by Alison Ryan
Only my mother could get away with calling me by my first and middle name.
“Anyway,” I said. “What’s going on? You’ve never called this many times. Did Jill have her gallbladder removed? Is Violet Abel still not speaking to Janice Evers over the Little Miss Whitmer pageant? Did one of our horses get put down?”
These were the things Momma usually called me about. Every week. Usually our calls happened on Sundays, after I’d been avoiding them all week.
“I wish that’s why I was calling,” she said, her voice suddenly different. “I wish it was over something mundane. But it’s not. Not this time, Sarah Beth.”
My stomach dropped. There had been only one time I’d heard this tone in her mostly cheerful voice. It had been when she’d told me about Kevin over ten years ago.
“Is it Daddy?” I asked, my own voice quaking a bit. “Is he okay?”
“Not so much,” she said. “He’s… not well. Neither am I. We need you home, baby. You know I’d never ask. Have I ever asked?”
No. She hadn’t. In the ten years since I’d left Whitmer, she’d never once asked me to come back home. She knew it was asking too much. I’d been happy to see her here in LA. My parents visited about three times a year in the early days, but eventually their trips became less frequent as I got more and more wrapped up in my career. Besides, California was just too much for them. It had been almost two years since I’d seen them in person. I hadn’t been back home in a decade.
I just couldn’t. Too many ghosts. Too much of the past that couldn’t be changed.
“If you need me home, you know I’ll be there,” I said. “But tell me what’s happening. I want to be prepared.”
I was doing my best to hold back tears. My father was my favorite person in the entire world. If he was sick, I didn’t know what I’d do with myself. I was a brick wall most of the time, impenetrable. My father was the one thing that could get me to crack.
Momma knew that.
“It’s hard to explain,” Momma started. “His drinking… it’s gotten out of hand. It’s starting to take a toll on him. Physically. And it’s just getting harder for me to handle with the house and my own health issues.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “What health issues?”
My momma was one of the healthiest people I knew. She ate right, was constantly outside, and had an entire homeopathic philosophy that had driven me crazy most of my life.
How could she be sick?
“I didn’t want to worry you, sweetie,” she said. “I have MS and the symptoms are just getting to be a lot for me.”
She dropped that bomb like she was telling me what she was having for dinner. So nonchalantly.
“MS?” My voice was high pitched now. “Since when the hell do you have a chronic illness? How could you not tell me this? How long have you known?”
My mother paused for a long moment. “Three years.”
What. The. Fuck.
“Three years?” I exclaimed. “You hid this from me for that long? Even when you came to visit? How? Why?”
“It’s been a pretty moderate case, sweetheart,” Momma said, her voice low and sweet. She’d used the same voice on my brother and I whenever we’d hurt ourselves; scrapes, bruises, falls. She used it to calm us, to soothe. To keep us from being scared. “I haven’t had many symptoms. I didn’t see the use in worrying you, you have a very stressful job and all. But stress tends to aggravate it, and your daddy has been stressing me out a lot lately. Hell, he’s been keeping the whole damn town on its toes.”
I was overwhelmed by all that she was telling me. I didn’t even know what to say.
“I’m just in complete shock that you would keep all of this from me,” I said, my voice back to its authoritative inflection. “These are not things that just suddenly happen. It sounds like this has been gradual. And I’ve been completely kept in the dark about it. That hurts, Momma.”
I heard her sigh. Neither of us said anything for a moment.
“So, will you come home?” she asked, her voice shaking.
I mean, did she really think I wouldn’t?
“Of course,” I said, sliding my hand down the steering wheel. “You know I will. How long do you think? Just so I can prepare. I’ll need to get my assistants to rearrange some things.”
“A week maybe?” she said. “Probably less. I just need you here to convince your daddy to get some help. If he sees you, he’ll know we’re serious.”
“So, essentially I’m coming home for an intervention?” I asked.
“Essentially. Yes,” she answered. “He’ll listen to you. You’re his whole world, sweetheart.”
I know she hadn’t said it to make me feel guilty, but that’s how it made me feel. I was their only living child and I hadn’t been home in a decade.
“I’ll book a flight tonight,” I said. “I’ll leave in the morning.”
I could hear her exhale on the other end. “Oh, my Sarah Beth. I cannot wait to see you. You’re just what we need. And Whitmer misses you, baby.”
Whitmer. My hometown.
It might miss me.
I absolutely did not miss it back.
“Momma, I doubt most people even remember who I am,” I said. “Kevin was the hometown hero. Not me. I was the girl who ran away.”
“Hayes Calloway would say different,” she said.
Dammit. She knew better than to say his name.
“Momma,” I said sharply. “No.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Must be my meds. I shouldn’t have said that.” She paused. “But he helps us so much, Sarah. He’s so good to us. Still. Even after…”
“Do not finish that sentence,” I said. “Or I might change my mind about coming.”
It wasn’t true, but if it would get her to stop saying his name, that would be fine by me.
“Okay,” she said. “I won’t say it again.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “I’ll text you tonight once I have my flight scheduled.”
“Want us to pick you up?” she asked.
