No Place Like Here

by Christina June

  I loved him and I hated him. And I hated that. I felt like two people around my dad. Most of the time, I wrapped myself in a cloak of silence and sneers. I did as I was told, deflected his jabs, and kept my head down, biding my time until I could legally cut ties. I looked forward to the days when my only obligation was to show up on Thanksgiving and Christmas. But sometimes, I was the five-year-old little girl, riding on Daddy’s shoulders, waiting for the carousel in the park to slow down so she could get on. Her daddy’s hand holding her fast, protecting her from sliding off the painted horse. I didn’t know how to wrap my head around those two Ashlyns. Or, even harder, those two Dads. Who were we without the other? I had no earthly clue. But it would be impossible to deny that my dad and I were enmeshed—another handy vocabulary word from my psych class—and if I wanted to go home, he would be there too, even if he was still far away.

  I sat on the bathroom floor, the tile cold beneath my bare legs, until a soft knock came at the door. “Ashlyn? Are you in there?”

  “Yes, Uncle Ed. I’ll be right out.” I turned on the cold water and let it run to peak iciness. I splashed my face and patted it dry with the thin, brown paper towels that did little to absorb the water. I stared at myself in the mirror, just like I did the day Dad left to come here. My eyes were bloodshot, my skin pale from days spent in Deb’s office instead of out in the summer sun. I sucked in a deep breath, turned, and unlocked the door.

  Uncle Ed and I walked to the car without a word. As he turned out of the parking lot, I sat there, staring straight ahead, still smelling my dad’s scent.

  I turned to my uncle. “What did you talk about after I left?”

  Even in profile, I knew he was smirking. “Money. What else?”

  I snorted. “What? How we don’t have any anymore?”

  “No, you have money. Your father is bad at being a criminal, but he’s good at earning money. There’s more than enough to pay what he owes the government, all his fines and legal fees, your mom’s treatment, and still be comfortable. He just wanted to make sure you were taken care of. That’s all. He may not be Dad of the Year, Ash, but he loves you.”

  “I wish his love had nothing to do with money or appearing perfect.” I’d never said that out loud, but I figured if anyone would understand, Uncle Ed would.

  My uncle gripped the wheel a little tighter. “Me too. I miss my brother. He wasn’t always like this, you know.”

  I had flashes of memories from when I was younger, but they never seemed real. “I guess.”

  “We didn’t have money growing up. Your grandfather worked long hours in the hardware store in town. Your grandmother took in laundry to make a little extra. We always knew our dad wished he could be his own boss. He didn’t like relying on someone else’s decisions to put food on our table and he hated thinking that people were judging us for not having much. I think your dad, being the oldest son, took that to heart, maybe a little too much.” Uncle Ed chuckled. “And then I went the other direction.”

  “I think what you and Aunt Greta do is great.” Seeing how self-reliant and assured Hannah was, I wondered how I might’ve turned out if I’d grown up in a different sort of home.

  “Thank you. We find value in helping others. It’s more important to us than having a big house or the newest phone.”

  By the time we got back to Sweetwater, anger was brewing in me once again. Everything my dad did was a choice. He didn’t have to commit tax evasion. He didn’t have to criticize everything I did. He didn’t have to pretend to be someone he wasn’t, putting up a façade of perfection, and forcing Mom and me to do the same. I wished he’d chosen differently.

  I hugged my uncle goodbye and stepped back into wilderness retreat land. Pushing into the lodge, I checked in with Deb, who was in the kitchen alone, covered in flour, food coloring staining her fingers.

  She waved me over. “We just finished a cooking session. Those Patels are hilarious.” I gaped at her. The Patels were here for a family reunion. There were forty of them according to the registration forms I’d processed. Had she had all of them in the kitchen at once? Somehow that didn’t sound safe. “Can you clean this up for me? Wipe the counters and load the dishwashers?”

  I opened my mouth to protest, cleaning up after Deb was almost as bad as making her coffee all day long. But then it dawned on me that I could take my frustration out on the kitchen surfaces. I shrugged and nodded.

