Nowhere but Home A Novel

25




Dairy Queen double-dip swirl cone



As I lie awake the next two nights, I realize I’ve defined myself by things I can’t see and people who aren’t around anymore. I’ve been hunting a ghost for my entire life and so has the pitchfork- and torch-wielding mob of North Star townspeople.

For someone who struggles with faith, I base a lot of my life on things I can’t see. All these years looking for the answer and it comes down to the simplest question.

Do I want to go backward or forward?

I believed going on all these adventures meant that I was jumping into my future with everything I had. I left North Star thinking I’d seen the last of the chains and the masks and the pitchfork-wielding mobs. With my two pieces of luggage, I’d brag that I liked to travel light, insinuating that the usual trappings didn’t weigh me down. The joke was clearly on me. I hauled the burden of Mom’s unceremonious death, my abandonment of Merry Carole and Cal, and my cowardly heart that I never really risked on Everett everywhere I went. It’s ironic that after spending my whole life believing in ghosts, I became one.

I didn’t live in those cities. I haunted them.

As I sit in church that Sunday, I think about what’s real. I look to my left and see Merry Carole, Reed, Cal, and the girls sitting together for the first time. That’s real. What’s also real is that none of them has urged me to get on my way or leave them be. They’ve made sure I knew I was family. What’s not real are the gossiping ladies and whispering townspeople who snicker behind gloved hands about Reed and Merry Carole: the new, scandalous couple. What’s finally sinking in is the knowledge that their opinions are only reflections of themselves and how unhappy they are in their own lives. I should know. I’ve spent years snarling at people because of how lonely I am. Angry. Sad. Angry is just sad’s bodyguard. I gaze up into the high-coffered ceiling and let the sweeping, epic music wash over me. That’s real, I think to myself as I relax into the morning.

As we file out of the church, I’m still in a bit of a haze. We all congregate on the edge of the church’s front lawn. Reed takes the girls to the table where the punch and cookies are. Rose pointed it out as we walked in. I secretly believe it’s why she comes to church. Cal followed them over, but soon got sidetracked by members of the Stallion Batallion wanting to know if he’s ready for the big opening game coming up. I saw Everett inside, but haven’t yet spotted him out here.

“It’s almost Monday,” Merry Carole says.

“Yes, Monday customarily follows Sunday.”

“Queen Elizabeth, don’t be flip.”

“I still don’t know, but I’m taking it seriously,” I say.

“That’s it, Momma. Enough,” Whitney yells from the other side of the churchyard. The entire lawn of people screeches to a halt. Merry Carole and I look around and see Cal standing right in the thick of it. Next to West.

Oh shit.

Merry Carole and I immediately hightail it over to where Cal is standing.

“Whitney Shelby Ackerman, this is not the time or the place.” Whitney’s mother, Cheryl, is all tasteful, matching separates, helmet hair straight from the salon.

“Sweet pea, I know you—” Whitney’s daddy, DeWitt Ackerman, always did coddle that girl.

“Momma, my name is Whitney McKay. I’m a McKay. And so is he,” Whitney says, reaching up to West’s shoulder and pulling him close.

“This needs to stop right here and now, young lady. I am not too old to put you over my knee,” Cheryl Ackerman says in a low growl. You could hear a pin drop in this churchyard.

Whitney turns West around and faces him, her hands still on his shoulders. She looks up at him, squinting in the sun, as her chin quivers from tears that are now pooling in her eyes. West shifts and shoots a quick glance at Cal. Cal steps in close. Merry Carole is ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

“Sweetie, I’m so sorry. To be doing this here. Like this. But mommas fight for their kids, and I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long to stand up for you. Baby, I—”

“I know,” West says, his low voice cutting through the thick humidity like a bell.

“You what now?” Whitney asks, stumbling over her words.

“I know. We’ve known for a while,” West says, looking over at Cal again. Cal steps even closer. Merry Carole inches forward.

“Yes, ma’am,” Cal says, now shoulder to shoulder with West. Seeing them both there. Together. Whitney finally looks at them. Really taking them in. And she just loses it. She claps her hand over her mouth and begins to sob. Wes steps up and takes her in his arms.

“I’ve never . . . I couldn’t bring myself to really look at him,” Whitney says, referring to Cal.

“Why didn’t you say nothing?” Wes asks the boys.

“It just . . . it seemed really important to you that we didn’t know. So we kept it to ourselves,” West says, looking from Wes to Cal.

