No Place Like Here

by Christina June

  Hannah’s navy-blue eyes widened. They were just a shade darker than my own. She held my gaze for a full minute as I felt my insides shrink. Just as I was about to look away, she shrugged. “That’s fair. I mean, we haven’t seen each other since, what? Elementary school.”

  I cleared my throat. “I think that’s about right.”

  She shrugged again, no hint of aggression or anger on her face. She looked oddly calm and unbothered. I’d never seen anyone who could do that. “Well, maybe I am wrong then. I guess we’ll see.”

  “I guess we will.”

  At the round table in the kitchen, Aunt Greta seated me between her and Hannah. Uncle Ed, across from me with a monster-sized helping of cheese-smothered ziti, grinned as I dug into mine, which was about a quarter of the size of his.

  “Prepare for greatness, Ashlyn. My mother’s recipe won contests. Your father and I used to fight over who got the corner pieces where the cheese is crispy.” Uncle Ed winked at me and then chuckled at the confused look on my face.

  “I don’t think we’ve ever had this,” I said quietly and slipped a small bite into my mouth. I wished it hadn’t tasted like sawdust. I’m sure it would’ve been better had I not been here against my will. I took another, smaller bite and tried to ignore my dad’s voice telling me to watch how many calories I ate.

  Ed raised an eyebrow for just a second before he nodded once and said, “Well, we’re certainly happy to be able to introduce you to it, then.”

  Lunch continued like that. Ed or Greta making perfectly good attempts at conversation, me not knowing what they were talking about or giving the shortest answers possible, and Hannah, chewing with that smirk on her face. And despite Uncle Ed and Aunt Greta’s best attempts to make me feel at home, the meal only intensified the reality of how alone I was. They were this nice little unit and I was the interloper. Once I’d eaten enough to be polite, I asked to be excused, saying I needed to rearrange my bag for camp.

  Aunt Greta put a hand on my wrist as I stood. “You let us know if we can do anything to help you, honey. Anything at all.” I was surprised to see more than just compassion in her gaze. There was concern, fear, and anger there as well. All the things I was feeling too.

  “I will. Thank you.”

  I slid my chair back under the table and ran up the stairs.

  Chapter 5

  A few days later, as I was lying on my bed staring at the popcorn ceiling, Aunt Greta knocked and pushed open the door. “Hon, your dad is on the phone. Better take it. Who knows when he’ll be able to call again.”

  The familiar feeling settled over me whenever I heard the word dad—half-fear and half-irritation. I took the cordless from her hand. “Hello?” I said, as Aunt Greta slipped out of the room.

  “Hello, Ashlyn, how are you?”

  He sounded exactly the same, as if I were on my bed at school and he were at home. “Hi, Dad. I’m fine.” Not scared. Not angry. Not second-guessing myself at every turn. Fine. I was a good liar. I should be. I’d had enough practice telling my dad what he wanted to hear.

  “Are you all settled in?”

  Define settled, I didn’t say. “Yes,” I said. “Aunt Greta and Uncle Ed have been very nice. They made baked ziti.” I waited to see if he’d take the bait, and say something, anything, about the crusty cheese edges.

  “Hmmm,” he only mumbled. A non-answer. “And you’re ready for work? You leave in a few days, correct?”

  “Saturday morning.” I knew what he was doing here. Instead of asking me how I felt or even asking about his brother and his family, he simply focused on the cold, emotionless logistics. He was keeping me an arm’s length away. Like he always did. If I wasn’t so used to it, I’d probably be more upset than I already was. I mean, if my dad and I had the kind of relationship where he offered fatherly advice and showed interest in me as a person, I bet I would’ve been bawling my eyes out to hear his voice, knowing I was only going to see him in a prison uniform in his cinder block cage for the next year. But it was just the same as it always was.

  “Make sure you are on your best behavior. It might feel like fun—kind of like summer camp—but you are there to work.”

  “I will be.” I gritted my teeth.

  “This goes without saying but keep the flirting to a minimum. You can’t let some boy distract you.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. He was never going to let me live down my mistakes. I clenched my jaw so hard it ached.