  Deb stretched a hand out to me, offering me a piece of black licorice. It was my favorite, but my stomach protested. “Thanks, maybe later.” She sniffed and walked out of the room.

  When I looked more closely at the state of the competition kitchen, my mouth pressed into a firm line so hard it hurt. There was flour everywhere. Candy pieces and chocolate chips all over the floor. And two enormous gingerbread houses at the front of the room—not nearly as lovely as the one Deb had made herself, but it looked like the Patels had had a good time making them. Which only made me clench my jaw tighter. There was no way my dad would ever participate in something like this. He hated looking silly.

  A stray bag of white icing, piping tip still on, lay on the far end of the room. Without a second thought—a thought that would have been delivered in my dad’s voice telling me otherwise—I grabbed the icing and went for one of the houses.

  I WAS BORN IN THIS HOUSE AND

  I’M BURNING IT DOWN.

  Ghost Beach

  I stared at the white words on the white-iced roof for just a moment, satisfied with my handiwork, and then smeared it away with a spatula. The Patels didn’t deserve to be graffitied. And besides, my house had already burned down, metaphorically. No need to rub it in.

  Chapter 14

  I left the kitchen, sparkling clean and smelling deliciously of lemon, feeling completely and utterly exhausted. Not only was my body tired from all the scrubbing, wiping, and rinsing, but my mind was empty. All the mixed-up and warring emotions I’d felt earlier were gone. I knew they’d come back. I wasn’t naive enough to think that one spin around a kitchen and a little manual labor would beat the confusion, sadness, nostalgia—and love—out of me. But for now, I was pretty sure I’d sleep well tonight.

  Just as I turned the kitchen lights off and pulled the locked door closed behind me, Mallory appeared. She practically skipped down the hall, serene smile on her face. “Hi, Ashlyn, how’s your day been?”

  I stared at her in disbelief, wondering if she could see, one, the sweat trickling down the sides of my face, and, two, the way my whole body drooped with fatigue. “Fine. How are you?”

  “I had a great day, thanks for asking.” She sounded one octave shy of Minnie Mouse. “Marcus and I threw a pool party for the Patels. They are such a great family. Have you met them yet?”

  “Haven’t had the pleasure.” Was she just passing by or did she need me for something?

  “Maybe tomorrow,” she said brightly. “I came to find you to deliver a message from my mom, actually.”

  Let me guess, Deb has another giant mess for me to clean up. No, wait, she’s switched to decaf now that it’s almost dinnertime and needs a fresh cup? “What’s up?” I asked instead.

  She held out a tiny slip of paper. “Your mom called. This is the number you can use to call her back. It looks like,” she paused to inspect her mother’s writing, “you have about fifteen more minutes to reach her today, otherwise it’ll have to be tomorrow.”

  I snatched the paper from her hand and sprinted to Deb’s office, yelling, “Thanks, Mallory,” as I ran. My middle school gym teachers would’ve been very impressed, and shocked, by the speed at which I reached the phone. Deb was conveniently elsewhere, so I closed the office door, pulled a chair over to the dinosaur of a telephone, and dialed the number Mallory had given me.

  “Hart Canyon Ranch, how may I direct your call please?” The voice on the other end was pleasant and soft. Exactly the kind of calm, reassuring voice you’d expect in a treatment facility.

  “May I speak with Celine Zano
tti, please? She’s a patient. I was told she’d be available at this time.” I drummed my fingers on the desk.

  “May I tell Mrs. Zanotti who’s calling, please?”

  “Yes, this is her daughter. Ashlyn.”

  “One moment, please.”

  There was a click on the line and then classical music filled my ears. I held my breath. The hold music was a solo cello piece, beautiful and haunting. I smiled to myself—Tatum’s boyfriend played the cello. Maybe it was a good omen.

  “Hello? Ashlyn?” My mother’s voice was frantic. Desperate. A flutter of anxiety rose in my chest.

  “Hi, Mom. How are you?” The words stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  Her breath crackled into the receiver. “I’m fine, sweetheart, just fine. How are you? I only have a few minutes before my break is over and I want to hear everything about your job.”

