Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
I collapse in my seat on the train idling in Union Station several hours later, after what will likely go down in history as the Most Annoying Day of My Life.
Earlier, after I hung up with Angie—okay, fine, hung up on Angie—I rushed back to my place to pack up clothes and podcast equipment and anything else I could perceivably need for the next few months.
By the time I made it to the station, I had exactly three minutes to buy a ticket and get to the platform on the other end of the hall. I may or may not have tweaked my ankle attempting the impossible. I bought myself a conciliatory coffee from the kiosk when I missed it, which I spilled all over my shirt.
I pull my headphones over my ears and hold my breath as the train pulls away from the station. With me on board, I’m fully expecting it to break down in the middle of nowhere.
The familiar sounds of my Queens playlist fill my ears as I tuck in for the two-hour ride to my hometown. Not Queen the band. Queens as in queens . Alanis and Janis, Whitney and Britney, Taylor and Adele and Beyonc é . You know. Queens.
And then my headphones die, and I’m forced to watch cornstalks and crop fields whiz by in the dark.
Despite being a large city by most standards, even having the crowning achievement of not one but two Walmarts, Elkhart, Indiana, has always felt like a small town to me. Lovie was never able to go grocery shopping without running into at least one person she knew.
The city’s expanded since I last lived there over ten years ago. On a map, it sort of reminds me of a snowflake: the center dense with restaurants and shotgun houses and parks. The northern spindle stretches and bumps up against Michigan, the southern one leading the way to a prison, a golf course, and a seminary. The priorities of midwestern America, am I right?
Some people leave home and never come back, but I don’t think that will ever be me. I’ve traveled lots of places. New York City for college. Road trips to Myrtle Beach and Philadelphia and Niagara Falls. Aruba, booked on my grandparents’ credit card after one college midterm result that was poorly timed with a bad case of the Mondays and PMS. But nowhere I’ve ever been has felt more like home than home itself.
Except Chicago. That also feels like home.
I’m lucky this way—some people don’t ever feel like they have a place they belong. I have two. I’d take either right now. I’ve never longed for a bed this much in my life.
I’m convinced the only reason I find my baggage and get a Lyft this late is because when I climb off the train and onto familiar Elkhart earth, the clock has rolled over to a brand-new day.
After such a long trip, I appreciate Lovie’s house even more when it finally— finally —comes into view.
The two-bedroom Cape Cod is the same as ever: quaint, colorful, and outdated. The navy-colored vinyl shines black this time of night, and although I can’t see the shutters, I know they’re still painted a gaudy maroon. The stucco behind them is bubblegum pink. I picked that color when I was seven, and Lovie’s kept it ever since.
As quietly as possible, I let myself in and lock the dead bolt before toeing off my shoes. It’s one of Lovie’s personal life rules, to take off your shoes at the door.
“You walk into public bathrooms with those shoes,” she’d always say when I questioned her on it. “You are not going to bring someone else’s business onto my brand-new carpet.”
The carpet stopped being brand-new fifteen years ago. Then again, maybe making guests go barefoot is how she keeps it fresh.
Pit stopping at the bathroom to splash my face with warm water and slip into pajamas, I look at myself in the mirror, the pink of the walls and tiles making my dark circles and fatigue that much more apparent. This could quite possibly be the longest day of my life.
Moving down the hall, I poke my head in on Lovie’s sleeping form. She’s so frail there in the dark, a walker and cane at the ready by her nightstand. My eyes snag on the bedpan hanging off the edge of her bedside table. That’s a harder pill to swallow.
Once I’m appeased, I haul my shit to the second bedroom, which has been mine for as long as I can remember. My bags find the floor. Unpacking can wait for daylight.
I just barely remember to set an alarm. Lovie probably wakes up at six or seven, so this will be more of a glorified nap than actual solid sleep, but I can do that. For one night, at least. For Lovie.
I think.
It takes three steps to get to the bed, and with every one sleep tugs at my body more and more, my limbs heavy with fatigue.
I fall down onto the mattress.
Or I would have, if there weren’t a suspicious, human-shaped lump right where my body’s supposed to go.
That’s about the time I start screaming.