No Place Like Here

by Christina June

  Baxter slid his hot dog off his rod and onto a paper plate. “Was it?”

  “Maybe. Because that’s what I did. I never went back to see that therapist. I told my father afterward that it was a waste of time and he said he knew it would be. But he sure as heck emailed the school counselor to say he had taken me so she would get off his back.”

  Bax took my hot dog from me and put it on another plate. “So you thought the therapist was wrong?”

  I paused. I’d sat in that office so many years ago, completely convinced that keeping my head down and plowing through until I could leave the house for good was the right thing to do. It had been a relief to hear him say I could carry on as is.

  “Maybe not wrong, but it was more familiar. It was easier to believe my father’s opinion that therapy wasn’t something I needed to think about. So, in some ways, that was my choice too.”

  Baxter waited a few beats before speaking again. “And do you still think it was the right choice?”

  I was quiet. Heat crept onto my face, down my neck, and to the tips of my ears. I was glad for the darkness of the setting sun and only the flickering light of the fire. “Maybe not.”

  Chapter 26

  I went to therapy too,” Baxter said, after we’d both finished our hot dogs in comfortable quiet. His words broke through the sounds of crickets and the distant laughter coming from the pool. “I was acting out a lot in elementary school. Knocking over chairs and yelling at other kids for no reason.”

  I couldn’t picture perpetually-calm Bax yelling at anyone, let alone being violent. “Not you.”

  “Oh, definitely me. It was hard to be a little boy without a dad. My mom tried her best, but she couldn’t be both parents at the same time, and I think I was still struggling with my dad’s leaving.”

  “Well, it must have worked,” I said.

  He laughed softly. “Hard work. I drew a lot of pictures of my family and role-played with a lot of stuffed animals. And I eventually learned how to control myself and my feelings. I think that’s partly why I do this job. You have to be in control of yourself to help others take on new challenges.”

  I mulled over what he said. Was I in control of myself? “Are you trying to say I need to be in control of myself to talk to my parents?”

  Bax gazed at me, the flames making shadows on his face, highlighting his strong jaw and turning his hair to gold. “I don’t know that I was talking about you specifically, but I think it could apply to your situation.”

  I opened my mouth to talk, closed it, and opened it again. “I want to go home. I miss my own bed. I miss my best friend. I miss my old high school. I miss my life, as uncomfortable as it is. I feel like my whole life has been on pause for the last year and, just when I was about to press play again, I fast forwarded to some weird alternative universe I don’t recognize.”

  “Tell me about home. The parts you miss.”

  No one had ever asked me that before. Not Hannah. Not Uncle Ed or Aunt Greta. Not the girls at Blue Valley who looked at me curiously and wondered why I was suddenly at school with them. “My best friend Tatum and I like to have dance parties. We close my bedroom door and turn on terrible old disco music and sing into our hairbrushes like they’re microphones.”

  “My mom does that in the kitchen, except she sings obnoxious country music into a wooden spoon,” Bax said with a grin.

  “I like your mom.”

  “I do too.”

  “And I love trivia and collecting facts. I was on the Quiz Bowl team and did spelling bees and geography bees my whole life. The teachers and coaches were always kind and encouraging to me. I collect words too, but you already know that.” I held up the quote journal that had been resting in my lap. “I guess that makes me a bit of a nerd.”

  “Hey, I’m a nerd too. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “You graduated really early, right?”

  “Yep. That came out of my therapy, I think. I got really involved in school, realized I was good at it, skipped a grade, and voila. Working full time has allowed me to save a lot of money. If I ever decide I want to go to college.”

  I resisted raising my eyebrows. “That’s kind of a given for me.”

  “Do you want to go?”

  I’d never really thought about it, but it was something I’d always assumed I would do. At any rate, I definitely looked forward to being out on my own. This summer had proven to me I could survive, even if my dad wasn’t convinced. “Yeah, I think I do. I have no idea what I want to major in or do with my life, though.” I laughed. “Mr. Allen suggested I go into tourism.”

  Baxter nodded. “The retreaters seem happy with your plans. Were you happy making them?”