“For how long?” Whitney moans.

“Maybe four years,” West says, looking at Cal for confirmation.

“Junior high school, so three years,” Cal corrects.

“Three years?” Whitney sobs.

“How’d y’all find out?” Wes asks.

“All you have to do is look at us,” West says, voicing what is plainly obvious to everyone.

“We had this long bus ride once, for that all-star Pee Wee League in Dallas?” Cal says. Wes nods. Cal continues. “We sat next to each other and started talking. By the time we got to Dallas, we’d figured it out.” Merry Carole pulls a hankie from her purse and swipes at her eyes, cleaning up the now trailing mascara.

“A bus ride,” DeWitt says.

“I didn’t mind it. I loved living with—” West stops. Not knowing what to call the people he took as his parents for most of his life. He continues, “My grandparents.” Cheryl and DeWitt crumple into each other as West’s voice cracks. He continues, “I don’t ever want y’all to think I thought I was missing out.” A single tear makes its way down his face and he angrily swipes it away.

“Come on over here now, son,” DeWitt says, pulling West into him and Cheryl.

The entire churchyard is sobbing. Not a dry eye anywhere. The minister is watching the entire scene from the steps of the church and he’s wiping away tears like everyone else. The entire town knew. West and Cal knew. What the hell are we all so afraid of?

West breaks from Cheryl and DeWitt and stands in front of Wes and Whitney. Their two littler kids are holding on to Whitney and Wes, unsure of what’s happening, but definitely a bit scared. West looks at the two little kids and then up at Whitney.

“I want you to come home, baby,” Whitney says, finally looking up into her son’s eyes. Cheryl and DeWitt look on with approval. Pride.

“I’d like that,” West says, his chin quivering just like Whitney’s. There’s an awkward pause as the entire churchyard waits. Please hug him. Please hug him. But it’s not Whitney who pulls West in—it’s Wes. And he’s lost it. He engulfs West in arms as big as tree branches and is telling him how proud he is of him. As the McKays hug and cry, Cal stands by; Merry Carole has finally inched all the way up to be by his side.

Cal takes Merry Carole’s hand and whispers so only we can hear, “Thank you for standing up for me. I know it wasn’t easy.” Merry Carole sniffles and is doing her best to keep it together. She nods as the tears stream down her face, mascara trailing behind them.

“You’re my boy,” Merry Carole finally ekes out, pulling Cal close.

My cell phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out and don’t recognize the number. It buzzes again. I excuse myself and walk farther down the sidewalk, away from the church.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Queen Elizabeth Wake?”

“It’s just Queenie. This is she.”

“Oh right. That’s much better. Queenie, this is Neal Howard. You e-mailed us a résumé a while back—” Neal is flipping through papers. The churchgoers gather around the McKays/Ackermans and offer their congratulations. Everyone knew. The talk quickly turns to football and all is back to normal after just a few minutes. Fifteen years boiled down to five minutes in a churchyard. Whitney has yet to let go of West’s hand. West hasn’t moved, but is still leaning toward Cal. I love that through all of this, they had each other. That they’ll always have each other.

As I walk a bit farther out of the bustling churchyard, I let my eyes rest on Merry Carole and I’m calm. Family. Love. The promise of time together. Neal continues to flip through papers and I wait for him to tell me that he thanks me for my résumé, but— Neal continues, “Aha, there it is. I’m so sorry. I spoke to Brad Carter over at the McCormick and he had some great things to say about you. We’d love it if you would come to Portland and head up the kitchen here at the Raven.” The Raven? I sent out so many résumés, it’s hard to remember. I finally land on the little neighborhood grill in Portland. Family owned, really cute place.

“I applied for the sous-chef position, is that—”

“The reason I’m late getting back to you is because we’ve been restructuring a bit here, which you know is fancy speak for letting our executive chef go. That’s where you come in,” Neal says.

“As the executive chef?”

“We thought the broad spectrum of your experience made you the clear choice for us.” I’m stunned. I continue to walk out of the churchyard.

“This is really an honor and I’m very flattered; is there any way that I can think about your offer and get back to you?”

“Oh sure. Sure. I understand that it’s a lot. I have your e-mail. I’ll send you the details: pay—the chef’s residence is on the same plot of land—hours, and vacation days.”

“That sounds perfect,” I say.

“Queenie, I’ll need to hear back from you by the end of next week, you understand.”

