Nowhere But Here

Dad does that thing where he’s quiet while mulling over a response. It’s reason one million and one why I love him. Dad hardly ever loses his temper or yells. He thinks everything through.

“I don’t claim to understand most of this,” he says. “But this is important to your mom, and you and she are the two most important things to me. If she needs to attend this funeral then we’ll attend.”

“What if I don’t want to attend?”

Dad’s patient blue eyes search me and I consider ducking under the table before he notices how much the prospect bothers me. Dead people. He’s asking me to voluntarily enter a building where there are dead people. Inside, I’m screaming. Very loudly. Very manically.

“Your mom and I will be there and absolutely nothing will harm you. Besides, you and I have had this discussion. The best way to get over your fears is to face them.”

Sure, his words sound pretty, but there’s this serious anxiety suffocating me like a shroud. Hives form on my wrist and I scratch at the welts under the table while flashing a forced grin. “Are you suggesting a body isn’t going to come back to life and try to eat me?”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re safe from a Walking Dead episode.”

I release an unladylike snort and Dad laughs. His chuckles fade and I loathe the heavy silence that follows.

“I’m not only talking about your fear of dead things,” Dad continues. “I’m talking about the paperwork I found in the trash. I believe it mentioned visiting out-of-town universities with your school this summer.”

Dang it, I should have used the paper shredder.

“There’s more to life than Florida,” he insists.

“I love Florida.” I love it so much that I have plans that involve staying here in town after graduation. Specifically, Trisha and I have plans. We’ve spent the past two years dreaming of going to the local college and rooming together. We even have color-coordinated comforters picked out, because that’s how Trisha rolls.

Dad waves his hand at the room. “There’s more out there for you than these four walls.”

“I love these four walls.” I do. The kitchen, to the three of us, is the focal point of our existence. Mom’s created a homey room with fresh flowers in several vases scattered on the table, island and counter. She painted the walls yellow because she read an article that said it’s a welcoming color.

“Emily—”

“I love my life.” I flutter my eyelashes in an attempt to appear cute. “I’m happy, so stop trying to mess with it.”

Dad leans back in his chair and tosses a pen he’s been fiddling with onto the table. “Aren’t you even curious about what’s out there?”

“No. But I’m curious about what the deal is with Mom and this funeral.” I change the subject because I hate arguing with my father. I don’t possess a burning desire to leave home and explore every part of the universe like he did when he was my age. He doesn’t understand and I don’t know how to explain it. Because of that, we fight and it’s the only thing, besides Eli, we disagree about.

“I already told you I don’t know,” he answers, “but it’s our job to support her. You know as well as I do that demons haunt your mother’s past.”

It’s true. Mom avoids discussing her life before my birth. I assume it must be because it hurts to know she has family that threw her out because she chose to have me. “Do you think attending this funeral is her way of going home without going home?”

His eyes snap to mine and I know I hit the nail on the head. Nausea rolls through my intestines. This is one of those moments where doing the right thing makes me want to puke, but this is my mom. My mom. She’s crazy and she’s dramatic, but she has loved me since she saw two lines on the pregnancy test. I refuse to say no to a woman who raised me for the first four years completely by herself.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m in.”

“Thank you. And Emily...” A long, painful pause. “You need to view this as an opportunity. Maybe this will help you and your mother reconsider Eli’s offer for you to visit him for two weeks this summer.”

Oh, hell no. Three weeks ago, Eli contacted Dad with this massively awful idea. Seeing Eli when he wanders into town once a year is one thing, but visiting him—for two weeks straight—on his home turf? “Mom said no.”

“I think it would be healthy for you to see where your mother once lived and to understand your father’s history. I overheard you asking your mom questions the other day.”

All right, sue me. Eli’s offer made me curious. Actually, not true. My mother’s sharp shout of “no” when Dad broached the subject of the visit is what did it. And I’m not concerned with Eli or his family, but more over my mother.

Were Mom’s parents the superconservative people she’s described them as? How did she meet Eli? Was it at school or did they meet the night they conceived me? Was Mom a crazy teenager or was she a good girl until she decided to hook up one night with a biker?

I’ve asked, but Mom redirects the conversation. I haven’t found the courage yet to press for answers when she shuts me out.

“I see the curiosity in your eyes whenever Eli is mentioned,” Dad tells me.

I push away from the table and as I go to walk past him, he gently snags my fingers. “It’s okay to have questions. They’re your biological family. In fact, it’s extremely normal. I’ve seen it before with my patients.”

A tremor of anger runs through me. I’m not one of his hundreds of pediatric rug rats. “I am not curious.”

“Not at all?” he asks.

I swallow, attempting to sort through the thoughts. When I look at my father, I see the man that not only lowered himself onto one knee to ask my mother’s hand in marriage, but dropped to both knees to ask for my permission to marry her. I see the smile on his face and remember the answering joy inside me the day my adoption went through. I see the man who has not abandoned me once since he entered my life.

Being curious would mean that I don’t appreciate all Dad has done for me and I do appreciate him. I love him more than he could imagine.

“No,” I repeat. “I’m not curious at all.”

Oz (#ulink_447e7010-68f2-5bf7-904a-ac895e139e86)

IT’S THREE IN the morning and Mom and I continue to wait. The two of us deal with the heaviness of each passing second differently. She paces the tiny living room at the front of our double-wide while I polish my combat boots in my room. Regardless of what happens tonight, we have a wake to attend in the morning.

The scratching of the old scrub brush against my black boot is the lone sound that fills the darkened house. We each pretend that the other isn’t awake. Neither of us has turned on a lamp; instead we rely on the rays of the full moon to see. It’s easier this way. Neither of us want to discuss the meaning of Dad’s absence or his cell phone silence.

I sit on the edge of my twin mattress. If I stretched my leg my toe would hit the faux-wood-paneled wall. I’m tall like my dad and the room is compact and narrow. Large enough to hold my bed and an old stack of milk crates that I use as shelves.

Mom’s phone pings and my hands freeze. Through the crack in my door, I spot her black form as she grabs her cell. The screen glows to life and a bluish light illuminates Mom’s face. I quit breathing and strain to listen to her reaction or at least hear the roar of motorcycle engines.

Nothing. More silence. Adrenaline begins to pump into my veins. Dad should have been home by now. They all should have been home. Especially with Olivia’s wake in the morning.

Unable to stomach the quiet any longer, I set the boot on the floor and open my door. The squeak of the hinges screeches through the trailer. In two steps, I’m in the living room.

Mom continues to scroll through her phone. She’s a small thing, under five-four, and has long straight hair. It’s black. Just like mine and just like Dad’s. Mom and Dad are only thirty-seven. I’m seventeen. Needless to say, my mom was young when she had me. By the way she slumps her shoulders, she appears ten years older.

“Any word?” I ask.

“It’s Nina.” My best friend’s mom. “Wondering if we had heard anything.” Which implies neither Eli nor Cyrus have returned home.

From behind her, I place a hand on Mom’s shoulder and she covers my fingers with hers.

“I’ll be out there watching their backs soon.” Now that I’ve graduated from high school, I’ll finally be allowed to enter the family business.

A job with the security company and a patch-in to the club is all I’ve thought about since I was twelve. All I’ve craved since I turned sixteen and earned my motorcycle license. “They’re fine. Like I’ll be when I join them.”

Mom pats my hand, walks into the space that serves as our kitchen, and busies herself with a stack of mail.

I rest my shoulder against the wall near the window. The backs of my legs bump the only piece of furniture in the room besides the flat-screen—a sectional bought last year before Olivia became ill. The couch and TV are extravagances we never would have bought if we’d known we would be covering medical bills.