  “Yeah. I was.” I’d had a purpose, making those plans. There wasn’t anyone pressuring me to win an award or be the best. I’d done it solely to make someone else feel good. Which made me feel good.

  He nodded again. “Do what makes you happy.”

  I smiled. “My best friend says that a lot.”

  “One hand in front of the other,” Baxter said. It was hard to believe the first time he’d said that to me, on the zipline when I was so awkward and embarrassed, was just a few weeks ago. We’d come a long way since then. I’d come a long way.

  We were both quiet for a moment, lost in thought.

  “What would you do if you had nothing else to do?” Baxter asked, breaking the silence. “Your perfect day?”

  If someone had asked me before I got to Sweetwater, my answer would probably have involved something like going to a movie or maybe a trip to the salon for a fancy pedicure. Or, if money was no object, traveling—maybe to Paris to practice my French. But now? With the stars beginning to wink and a full moon rising overhead, I didn’t really want to be anywhere but right here.

  “Actually, this is good.”

  “Me too,” Bax agreed. “This is good.”

  I was laying on my top bunk reading from the Bartlett’s when Hannah burst in, towel wrapped around her waist, still in her navy tank suit. A whistle dangled from her neck.

  “Gosh, I missed that.” There was a smile in her voice.

  I closed the book and sat up in bed. “Missed what?”

  “Lifeguarding. It’s so fun. I love sitting in that chair and watching everyone splashing and doing handstands and playing Marco Polo.”

  I snickered. “You like being in charge and having power.”

  She shrugged her Hannah-shrug. “Maybe. I also like knowing that if something goes wrong, I can fix it. Unlike some people we used to know. What have you been up to? Shut up in here?”

  I hesitated. “I had hot dogs with Baxter at the firepit.”

  “Just the two of you?” She didn’t really sound surprised. Had she known he was going to ask me?

  “Yes.” My face warmed, as if I was still sitting by the fire.

  “Did you have fun?”

  Fun wasn’t exactly the right word, but I’d definitely enjoyed myself. There was something about Baxter that calmed me. And made me talk. I liked how he never pushed and didn’t offer too much advice or force his opinions on me. “We talked about my parents. And home.”

  “Did he convince you to talk to your dad yet?” Hannah’s voice took on a defensive edge.

  Was she mad at me now? “I’m still thinking about it.” The idea of having a choice had been hovering over me since I left Baxter by the fire and returned to the cabin. Realistically, there was no reason not to shake things up, but in my heart? I wasn’t sure. The idea of letting the words I’d said in my head over and over actually come out and be heard by the person with all the power was scary. I was still sitting on the fence, looking over. Or the wall, I guessed.

  “Do you think you’ll have a decision soon? I mean, you’re kind of stuck with me now and I would like to have my cousin around for holidays and stuff. I feel like your dad robbed me, you know?”

  I smiled at her unexpectedly kind words. “I’d like that too, Hannah. That really means a lot.”r />
  “I think my dad would probably like having his brother back too. I know he misses that relationship.”

  I had no idea how my dad would feel about patching things up with Uncle Ed. I didn’t even know why they stopped talking. But I wanted to believe my dad missed his brother, even if he was too proud to say so. “I’ll add it to the list of things to bring up.” If I ever brought them up. I knew my mom would be coming home soon. The clock was ticking. My time was limited. And I knew it was my decision to say something or not.

  “Here’s the part I don’t get,” Hannah said abruptly. “Why aren’t you angry? Your dad has totally laid out your life for you, stomped on your preferences and choices, and trained you to think he’s right.” The look on Hannah’s face said she was willing to be angry for the both of us if I wasn’t.

  “Who said I’m not angry?”

  “Well, you never say so. You never look like you’re angry. I see you look sad and disappointed, and sometimes wistful or even scared, but never angry.”

  Years of cultivated suppression, I could’ve answered. Some by my father’s reaction to things I would do—towering over me after I brought home a B on a test, telling me to change my outfit, commenting on my choice of friends, boyfriends, school activities, etc. Some by me. My choice. Self-preservation.