“Sure, and once again thank you so much for thinking of me.” Neal and I sign off and I look up to find myself just outside the church cemetery. The bustling churchyard is alive with good news and I freeze.

The broken-down picket fence that corrals North Star’s departed is covered in vines and overgrown underbrush. I creak open the gate, wiping the dust and dirt from the wood onto my Sunday best. I tuck my cell phone into my pocket and pick my way through the ancient headstones and makeshift crosses, names of cowboys branded onto them as if they were cattle. I swallow hard as the emotion burns in my throat. I chalk the sensation up to what happened with the McKays. Chalk it up to a lot of things.

What am I doing here? Is it curiosity? Not enough melodrama for one day? Do I think after all I’ve gone through in the last few weeks I’ll have a different response to this cemetery than the one I had all those years ago? Is this a test? Some kind of ritual I can put myself through to prove that I’m over her? Is this about Yvonne Chapman and her fresh strawberry ice cream? Black holes and dusty plots of land. Flaming red hair and cruel blue eyes. The first of many tears slides down my cheek.

The humidity settles around me as I make my way to where I know Mom is buried. The grass itches and tickles my legs, the dampness of the air and the earth gather inside my sandals as I walk around the graves and headstones like a cat burglar trying to avoid the laser beams in an upscale museum.



Brandi-Jaques Wake

1963–1998

The Number One



She was only thirty-five? I remember her as being so much older. She was barely older than I am now. Within a matter of seconds, I’m losing control and unable to stop my own bawling. How did I get here? My sobs are coming from a place so deep it terrifies me. The only word that comes to me is why. Why? Why me? Why you? Why did it have to end that way? Why weren’t you the mother I wanted you to be? Why didn’t you love me? Why wasn’t I enough?

“Queenie, sweetheart?” Merry Carole comes up behind me.

“I’m fine,” I howl. I’m wailing like a lunatic at our mother’s grave.

“Oh sweetie,” Merry Carole says, pulling me in close. Rose water and Aqua Net. Home. Love.

“Why didn’t she love us?” I ask, my face buried in the crook of Merry Carole’s neck.

“I don’t know, my love. I don’t know,” Merry Carole says.

“Aren’t parents supposed to love their kids?” I ask.

“Apparently not,” Merry Carole says. We break apart from each other and she wipes my tears away, smoothing my bangs down. Cal passes me a handkerchief. I thank him and I’m momentarily embarrassed that he’s here to see my full-blown breakdown.

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that people love in different ways and—”

“I don’t want to lie to you, sweetness and light,” Merry Carole says, her chin up in pure defiance.

“Not even in my weakened state?”

“Especially not in your weakened state,” Merry Carole says with a smile.

“I think I’m going to go see the little plot of land,” I say, blowing my nose.

“Honey, you don’t have to,” Merry Carole soothes.

“No, why not make today a hat trick?” I say.

“Do you even know what a hat trick is?” Cal asks.

“Three of something?”

“Yeah, but it’s usually three good things; I’m not so sure—”

“No, this is good. These are good,” I say. I must look like a wreck.

Cal just keeps quiet and takes my word for it.

“Will you tell Reed, Cal, and the girls I’ll see them at supper later?”

“Sure.”

“You can say something, you know.” I motion to Mom’s grave.

“I’ve made my peace,” Merry Carole says, entirely calm.

“Am I going to get there?” I ask, envying her cool demeanor.

“Today was a start,” Merry Carole says as we walk out of that tiny cemetery and leave Mom behind us. Hopefully for good this time.

“Okay . . . well, I’ll be home in a bit.”

I walk away from the church and stop at the DQ for a double-dip swirl. I take the side streets, licking my ice-cream cone and observing life in North Star. I feel cleansed. Baptized, almost. I finish my cone just as I make the final turn down the tree-lined street to where the shack used to be.

In the light of day I can see that it’s all but gone now. The Hall of Fame, just next door, is closed. It is Sunday after all. I walk through the dirt toward what’s left of the shack. My sandals are already wrecked, what’s a bit more? The rotted-out shack is now just fallen planks of wood that once were walls. They lean haphazardly against the concrete wall at the back of the property line. I shift and move the planks around trying to unearth something that I don’t even know I’m looking for. And yet I find it. That old plank Mom nailed to the front of this shithole is just as rotted as the rest of them. WAKE. Four letters. No punctuation. I brush off some of the muck, but think better of it as splinters and spiders threaten to attack at any moment. The branded name is blackened and deep into the wood. Scarred.

