Return (Coming Home #1)

by Meli Raine

Yet every tire’s turn brings me closer to a past where nothing made sense.

  Chapter Three

  “Carrie!” Elaine Boynton is a warm, loving woman who wears cats. Not just sweatshirts with pictures of cats. I mean, she’s always carrying a cat in her arms or on her shoulder. And that hasn’t changed.

  Sometimes good things don’t change.

  “Come in, come in. Brian told me to expect you tonight. Oh, dear, you look so wet! What happened?”

  Brian, her husband and my dad’s old partner at the bar, yells out, “Carrie! Let me guess. That piece of shit car your dad gave you in high school finally crapped the bed.” Brian is a man with a ready opinion and a sailor’s mouth.

  “Brian! Language!”

  That is probably the nine-thousandth time I’ve heard her say that to him. He never listens. I haven’t seen them in three years and they are still the same. I just shake my head and stuff my hands in my pockets, trying not to shiver.

  Brian and my dad were co-owners of one of the local bars, The Shanty. I took my first steps in there. Learned to ride my bike in the parking lot. Did my homework on the shiny bar a million times after school. Most important, though: Brian taught me how to pour a beer there.

  Now I am finally legal and can work the bar.

  But there is no bar.

  Dad and Brian lost it three years ago. Mark’s words ripple through me. I hope I didn’t...

  Elaine pulls me in the house and hugs me. The calico cat on her shoulder leaps away. It pauses before walking up the stairs and glares at me. Great. The cat already hates me. I have yet another enemy in my hometown.

  “I don’t care if you’re wet, you need a big old squeeze.” She is warm and soft, a big woman with a bigger heart. Blonde hair that come from a box at the drugstore frames her cherubic face. She wears just enough makeup to look put together, but not too much. She is about my mom’s age. Early fifties.

  I wonder what Mom would look like if she’d lived this long.

  Brian turns the corner from the kitchen, takes one look at me, and turns back, shouting, “Drowned rat!” He reappears with a giant towel, the kind you use at the beach. His arms wrap around me and soon I’m in a bear hug, lifted off my feet, the air crushed out of me.

  That’s the second time a man has wrapped his arms around me in the same hour.

  Brian and my dad always looked like they could be brothers. “Battlefield brothers,” he always said. They met in the army, doing work in Central America in the 1980s before I was born. Neither man would talk about it. They both had nightmares, though, and turned off the TV when anything about El Salvador came on.

  “Scary Carrie!” he rumbles in my ear, using their old nickname for me. I can feel a piece of my dad here, in Brian and Elaine, and normally it would make me smile.

  Not after seeing Mark, though. Just the thought of his hands on me makes me flush. I feel guilty for wanting that after what he did to my dad.

  And me.

  “The poor girl needs a shower and to get in some dry clothes!” Elaine insists, smacking Brian’s beefy arm. He’s got the same blonde hair my dad had, a tight wave that needed to be cut all the time to keep it under control, and chocolate brown eyes hidden under a thick, muscled face. When Brian and Dad weren’t working at the bar they worked outside a lot.

  Elaine shoos me upstairs and shows me the bathroom. It’s neat and old, with pink tile in patterns on the floor and up the wall, about halfway. The grout is nicked and chipped, faded to a dull, yellowish-grey, but it smells clean. Like bleach.

  “Here’s a towel and a spare robe. I’ll have Brian put your luggage in Mikey’s old bedroom and you can change in there,” Elaine explains. She reaches for my face and brushes my wet hair behind one ear.

  “You really look like your mother when your hair goes dark like this,” she adds. I want to hear more. Need to hear more.

  “Thank you,” I answer, unable to ask for what my heart wants. Words are hard right now. Three years away from home, then losing my dad, makes these connections so difficult. I spent three years severing my life and now I have to face what I cut.

  It feels about as good as you would think.

  The click of the bathroom door as Elaine slips out makes me feel like this is final. I am here. I can’t back out. Two more days and I start my new job.

  Amy. I need to talk to my friend. She can ground me and fill me in on how to salvage my life.

  Starting a new one is impossible. Not here. Not with so many ghosts.