  Dad just kept plowing forward. “And keep in mind Uncle Ed will pick you up for our visits, so you’ll need to request the time off in advance. I’m sending the visitation paperwork to Ed’s house. He’ll get it to you.”

  I realized my nails were digging so hard into my palm they were making angry red marks in my skin. I didn’t say anything in response. We were talking about prison visits. What was I supposed to say?

  “In case you were wondering,” he said, with the certainty that only he was capable of, “I’m doing okay here.” Truthfully, no matter how frustrated or angry or just done with my day that I thought I was, I had been curious. And scared. I felt a lot of things about my dad, but I loved him. My love for him was part of the problem. It was easier to ignore someone you weren’t so emotionally connected with. “I’m still getting used to the routine, but that’s to be expected.”

  “Good, that’s really good.” I exhaled into the receiver. In the background, I heard voices and scuffling.

  “Time’s up, Ashlyn. I’ll call again soon. I have the number for Sweetwater.”

  “Okay. Take care, Dad.”

  “You too.”

  The phone clicked, and then there was nothing.

  It took a full minute before my lungs decided to start working again. And another full minute before the bedroom door opened again.

  “Are you okay, sweetheart? I couldn’t help overhear.” I was more stunned by the look of pure sympathy on my aunt’s face than I was at the fact that she had been eavesdropping.

  “I guess.” Anyone’s guess was as good as mine at that point.

  Aunt Greta sat down on the bed next to me and put her arm around my shoulders. “I know you didn’t say much to him, but it’s exactly what you didn’t say that came across loud and clear.”

  Despite her embrace, I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling exposed. My nonresponses were carefully calculated from years of practice masking what I was really thinking from a father who didn’t seem to care anyway. “What do you mean?”

  She stroked what was left of my hair. “Your tone was guarded. You only answered his questions and didn’t ask any of your own. He didn’t engage with the ziti comment, which I’m guessing was probably pretty discouraging.”

  Aunt Greta did not miss a thing. I crossed my arms tighter. “You got all that?”

  “Honey, I’m a social worker. My job is to read people. And right now, you are either angry, terrified, or a little of both. Which is it?”

  “Both,” I whispered.

  “I’d probably be the same if I came home from school to find out my family was leaving me.”

  The tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them. “Why did he do it? Why did he do this to us?” Was it something I did? If I’d made better choices, would my dad have too? I wanted to ask it out loud, but I couldn’t.

  Aunt Greta sighed. “I wish I knew. I’ve seen a lot of people do a lot of hurtful things over the years, and the best answer I have, which isn’t nearly as nuanced as the truth, is that they’re selfish.”

  “I could’ve told you that.” The second after it slipped out, I wanted to clap my hands over my mouth.

  My aunt gave me a knowing little smile. “Well, I can’t say I’ve spent much time with your father in the last decade, and not for lack of trying, but from the outside, it looks like selfishness is a decent assumption. If I were to keep guessing, I might also say he is a desperate man, and afraid. With a bit of pride thrown in.”

  I jumped up, my hands balled into tight fis
ts again, wiping the scalding tears from my face. “What did he have to be afraid of? We had everything.”

  Greta’s lips pursed into a horizontal line. “Maybe you should hash that one out with your uncle.”

  I stared at her and shook my head. “Maybe another time. I’m feeling tired all of a sudden. I think I want to lie down, if you don’t mind.” I wrapped my arms around myself, sat on the bed, and turned away. I’d said too much already.

  “Sure, sure. You’re going to be busy, busy, busy soon enough. Get your rest while you can.” I glanced up as she rose and went to the door, pausing just long enough to look over her shoulder and smile sadly at me. Then she was gone.

  I hated that smile. It was the same one Cassie Pringle gave me before I left school. Filled with pity, but also relief that the terrible thing that had happened to me hadn’t happened to them. She was probably counting her blessings that she’d married the Zanotti brother with more sense.