“Now I’m just being melodramatic,” I say to myself, trying to look around the little piece of land with fresh eyes, just as Merry Carole told me to.

I feel nothing. No swell of emotion like I felt back in the cemetery. I look out to the street in front of the shack, getting reacquainted with the view I stared at day in and day out as a kid while I worked behind that take-out window. And that’s when the emotion chokes me. When I think about that kid. The kid who waited and tried to be enough for a selfish, feckless parent. I’d watch down that street for Mom. I remember trying to look busy and proficient as she walked up only to have her shove me aside and tell me I was doing it wrong. I search my memory bank hoping to find some tender nugget of a memory of her and can’t find a one.

I’ve heard people talk about loving their kids or friends or parents, but not liking them. As if love is this inalienable right that trumps a person’s bad behavior and neglect. Our society needs parents to love their kids. We joke about how hard parenting is, but there’s an understanding that parents would do anything for their kids. It’s heresy to suggest anything different. As I stare out at that street, that unchanged street, I realize that I’ve been wrong this entire time. Just like the movies I’d studied about the Small-town Girl in the Big City, I’d fallen for the mythology of the incompetent parent who makes good in the end. As I stand in the ruins of what Mom once built, I know I won’t find some secret letter where she finally proclaims her undying love for Merry Carole and me. I’ve tried to fit my mother into society’s idea of what a parent should be. And within those parameters, I’m cast as the monster. I’m the unlovable child.

What happens if I switch the paradigm?

What happens if I finally see my mother for who she was? A woman so incapable of love that her entire life was about what she wanted, how she’d been wronged, and how the world owed her. Merry Carole and I were just two rusty nails her dress got snagged on as she searched for her real life. This isn’t some big philosophical discussion about parents and children at all. It’s about one woman. One inexcusable woman who saw people as stepping-stones. Including her own kids. As the ideas run through my head, the leaves rustling in the tiniest of breezes, I feel a coldness run through me.

A woman whose life was only about what she wanted, how she was wronged, and how the world owed her.

The words bump and ping around in my head. How did I not see that these patterns repeat themselves? I’m sure Mom felt the same about her mother. I remember hearing terrible stories about the woman whose recipes I now make by heart.

So here I am. Staring down the same street I did when I was a kid. Who am I waiting for now? Who am I trying to look busy for? Who do I think is going to shove me aside and tell me I’m doing it wrong? I turn the rotted piece of wood over and over in my hand as I replay Merry Carole’s simple answer of “apparently not.” The quiet settles around me once again.

I choose to go forward.

I throw the rotted piece of wood back in the pile with the rest of the planks and walk down the street, back home to Merry Carole’s. I’ll call Warden Dale first thing tomorrow morning.

I will make Yvonne Chapman’s last meal.

I walk down the manicured path to Merry Carole’s house. She and Cal are standing in the kitchen. I walk in and they immediately stop talking.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my announcement taking a backseat.

“I was on the computer and your e-mail was open; I didn’t know it was yours. I heard a ping and I thought it was mine, you know?” Cal says, looking from me to Merry Carole.

“An e-mail came for you,” Merry Carole says, holding out a sheet of paper. I walk over to the kitchen and take the sheet of paper from Merry Carole. It’s from Neal Howard at the Raven. He’s confirming our conversation about the executive chef position and following up with some details.

“Merry Carole, I—”

“You had no intention of staying,” she says.

“No, I mean . . . yes,” I say, stuttering and stumbling over my words.

“I actually thought you were . . . no, never mind. You just do what you want,” Merry Carole says, opening up the refrigerator. She slams the door immediately. “You told me you were going to at least stay for the wedding.”

“Let me explain,” I say.

“Are you taking it?” Merry Carole asks.

“I don’t know . . . I don’t—”

“It says they want you to start next week. So you’re also going to miss Cal’s opening game,” Merry Carole says, steadying herself on the breakfast bar. Cal just looks . . . crushed. Merry Carole walks through the kitchen toward the front door, sweeping past me in a rage. “Cal, why don’t we go on over to Reed’s for supper.” Cal nods and walks out of the kitchen and right past me. He can’t even look at me. Merry Carole wraps her arm around the boy, and they walk out of the house, slamming the door behind them.

What have I done?