  What was I thinking?

  As I undress I think about the letter in my purse. The offer for a full-time job came a month ago, out of the blue. A complete shock. I was staring at a pile of bills from dad’s funeral. Something other than a bill in the mail was a bittersweet event. Yates University stationery made me catch my breath.

  My alma mater. Well, not quite. Is it your alma mater if you drop out and never graduate?

  The letter was an invitation to interview, by phone, as a preliminary candidate for a job as Program Coordinator in the dean’s office. The dean of arts and sciences.

  I turn on the shower and steam begins to fill the room. My face in the mirror is almost unrecognizable. My blond hair is dark and stringy, clinging to my cheeks. Eyes that are normally so guarded look haunted by emotion. Three years of staying away from all the people who betrayed me should have taught me something.

  Should have made me smarter. Harder. Colder.

  Brian and Elaine make that so difficult. They’re loving and warm and remind me of every part of my life that I had Before.

  Life is divided into two parts now: Before and After.

  As I literally peel my wet clothes off, my fingers touch my arms where Mark’s hands have just been. I close my eyes and imagine him standing before me. My t-shirt sticks to my breasts and I edge my fingers over the v-neck. The slide of wet cloth against my nipples reminds me of his mouth. We’d gone nice and slow, four years ago, when we started dating. His mouth only roamed from mine in the last intimate moment we’d had before he...

  Before.

  A long, slow sigh fills me. I forget to exhale. My jeans put up a battle in my undressing, catching at the ankles. I fall and grab the tub’s edge. My butt tumbles onto the thick little bathroom area rug. The color is a princess pink that reminds me of my old bedroom. When I was little, living with Dad and when my mother was still alive.

  That’s like double Before.

  Frustration fills me as the feel of Mark’s arms around me on the wet side of the road twists in my mind. My body is on fire now, even when it’s wet and cold.

  He had to be the first person I saw, didn’t he? Why? I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe in destiny. I don’t believe in soulmates.

  Pain? That I can believe in. Betrayal and deception and lies are real, too.

  Fate is just another lie.

  The hot shower spray shocks me, pin-pricking my skin. It’s like cold and hot have decided to duke it out on my body. Slowly, hot wins. Thank goodness, too. As I shiver and my hands turn pink, I realize how frozen I was.

  Even on a hot, late-August night in a sweltering southern California summer.

  Elaine has all the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash a person could need for the next five years. I smile. She still shops at the big warehouse club two towns away and probably drags Brian there once a month. Elaine would buy ninety-six popsicles in a single box. Twenty-pound blocks of feta cheese. Laundry detergent containers that, when empty, could be a small child’s fort.

  Dad always marveled at it. Said with it just being the two of us, all that stuff would rot.

  Elaine and Brian have their customers, though. Behind the neat adobe-facade house they live in is a cluster of six small cabins. In a college town you can rent them out during the year and then make more money in the summer, renting to small families.

  The Yates B&B is their only business now. The Drug Enforcement Agency and the local police saw to that. Once the police claimed my dad was
a drug dealer, anything he possessed was seized, including his half of the bar.

  But you can’t continue to operate half a bar. Brian has suffered, too.

  The body wash smells like coconut and it makes me happy. I stop thinking about the bad and wonder what Amy’s like now. She used to dye her hair a different color every week, just to piss off her mom. Three years of nothing but phone calls and texts separates us. I hope we can reconnect.

  I know we can. She’s my anchor. With Dad gone, it’s her, Elaine and Brian.

  I wish it could be Mark, too.

  Because I’m already wet, the shower is faster than you’d think. Long hair takes time to wash, but getting it wet enough for a good lather is half the battle. Mother Nature already took care of that part. As I step out into the steamy bathroom I feel a bit faint suddenly. When did I eat something last?

  Oh. An energy bar somewhere near Albuquerque.

  Elaine will have a feast spread out when I go downstairs, I know. My stomach gurgles as if prompted. I chuckle, and it gurgles again, like it’s in on some joke.

  Maybe the joke is on me.