  My shoulders relaxed and I slumped back in the chair with relief. She sounded okay. “It’s good, Mom. I’m not doing anything particularly meaningful, but I’m filling in when I’m needed. Mostly cleaning up the gym and filing papers for the director.”

  “Well, that’s alright. Even small tasks can be useful and make a difference in someone’s day. That’s one of the things I’ve learned in my time here, actually.” I wished I felt useful here, but it made my heart happy to know Mom was finding the positive in her rehab stay. “It is so good to hear your voice. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.”

  “I talked to Greta earlier. She said you visited your dad.” There was a pause. “How was that?”

  It was terrible, I didn’t say. It scared me, I didn’t say. “It was fine.”

  Another pause, longer this time. “That’s good,” she said, finally. “I haven’t been able to make phone calls until today. The people here want to make sure you’re settled before you introduce other factors. I’ll probably talk to him this week.” She called me first. It was then I knew my mom and I were more on the same page then I ever realized. “How is he?”

  I gave her my honest assessment. “He’s the same old Dad. He said he’s getting along okay. They have him mopping floors. He sounded kind of happy about it actually.”

  Mom laughed out loud. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard that sound. “Your father is mopping floors?”

  I laughed too. “Right?” It was an amusingly ironic plot twist for a man who hadn’t lifted a finger other than to sign his name on checks and documents in years. “I think he’s proud of himself. Said something about making sure germs don’t spread.”

  “Sounds like something he would say.” And then, more to herself than me, “He’s trying to convince himself he’s okay. It’s how he copes.” Mom’s voice faded. They were words of pity. As if she was saying Dad screwed up, and screwed us both up, but I still love him.

  I knew from her wistful tone that she’d already forgiven him for landing us in these places we hadn’t chosen for ourselves. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that. I hadn’t gotten there myself. Wasn’t sure if I could.

  She cleared her throat. “So, they’re treating you well, there?”

  “Yeah, Mom. Everyone’s great.”

  “That makes my heart happy. I know this summer isn’t what you hoped it would be, but I’m glad there are friends for you to lean on. The people here believe in a strong support network as part of your toolbox full of healthy coping mechanisms, that’s what they call it. It’s scary knowing that I’m going to have to build that from scratch when I get back home.”

  “We have each other,” I said, my voice cracking. Was this the time to ask her if I could come home? If she needed support, she had me. We’d figure it out together. But would it push her in the wrong direction if I said I wanted to join her? I didn’t want to add to her burden. Maybe it wasn’t the time. Yet.

  “We do, honey, we do. I am so grateful for that. One of the other things I’ve been talking about with my therapist here is a real-world plan. What I do when I get home. It’s hard to admit, but my knowledge of how our household was run is practically nothing. That’s shameful, I know, and it’s on me. I’m going to do better, honey, for both of us.” She sniffed and I knew she was crying. And of course so was I.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, baby.” A soft chime sounded in the background on her end. “I need to go. I have art therapy. But I can call again soon.”

  “Art therapy?”

  “Yes, I’ve been working with clay. Sculpting a bit. More kneading than anything else, really. But it helps on the angry days.”

  “Is today an angry day?”

  I could tell she was smiling into the phone. “No, sweetheart, today is a grateful day. Talking to you makes me feel stronger. Like I can dig myself out of this hole and rebuild. You are my purpose.”

  “Do it for yourself too,” I heard myself say.

  “Working on it.”

  Me too. “Okay, well, have fun. Make me a pot or something.”

  “I definitely will.”

  “Make it purple.”

  “Is there any other color for you?”

  “Nope.”

  Mom air kissed, said goodbye, and that she’d call again as soon as she could.

  After we hung up, I wiped my own face, ducked into the bathroom to see how bad my mascara had run, and looked at Deb’s wall clock. Dinner had already started. I turned off all the lights except for the small one on Deb’s desk and went to the cafeteria.

  Sitting at my usual table were Hannah and Baxter on one side, Marcus and Mallory on the other. I sat down at the head of our table, between Hannah and Marcus.