“No. I’ll rent a car. Great Falls is too far for you to drive if you’re sick,” I said. “And I don’t want any surprises, Momma. No welcome home crap. I don’t want to see anyone other than you and Dad. Got it?”
“Of course,” she said. “I just can’t wait to see my baby girl.”
“I love you, Momma. Talk to you soon.”
After we hung up, I sat in my luxury SUV parked on Rodeo Drive for a good long while, resting my forehead on the steering wheel. It was tempting to cry. It was even more tempting to scream. Hadn’t our family been through enough?
But I did what I always did. I gave myself ten seconds to feel the feelings- and then I turned on the ignition and drove away.
3
The airport in Great Falls bore little resemblance to the one to which I’d grown accustomed; the gargantuan LAX. I grabbed my bag and walked out to the curb to find a distinct lack of limos or hotel shuttle busses. The rental car counter was just across the parking lot and my lungs filled with air more crisp and clean than any I’d inhaled since I’d left the state over ten years ago.
The simple, sensible sedan I slid into was likewise a far cry from the cars I was used to driving and riding in back home.
Home. Here I was in Montana, a few hours from Whitmer, and I was thinking of California as “home.” I’d definitely changed.
It made me happy to know that Whitmer, almost certainly, had not.
As I cleared the city limits and rolled out into the vast nothingness that fills so much of the state where I grew up, I scanned the radio dial. Country music seemed to be on every station, and it fit my voice like an old, familiar pair of jeans. I found myself singing along with Faith Hill and Miranda Lambert. The twang I’d left behind when I became a Los Angelino found me quickly and easily, and the road opened before me. A traffic jam in these parts meant cattle crossing the highway, and since none of them were present, I traversed the mil
es mostly alone.
The Welcome to Whitmer sign was as I remembered it, dotted with bullet holes and located so far out of town that there wasn’t even a town in sight yet, just a few ranches dotting the horizon. The sign was surrounded by satellite signs; basketballs, footballs, and baseballs of all sorts, with dates on them, indicating state championships won by my alma mater, Whitmer High School.
Memories came flooding back as I whizzed by; basketball championships from 2007 and 2006, along with baseball and football in 2005. All those championships came during my four years as a Warrior.
Thanks, in large part, to the Calloway brothers.
The final state championship for Whitmer was the softball crown won by the girls in 2009, the last year for the school before consolidation with two other high schools created the Tri-Cities Tigers. Tri could win a national championship or even a world championship and I could never identify with them.
I was a Warrior, tried and true, for as long as I lived.
When consolidation occurred, there was talk about replacing the sign, to be rid of the “Home of the Warriors” portion, but influential citizens of Whitmer took the fight all the way to the governor before the state relented and left the sign as is.
The familiar ranches came into view and quickly disappeared behind me- the Flavins, the Henrys, old man Gehring. I couldn’t be sure those old neighbors of mine were still around, but their land remained unchanged along with their barns, silos, and houses which still dotted the landscape.
When I reached the bridge over Big Antler River, I stopped the car and got out.
Water babbled below as I waved to a pair of fishermen out on a rowboat, almost out of sight near the bend. I wondered if I knew them in a past life.
A life where I’d only known Whitmer and nothing else.
Further down in that direction was where I’d acquired the eight-inch scar on my right thigh. I’d been fourteen years old.
I let the memory of that day wash over me as I stared out at the water.
My two closest friends, Jenny and Erika, had joined me on the tire swing, the one that had hung out over the water for as far back as anybody could remember. It was the summer before my sophomore year at Whitmer High, and a group of us piled into Jenny’s older sister’s truck and went out to spend a hot July day at the swimmin’ hole.
The rule had always been that if you stood on the rock overlooking the water and could reach the tire with the old shepherd’s hook stashed in the woods, you could swing and jump into the water. You had to time it right, or you’d wind up on the rocks directly below, near the banks. Once you were on the tire, there was only one way off.
Whitmer’s volunteer fire department was not going to be called to rescue a coward.
It was Jenny’s turn, and she summoned me to join her. We straddled the tire opposite one another and took hold of the rope. We took a deep breath before pushing off. Erika, fresh from making out with an older boy in the woods, came running up with a goofy grin, yelling to us to wait for her. I think she was afraid that if she kissed him much longer, her virginity might be in jeopardy.
With nowhere to sit, Erika climbed up between us and stood atop the tire. Once we were all assured of our balance, we pushed off the boulder that had been the departure point for all the young daredevils of Whitmer.
And promptly fell directly onto the rocks.
The venerable branch that had served as the main feature of our country water park for decades had finally surrendered, releasing from the tree trunk with a loud crack. We barely had time to scream before we fell the nearly twenty feet to the end of our fun in the sun.
Erika, probably owing to being a cheerleader and having gymnastics experience, somehow leapt clear of the fall and into the water. She still landed hard, but she limped away with a sprained ankle.
Jenny and I weren’t so lucky.
The worst of my injuries was a broken right arm, and the one that left the mark I’d carry with me forever was the gash that ran from just above my right knee all the way up the outside of my right leg. It was long and deep; thanks to a sharp piece of rock that slashed into me and seemed determined to find my femur. The amount of blood made it look like I’d been the victim in a slasher movie. Two boys, both football players and, supposedly, tough farm boys, vomited. A girl I didn’t know, somebody’s cousin visiting from Minnesota, fainted. I screamed and screamed.