  When I heard my aunt’s footsteps on the stairs fade away, I rolled off the bed and slid my laptop out of my backpack. I flipped the top and drummed my fingers nervously near the keys as I waited for it to wake up before typing “my dad is going to jail” into the search bar. No one in this house, and most likely no one where I was going, knew what this super-weird mix of feelings felt like, but maybe the internet would.

  I found forum after forum of people—kids like me—looking for support from strangers. “My dad is going to jail for abusing my sister and I’m depressed.” “My dad is going to jail for two to six years.” “My dad is going to jail and he’s the only man in my life who I trust. I have no idea how I’m going to cope without him.” None of them were quite like my situation, and reading their words solidified my understanding of how very strange and “first world problems” my circumstances were. Even still, I felt less alone reading their stories. Even if the details were different, those kids were being abandoned too. Just like me, they were wondering how they were supposed to reshape their lives around a father-shaped hole.

  I googled “tax evasion sentences” and found page after page of people who cheated their companies and the government, as my dad had done. Selfish people, I thought in Aunt Greta’s knowing voice. I looked up Williams, the place Dad was . . . what should I call it? Locked up? Staying at? Spending time in? A lump formed in my throat and I shoved the computer off my lap.

  “It’s not forever. It’s not forever,” I whispered to myself.

  “Are you talking to yourself?” Hannah called from the hallway. “I mean, if you are, I guess that’s fine. It’s not that odd . . .”

  I stared at her, unsure if she was joking. She stared right back. Hannah’s gaze was so unnerving, I had to look away. Was she making fun of me? If she was, this was going to be an even worse couple of months than I originally imagined. Finally, she broke her gaze and, thankfully, laughed. “Really, though, are you okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. Not that I’d talk to you about this. Not a chance.

  “No, you’re not.” Hannah came in and sat down, just like her mother had. “What were you doing online?”

  With all the fight taken out of me for the time being, I passed her the laptop. She scanned the screen for a few minutes and clicked two or three times.

  “He’s right, you know.”

  “Who is?”

  Hannah pointed to a tab that displayed a poem written by a boy whose father had been incarcerated for five years. “He says it’s not his fault. What his dad did.”

  “So?”

  She shrugged. “Just making an observation.” She clicked around some more. “Williams, huh? It’s about an hour from Sweetwater. Looks brutal.” I rolled my eyes as Hannah continued scanning the website. She looked up just long enough to catch me sending an eyebrow-singing glare her way. “Sorry, sorry.” Hannah shut the laptop and put it on my nightstand. “Look, I know we don’t know each other very well—”

  “Or at all,” I muttered.

  “Fair. Or at all. But here’s something about me. I don’t wallow. Things are rough for you right now, I get it.” No, you don’t, I didn’t say. “And Mom says they’ve been rough for a long time. And that totally sucks. I get it,” she said again. I sat on my hand that wanted to clench into a fist. “But if you sit in here and google stuff, you’re only going to make it worse. Plus, we’re leaving for Sweetwater soon and you won’t be able to sit around and stew, you know?” I nodded once. “Some friends and I are going out tonight. Maybe a movie. Not sure yet. But you should come. It’ll be good for you.”

  I closed my eyes. Why did everyone else think they knew what was good for me? It was exhausting. “I don’t really feel up for it, but I appreciate the invitation. And thanks for the advice. I’ll take it into consideration.” It was what my dad said to clients, and to me, when he didn’t want to do something someone was asking of him.

  Unfazed, she popped up off the bed. “Suit yourself. But when we get there you’re not going to be able to skip out on stuff. Especially staff campfires and dinners. The owner expects the staff to participate in all the activities.”

  “Great. Thanks for letting me know,” I said, making no effort to mask my annoyed tone of voice. Luckily, Hannah the non-wallower moved on immediately.

  “Consider yourself warned,” she countered, smiled sweetly at me, and left.