  Hannah charged ahead. “If it were me, I would be smashing things. I would be sending angry letters to my dad, telling him I refuse to be treated this way.”

  “You have to feel brave to do stuff like that, like your effort would matter,” I said. “Other than talking to Mr. Allen this week, I’ve never felt brave.” Despite what Baxter said, I couldn’t believe it about myself. Not yet.

  “That’s crap. You are brave. You took charge of the off-campus tours here. That was brave. You collected evidence on Deb and presented it to Mr. Allen. That was brave. You told Marcus to take a hike. That was brave. Don’t tell me you’re not brave.”

  “It’s a lot harder to stand up to the person who taught you to keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. Not everything is black and white. Most things are more complicated and gray. At least for me.” I tried to think of an example that would make sense to my emboldened cousin. “Do you know the term learned helplessness?” She shook her head. “We talked about it in psychology class last year. It’s the idea that when you are constantly shut down and told, or shown, that you can’t or shouldn’t do something, you learn and begin to believe that you can’t do it. When in fact, you can. There was a famous experiment that used dogs and electric shocks. The dogs became conditioned to think they couldn’t get away from the shocks. So they just laid down and accepted them. Even though they were in pain.”

  Anger clouded Hannah’s face. “That’s horrible. Inhumane.”

  I nodded. “A lot of older experiments would never be performed today. But the point is, we adapt to our environment, and if part of your environment is teaching you to lay down and take it, many times you do. Why do you think victims of abuse frequently don’t leave? It’s hard to believe in yourself when someone is constantly telling you that you’re nothing.”

  Hannah got quiet before speaking again. “Would you call what your dad does abuse?”

  “I don’t know. Emotional abuse maybe.” I’d looked up the definition once. A lot of what my dad had said over the years fit, but it was hard to admit it. “He’s manipulative, that’s for sure. But you’re wrong. I am angry. I am filled with white-hot rage a lot of the time. I’ve just learned from a lifetime of being in my family, from being me, and from observing his interactions with my mother, that he wins no matter what.” My shoulders sagged with the burden of the pain. “I learned that I have a choice. I made the choice to be quiet and bide my time.” I looked down at my hands in my lap. “It’s hard. Knowing exactly what you are and hating it. When I read about learned helplessness, saw the pictures of those dogs, it hit me as hard as if someone had punched me in the stomach. They were me.”

  Hannah eyed me. “But?”

  I sighed. “But what?”

  “But I don’t think you can stay quiet anymore. And you know it too. You’re not that helpless dog now. At some point, it has to hurt more than speaking up, doesn’t it? You want to go home. You want to be with Tatum. You want to be with your mom. And really, what say does your dad have in any of this right now? He’s in freaking prison. He can’t physically stop you from moving back into your house. He can’t unenroll you from your high school. This sounds like the perfect opportunity for you and your mom to empower each other.” She paused and inspected my face. “Right?”

  It sounded so good. I wanted this picture Hannah was painting to be my life. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m ready to say something.” Maybe.

  Hannah put her arms around me and hugged me tight. “I’m gonna quote you on that.”

  I put my head on her shoulder, like I’d done with Tatum so many times. “Okay.”

  Chapter 27

  A few days later, I returned to my cabin after my shift at the equipment kiosk to find a package and a letter sitting on my bed. Had Hannah picked them up for me? I doubted it; she’d become so busy lately that she was rarely anywhere other than the pool. Could it have been Bax? I grinned to myself at the idea that he’d been thoughtful enough to retrieve my mail and leave it for me here.

  I looked at the letter first. It had a return address of Williams Correctional Facility, complete with a stamp in angry red ink as if to say, “Make no mistake, this was sent from a federal prison.” A brick dropped into my stomach. I hated that the very thought of my father made me anxious. Somehow, it was worse now as I was getting closer and closer to D-Day. Decision Day.

  Reluctantly, I slid a finger in the seam and ripped it open. Inside was a piece of lined notebook paper, the kind I had taken notes on at school for years. My dad’s handwriting, predictably neat and uniform, spelled out the date, which was ten days ago.