  I pull the enormous beach towel around my body and open the bathroom door slowly, peeking out. I don’t know what to do with my wet clothes, so for now I pile them in the tub. They fall with an enormous plop. They’re that wet.

  The tapping sound of raindrops on the roof confirms it’s still raining. I wonder if Mark’s okay. If the call was dangerous.

  I wonder whether he’s thinking about me right this instant.

  Two steps out of the bathroom and I crash into a large body. My hands panic and reach out, letting the towel slip, cold air hitting my bare breast.

  “What the hell?” says a voice I know all too well. There’s mirth in it, and then those blue eyes. Mikey, now seventeen and a lot taller than he was three years ago when I left. His eyes brush over my arm as I pull the towel up to my jawline. He turns away quickly, face turning a flaming red.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he says with laughter in his voice. Puberty has changed his timbre completely, and filled him out, too. Gone is the gangly teenager I saw last. Long gone is the little boy I babysat so many times.

  “That’s not funny,” I snap back. I want to run into his room, where Elaine said Brian put my bag, but this isn’t little Mikey any more. His back is to me and I see how broad his shoulders are. His hair is overgrown at the collar, blonde like his dad’s and turned up. Cords stand out in his neck. Does he still play football? It’s like my little brother went and got tall. I have so many questions for him.

  “Go on in my room,” he says in a friendly voice. “It’s kind of icky to think about you naked under that towel.”

  “MIKEY!” Elaine thunders as she reappears. She sounds like one of those stout opera singers dressed like a female viking.

  “Ma!” he whines. I instantly relax. He’s the same boy, all right. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong!” He runs down the stairs and I hear laughter explode in the distance.

  “That boy,” she says, sighing. But she’s smiling. “He’s grown up, hasn’t he?”

  “We all have,” I say, suddenly awkward. Standing in front of her naked under the towel makes me feel exposed. Vulnerable.

  It makes my stomach hurt.

  “Go! Go,” she insists, pushing on my shoulders toward Mikey’s room. “Get on some dry clothes and come on downstairs. We’ll eat and play cards.”

  “Get out your nickels, Carrie!” Mikey calls up. “We need a new sucker...er, player.”

  Nickel euchre. Card games. God, I’ve missed that. Dad and Brian were originally from the midwest, and they brought their card games with them back here to California.

  And dinner, cookies and chips around the table. Maybe now they’ll let me drink beers with the grown-ups. I’m twenty-two, after all.

  I’m really back home.

  But this isn’t my home.

  I dress quickly, throwing on layers. It gets strangely cold at night here. It’s been a running joke since I was little that my hands and feet are always blocks of ice.

  As I walk down the stairs and turn the corner, I realize I could close my eyes and recite this scene from memory.

  Except one thing’s missing.

  Dad.

  Chapter Four

  “I really wish we had an open cabin for you, Carrie,” Elaine clucks. She’s like a mother hen, shoving plates of chicken and potatoes at me. I groan. I am stuffed. Warm and full.

  “It’s okay,” I say for the umpteenth time. Mikey keeps looking at me like I’m a ghost. I kind of am. He was fourteen when I left and was more into his football and video games than into talking to me. Mark took up my time, and college was my life. Dad begged for more than Sunday night dinners with him. I lived on campus and loved dorm life. Elaine and Brian hadn’t needed a babysitter for him since he was eleven or so, which meant we’d drifted apart.

  “How’s school?” I ask him. His eyes go a bit dark, the flecks always changing color like a mood ring.

  “Okay,” he mutters. I’ve touched on a sore spot. Brian frowns.

  “Need to be better to stay on the team this season,” Brian says. Mikey’s jaw clenches. A tiny muscle twitches.

  “You need tutoring?” His dyslexia was always a problem.

  “He needs discipline,” Brian says with an annoyance I’ve never heard before. Suddenly I’m tense.

  “Carrie can help you!” Elaine exclaims, handing me a hot cup of coffee the exact color I like. She always remembered how much cream I want. I mouth the words thank you and I take a sip. The caffeine won’t matter this late at night.

  It’s not like I’ll get any sleep after a day like this.