  Alone in my room, I picked up the laptop and opened it again. I reread the poem aloud to myself, as if it was a prayer. “You are not responsible for the mistakes of others” jumped out at me, and I repeated it. It seemed like something worth remembering, so I opened my quote journal and wrote it down in slick black ink. I may not have been responsible for my dad’s mistakes, but I sure as heck could take responsibility for my own. I’d spent the last year doing everything right. Yet, here I was, in Wherever, Pennsylvania, still trying to prove I was ready to come home.

  My dad’s voice, a sinister whisper, still poked and prodded at me. If I’d stood up straighter, worn a longer skirt, and gotten higher test scores, would he have reached for more? Would he still be in prison? It was totally ridiculous, but completely consuming.

  Chapter 6

  My sentence to work for the summer didn’t feel real until the Sweetwater Overlook Retreat Center sign stared back at me as Uncle Ed pulled in to drop us off. It seemed to be taunting me, telling me I was going to fall flat on my face here, and I had to look away. We drove to the main building and parked. Hannah hopped out first and began unloading our bags, while I dragged myself from the station wagon at the pace of a snail.

  My ever-observant aunt picked up on my misery. “You’re going to have a wonderful time, sweetheart,” she told me, her hands on my cheeks as she stared into my eyes. Was she trying to implant the idea that Sweetwater was awesome directly into my brain? If so, it wasn’t working.

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” I was going for confident and reassuring, but it came out more dismissive than anything else.

  Aunt Greta winced, but quickly recovered. “Well, if you need anything at all, we’re just a phone call away, okay?” She stepped back, put both hands on her hips, and surveyed the forest of tall trees that surrounded the gravel parking lot where we stood. “This place holds such fantastic memories for me. I spent most of my summers in college and grad school here. Helping people reach their potential is so powerful. It’s part of why I became a social worker. The owner, Fred Allen, is like a second father to me. He saw how much I loved it and just kept encouraging me to get more involved.” She smiled at me. “Even if you don’t love it as much as Hannah and I do, it’ll be a good experience. Sweetwater teaches you what you’re made of.”

  “Sugar and spice and everything nice?” I deadpanned.

  Greta raised an eyebrow. “I was thinking more along the lines of strength and courage.”

  “Not sure that applies to me,” I said, looking at my shoes. If I rewound through the movie of my life up to this point, it was pretty easy to see that I wasn’t a fighter. I always knew
this about myself and I always hated it, but it was so much easier to keep my mouth shut when something bothered me. I appreciated Aunt Greta’s positive attitude, but if Sweetwater was trying to teach me to be strong, it might be the one and only class I ever failed.

  “You might surprise yourself,” she said with a wink.

  Doubtful, I said, but only to myself.

  Greta and Ed kissed my cheeks, hugged Hannah fiercely, and promised they’d send care packages. Hannah yelled “Cookies!” with a smile as they got back in the car. Then her smile faded when she realized we were alone, together.

  “Let’s go. We can’t be late for orientation.” My cousin picked up her army-style duffel bag and started toward the lodge. I gathered from the brochure that this was where the retreaters slept, where conference rooms were, where the dining hall was housed, among other important places for the complete retreat experience. Looking around, I spied a few separate cabins, a gazebo, and trails that led behind the lodge to who knows where. And a lot of trees. And dirt. A fly zipped past me and I swatted at it. I grabbed my rolling suitcase and dragged it behind me, kicking up pieces of gravel that stung my bare ankles as I went.

  When we got inside, I followed silently down linoleum hallways until we passed through a set of double doors and the sign that said Mess Hall. Mess hall? Are we in the Army? Hannah dropped her bag on the floor and ran like a track star for a group of people standing in a semicircle next to a long row of cafeteria tables. I stood off to the side and took in my surroundings. Besides the long tables, there was a smaller one set up in the front, with a clipboard and a stack of papers. I approached the table, inspecting the clipboard. It was a sign-in sheet. I scanned the names. Hannah’s was typed at the very bottom—the curse of being a Z—and right under hers, mine was handwritten in a swirly blue scrawl. The last-minute addition. I quickly signed my initials next to my name, and just to be nice, wrote HZ next to Hannah’s name. And, making sure no one was watching me, I scribbled,