Page 96 of No Place Like Home

She smiled at me, and I couldn’t help listening to her. No matter how much I wanted to tell her to mind her business, I couldn’t say anything—not when she had done so much.

“All I’m saying is that feelings change, but you don’t know where you stand unless you talk about them.”

Instead of repeating the same words I had been telling them, I gave her a forced smile. They wouldn’t understand.

Once everything was cleared, I said my goodbyes and left for my car. I waited there, looking at the road. I could stop at Q’s if I went up, but I didn’t know if I wanted to. Last time, things had gotten heavy, and after leaving, I made excuses not to see him.

Just then, my phone began to ring, and I picked up, thinking it was him.

“This is a collect call from the Wisconsin Department of Corrections.”

Why had I taken the call?

He had never called, not once since getting locked up. Maybe the guilt ate him up at night. Perhaps he remembered the hell we lived with while he was with us. Or maybe it was like he knew I was finally somewhat happy, and he could take that as an invitation to fuck with my life. Maybe this was my punishment for going on about my life as if nothing had gone wrong.

When the operator said it was a collect call, my fingers moved before thinking about my actions. Like I needed to punish myself—a reminder of who I was.

“Jessamine.” He spoke through the other line, and goosebumps covered my skin.

He’d said my full name for the first time in forever, and I dropped my phone. Suddenly, I remembered why I hated my name. It wasn’t because it was girly and beautiful. It was because he always said it with fake adoration.

What I wouldn’t have given to have him call out to me when I was a kid. To have a father I could have been proud of—someone who could have been proud of me. My chest kept rising and falling, and the car felt like it was spinning.

“Are you going to talk to me today, Jess?” my therapist said.

We had been down this road too many times before. We sat in this room for an hour, and sometimes I wouldn’t say a word. What was she going to tell me that I already didn’t know?

There was no point in crying over a past I couldn’t fix. I knew that all too well. No amount of tears would bring back the things I lost. Instead, all it would cause was fatigue and self-loathing. Not like I needed any more of it; I think I had it in spades.

“I’m talking,” I answered as I looked at the clock.

Forty-five more minutes, and I could call it a day. Time usually went by fast, but when I was in this room and my therapist tried to pry my feelings out of me, time seemed eternal. The room felt like it lacked oxygen. Every time I left this place, I started to gasp for air.

“How’s Rosie doing?” She changed her tactics and instead focused on my little sister.

“She’s okay. They recently painted her room. It looks like a princess room.”

There was no answer at first. My therapist looked at me while I pretended I didn’t care.

“Is there any part of you that feels anger about this?”

This time, I turned to look at her and glared.

“She’s my little sister. Why would that make me angry? I’m glad she has all the things.”

“All the things you didn’t?”

A fire burned through me at her question. My throat clogged. I fisted my hands and took a deep breath.

“Some things aren’t meant for everyone. Life’s not fair.”

“I know you’ll never forgive me, but I want to talk to you.” His voice broke through my memory.

I ended the call and pulled out of the driveway; suddenly, the question of where to go was answered.

I blinked back tears as I made my way up the hill. My hands gripped the steering wheel with so much force, I wouldn't have been surprised if it fell off my crappy car.

Once I made it to Quincy's massive driveway, I parked the car and ran off. I usually bitched him out whenever his door was unlocked. But then again, the only crime that had been committed in this stupid town was the murder of my mother, and that was done by my father.

---