  “I can help,” I chime in. Mikey’s eyes meet mine and there’s a look of guarded gratitude. I can’t blame him for being skeptical. I left without saying goodbye to him.

  Left without saying goodbye to anyone.

  “What class?” I ask, persisting. I want to help. In a way, I need to help. It feels like a way to redeem myself.

  And God knows, I need redemption.

  “Anything involving writing,” he admits slowly.

  “You were always such a good writer, Carrie!” Elaine gushes as she gives Mikey a half a hug, standing to his side and slinging one arm around his shoulders. His aw, shucks grin makes him look fourteen again.

  The tension eases.

  “Why don’t we sit down tomorrow and I’ll go over whatever you need help with. School just started last week, right?” I look at him and he’s relaxing, too.

  Mikey nods. “Yeah. But not tomorrow. Tuesday. We can go to The Coffee Freak and study.”

  I make a face. “The what?”

  They all start to laugh.

  “That’s right,” Brian says, nodding. “It opened two years ago. You wouldn’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t know what?” Amy gives me bits of gossip in our calls and texts. What’s a coffee freak?

  “The new fancy coffee house,” Elaine sniffs. “Like Starbucks.”

  Mikey snorts. “Way better than Starbucks! That stuff is crap.” He smiles shyly. “I work there now. A barista.”

  “Nice!” I say. I’d always imagined him working down at the lumber yard, not making half-caf skim lattes with a half shot of mocha syrup and a teaspoon of fat free organic Fair Trade whipped cream on it, but whatever.

  I envision downtown. It’s tiny. Where would they put a coffee shop? There are some high-end clothing boutiques for the rich tourists. A gas station. An auto body shop. A camera store. The hippie food co-op. Some bars, mostly for college kids. A few restaurants. Two bookstores.

  “Where is it?” I ask.

  They all go silent. And then it hits me.

  “Oh. The Shanty.” My voice is airy, lighter than a feather floating on the wind. A childhood, a life of memories seized and sold.

  People drink their overpriced coffee in the same bar that meant everything to my dad. Having so much ripped from me means these chan
ges shouldn’t get to me. They really shouldn’t. Coming home means facing what I blocked out.

  A coffee shop, though. The Shanty is gone.

  So is my childhood.

  “You should see it, Carrie!” Mike says, his arms in the air, body pumped. “They redid the tin ceiling and painted all the duct work in these funky colors. The counter’s still there, and we have these copper machines imported from Italy. Coffee machines that cost more than my car. Each!” He continues but I can’t hear him, blood rushing to my ears.

  I smile. I raise my eyebrows at times, and I make little sounds that indicate I’m hearing him and reacting to his words. That’s all pretend. My body can take in his nonverbal signals and fake the right responses. If he knew that I was dying inside he would stop talking in an instant.

  He doesn’t know. And I won’t tell him.

  Elaine sees something’s wrong with me and taps his hand. “Deal the cards! Euchre won’t play itself.”

  Brian laughs and says, “I’m out. You three play.”

  Three-person euchre sucks, though. Mikey’s face falls a bit, but he doesn’t argue. Brian’s on a recliner now in the living room, the kind that swivels, and he rolls it back toward the television, some detective show on the flat screen. Subtitles dot the bottom of the screen and he keeps the sound low.

  I shake myself out of my own stupor and as Mikey deals, I ask Elaine a question.

  “His hearing?” I nod toward Brian.

  Her face crumples into a sympathetic frown. “Long gone and getting worse.”

  Mikey leans in like a conspirator. I get a whiff of masculine body spray and it makes my stomach flip. Not in a good way.

  “And he won’t wear the hearing aids,” Mikey adds.

  “I see that hasn’t changed,” I say, shifting my cards around, grouping the clubs, spades, diamonds and hearts around, mind already focusing on strategy. And then I look up and laugh at Brian. I’ll say it if Mikey won’t.

  “Brian! There are only three of us. We need a fourth!” I shout, nice and loud. Giggles pour out of me and I don’t know where they’re coming from, but I know they feel good. I feel good. Relaxed and like my batteries can charge just a little here in a safe place.