  “How was your phone call with your mom? Mine always jabbers on and on when we’re apart for any reason. And, she’s been even more clingy since the divorce. That’s why I’m slightly glad we’re working here together this summer.” Mallory giggled and took a bite of her pizza.

  Hannah’s navy-blue eyes widened. She looked from me to the others and then back to me. “You talked to your mom?”

  “Yes, and everything is fine.” I said, keeping my tone casual. “She was just checking in.”

  “Parents are the worst, right? My mom called the other day to ask if I wanted her to pick up my laundry,” Marcus said, rolling his eyes. “Like I’m not a legal adult who is fully capable of doing his own laundry.”

  “Yeah, but do you actually do it?” Hannah asked, pointing the tip of her slice of pizza at him.

  Marcus turned beet red. “Well, I save it for breaks. It’s not my fault if she empties the hamper before I can get to it.”

  “You don’t do laundry at school?” I playfully wrinkled my nose. My red flag alert sounded, but I ignored it.

  “My clothes are clean, thank you very much.” Marcus winked at me. I already knew that. The scent of his laundry was pressed into my mind. “There is, however, this kid in my dorm who reeks. Like, you can smell him a mile away. My roommate and I nicknamed him Bo. Get it? B.O. Bo?”

  Marcus was the only one laughing at his terrible joke. I just stared, his cruelty hitting a little too close to home. It was the kind of cutting comment my dad might make. Baxter shook his head and Hannah pointed her pizza, now just a crust, back at him.

  “You really think that’s funny? First of all, it’s not. It’s incredibly rude. And second of all, you’re a terrible human being for calling him a name. Did you ever think about subtly telling him he might want to think about changing his personal hygiene routine? It would suck, sure, but he’d probably be grateful in the long run.” Hannah took a bite of her crust, chewed, swallowed, and narrowed her eyes, watching Marcus intently the whole time. “I wonder what his nickname for you is.”

  Marcus said nothing. Neither did anyone else. Hannah had a special way of punctuating a conversation and shutting it down. And I was pretty sure Marcus was now going to go out of his way to avoid her the rest of the summer. We all ate our pizza quietly, and quickly. Marcus claimed he needed to go
test the chlorine in the pool, Mallory offered to help him, and they practically ran out of the room.

  “Well, that was delightful.” Hannah dusted her hands off. “I’m out too. I have to set up a midnight lawn bowling game.”

  “Have fun with that.”

  With Hannah gone, that left me and Baxter at the table. We sat there in awkward silence while I chewed the last of my pizza and he took sip after sip from his water glass. When he wasn’t looking, I stole glances. His nose was sunburnt and the ends of his blonde hair had gone practically white from the bright sunshine. His expression was calm and focused. I still couldn’t get a read on him. He definitely wasn’t much of a talker. What was going on in his head?

  I pushed my chair out rather than sitting there another moment in the weirdness. But maybe it was just me. It usually was. “See you later,” I said.

  “See you, Ashlyn.” Baxter smiled and a little bit of the weird drifted off. Yep. It was probably me. And that was it. So I left.

  The bonfire was crackling when I passed. A group of Girl Scout leaders were adding more logs to the pile. One of the adults had a handful of the same little slips of paper Ruth had given us at our first staff fire.

  “Could I borrow one of those?” I smiled sweetly at the woman, who handed one over.

  I sat down on the same log seat I’d used before and pulled out the purple pen I’d learned to always keep with me. I wrote, I wish to be seen and heard. Then I balled it up, tossed it into the fire, and kept on walking.

  Chapter 15

  Hey, where in the process are the repair requests I made a while back?” Hannah appeared in the doorway of Deb’s office while I was sorting through the reservations for next week. Deb had turned over the schedule-making to me. I wasn’t sure what skills I’d demonstrated that told her I’d be good at that, but I was glad for the change. At least I felt useful. And, I was an excellent agenda maker. The clients listed their goals on their reservation forms and, with just that little information, I could put together a few days of programming to meet their needs. Dare I say it was even fun?