle my seat belt, back out of the driveway, drive through the town square and past that flashing red light and onto the highway. Radio turned high. Mind busy. Running through the day. Envisioning the perfectly made plate. And nothing else.

I pull into Lot B, gather my canvas bags filled with supplies and groceries, and trudge to the back door. I manage to swipe my key card without having to drop all my groceries and step inside the darkened kitchen. I turn on the lights, and as they flicker on I await Jace. The kitchen door clicks open and he walks in.

“You’re here early,” Jace says, his hand resting on his gun.

“I didn’t get any sleep last night,” I say, setting my knives down.

“Nobody does,” Jace says.

I look up from the counter and really make eye contact with him for the first