Hayes Calloway, who was a year from being my boyfriend and the love of my life, was the first person to reach me. He lifted me off the rocks as easily as if he was picking up a laundry basket. He carried me all the way to his truck, where somebody wrapped my leg in a towel and then Hayes drove me to our little Whitmer Clinic where I got stitched up and had a cast put on my ankle. He didn’t exactly have his driver’s license yet, but he was a Calloway, and in Whitmer, that meant the law didn’t always apply.
Jenny wasn’t so lucky. She broke her back, and a helicopter had to come all the way from Great Falls to bring EMTs who could safely get her out of the river and to a trauma center where she could be treated. Most of her sophomore and junior year was spent either in the hospital or at home. In their own free time, teachers visited with her and her parents to devise lesson plans and let her keep up with her classmates. She was back on her feet in time for junior prom and she walked with us for graduation before going away to State for college.
She’d come out to visit me once when I was at Loyola Marymount, and she fell in love with the California beaches and boys. We’d kept up since through social media, and she now lived near Minneapolis with her husband and two kids, where she taught seventh grade and where her husband was an EMT. Of course he was.
Funny how an innocent thing like an afternoon swimming in the river propelled her life in the direction it did.
I watched and listened to the water a while, and it occurred to me that not a single vehicle had passed by in the fifteen minutes since I stopped. I couldn’t think of anywhere or any time of day in L.A. County where I’d ever experienced such a lack of traffic.
I got back in my rental and drove the last few miles a little more slowly, memories swirling in my head like the dust kicked up by my tires.
As I turned down the driveway that led to the house where I grew up, horses in the pasture to the south warily raised their heads to watch the unfamiliar vehicle roll past.
I recognized a rusty, broken-down blue pickup parked near our house, although I scarcely believed it could belong to the man who used to drive it. When I came to a stop and started to get out, my suspicion was confirmed.
“Sarah? Is that you? Well, I’ll be!”
Rattlesnake Ron approached me, arms spread wide. We embraced in a hug, my hands confirming that he was more than a trick of my memory.
Ron Starling had been Whitmer’s (and the entire county’s) resident snake relocator for as long as I could remember. And he’d always looked about four hundred years old. He felt like little more than skin and bones when I hugged him, but he was still driving that same truck and evidently still at his avocation, judging by the amount of dust and dirt that caked his overalls.
He’d been a sheriff’s deputy once upon a time, but whether he was on duty or not, he’d come running when and where a rattlesnake showed up. He didn’t like to kill them; he considered the prairie rattler a kindred spirit. He’d catch them, bag them, and release them out near the mountains, away from people. Sometimes he’d do presentations on them at school, sort of a “scared straight” to keep the reckless boys of Whitmer from playing with the deadly snakes.
When I was nine, my mother called him in the middle of the night when I’d woken up to find one in bed with me.
Daddy killed that one with a hatchet, but two more were curled up beneath my bed. They’d nested beneath the house and started coming up through the floor seeking warmth during an unseasonably cold early Autumn that year.
“How are you, Mr. Starling?” I asked. “Are you here working?”
“Oh yes. I j
ust pulled two big boys out of the barn. And you can call me Ron. You’re all grown up now.”
“Sorry, being a grown-up takes some getting used to, I suppose. Good to see you, Ron. Is my momma around?” I looked at the massive expanse of land that surrounded our home as if seeing it for the first time.
“I believe your daddy is inside taking a nap. Your momma should be back any minute now, she just left to take something out to Mabel Flavin. If they don’t gossip too long, she’ll be home presently. I know she wouldn’t want to miss spending a minute with you.” Ron grinned at me.
“Oh, okay. I just drove past there; I must have just missed her.”
“Must have. When she gets back, tell her about the serpents I took out of the barn and let her know she was right, they was rattlers. Tell her to call me if she sees any others. I couldn’t find any.”
“I sure will,” I replied. “Thank you.”
“You’re just as pretty as a picture, Sarah. What television program are you on these days?” he asked, as I walked him back to his truck.
“Thank you, Mist-, sorry, Ron. And I’m not an actress, I’m an agent. I represent actors and actresses, I’m not actually on camera.” For some reason, it was awkward to explain my job to people in Whitmer. My momma had said as much.
“That’s a shame. I always knew you’d be a big star, Sarah.” He let the back of his bony hand come to rest on my cheek and he cocked his head, smiling warmly. “I’m going to go out and pay my respects to your brother, then I’ll be on my way. Glad you made it home safely.”
A lump immediately formed in my throat.
I had purposely avoided looking over at the plot of land under the tree in our backyard. I watched as Ron shuffled over in that general direction. I prayed for something to segue me out of this event. I needed to be distracted.
I couldn’t think about Kevin. Still. Even after 10 years.
My momma’s truck pulled in next to my car, and I fairly skipped around the front end and into her arms. My prayer had been heard. Maybe by Kevin himself.