  Dear Ashlyn,

  How are you? I’m writing to you on paper I bought at the commissary with the money I earned mopping the floors. I also bought packages of ramen and spices and stamps. My friends gave me a tip that these things can be used to barter with other inmates, so I took their advice. I haven’t had to use them yet, but every day is different here, so better safe than sorry.

  I dropped my hands for a moment and stared out into the empty cabin. Unbelievable. Dad never takes advice from anyone. I continued reading, shaking my head.

  The food leaves a lot to be desired, so it’s understandable that spices are in high demand. The stamps, obviously, are for writing to friends and family. I hope you’re continuing to work hard. I know you’re doing a good job. Write if you get a minute.

  Dad

  In many ways, it had all the hallmarks of any conversation with my dad. He talked about himself. He showed zero emotion. He reminded me to work hard. And yet, that line near the end gave me pause. I know you’re doing a good job. Did he? Did my dad know I was doing a good job? Despite so many years proving otherwise, I hoped in the very recesses of my heart that he did. That he knew I tried my best. Always. That, somehow, he realized that I needed to hear him say so. It was just a crumb, but it was something. I read it again. And again. And again. Until I finally had to shove the letter under Hannah’s pillow because I couldn’t breathe.

  Only after I had regained my composure did I pick up the package. The address was written in sparkly green marker, my first clue to the sender’s identity. The second clue was the stick figure drawing on the back of the package—a girl I assumed was supposed to be me based on the very long lashes drawn on her face—in front of a giant house that looked vaguely like mine. A speech bubble next to stick-Ashlyn’s face said, “Home sweet home!”

  “I hope so,” I said to the drawing. It felt so close. I just needed to ask. No big deal. And if my dad knew I was doing a good job here . . . I ripped open the top of the package and turned it over on the bed. Out slid a small, square hardcover book. It was purple, of course, and on
the front was a photograph of me and Tatum from Homecoming our sophomore year. I smiled at the memory it ignited. The picture was one of a series taken that night at our local department store. We hadn’t actually made it to the dance, mostly because of my terrible radar when it came to picking dates, but instead had capped off our evening with an impromptu photo shoot as a way to make ourselves feel better about the crappy evening. This photo was the twin with the one that had sat, framed, on my dresser at school last year. Tatum and I were posed as if we were each other’s date for the dance. A hand on a shoulder, an arm around a waist, stiff smiles. I laughed, remembering how much fun it had been after realizing our Prince Charmings were actually charmless. And, bonus, it was a nice memory to hold onto the next day when my dad lectured me about making good choices and spending time with “quality people,” which was an obvious implication that my date was not.

  Also on the cover, in a swirly font, it read, “Dear Ash, Love Tate.” I ran a finger over the words. We’d spent this summer and last, plus the year in between, writing to each other more than actually being in the same room. I wondered if this was how our relationship would always be—lived more in writing and on screens instead of in person.

  The next page was the dedication: For my best friend who is on her way home

  Ever the optimist, I thought. And then out loud, “It’s so far from a done deal, friend.” I flicked through the rest of the pages. Tatum, genius that she was sometimes, had made an album of hope for me. She put in photograph after photograph of our childhood memories, combined with ones from the past year and this summer. There we were in seventh grade, wearing the gym uniforms we hated so much that we often talked about burning them and anonymously sending the ashes to our gym teachers. There was one of Tatum, her boyfriend Seamus, and her friends Abby and Hunter, at Seamus’ high school graduation this past June. Seamus looked handsome in his cap and gown, his arm snugly around Tatum’s waist as she kissed his cheek while Abby and Hunter smiled happily at them. Tatum’s stepsister, Tilly, dancing across a stage at what I guessed was her final high school performance. Tatum and me in ninth grade rocking out in my room in our pajamas, lip-syncing into our hairbrushes. Seamus and Hunter’s band, The Frisson, performing last summer on a stage covered in twinkle lights. Tatum and Abby working on the school paper. Tatum and Tilly posing over a mixer in the kitchen, waving spatulas. Entwined around the pictures were graphics of flower garlands, stars, geometric shapes in patterns—all things I knew Tatum had designed herself.