“GO WEST.”
I reread the note from my dead mother for the millionth time.
Grease and dirt stain the edges of the single piece of notepad paper. Other than the messy scrawl of my mother’s attempt at cursive writing, the page is blank. Two words. Six letters. Not enough to make an interesting anagram or a code to help me decipher a hidden meaning. Stew go. Got sew. Wet Gos, could be short for Wet Gosling. That one is my favorite, but I doubt Mom had Ryan on her mind when she wrote it.
The paper is from a notepad that hung on our fridge for years. Decorated with red chili peppers around the edges and “New Mexico” written along the top, it’s hokey and unremarkable.
Maybe it’s an old joke. Pioneers trudged west in the hope of a better life. Freedom and opportunity waited in the land of big sky. The great West of legends, full of promise only empty, uncharted land can have.
Or a nod to her favorite book, The Great Gatsby, where a group of Midwesterners get sucked into the glamor and razzle-dazzle of the big city. Spoiler alert, it doesn’t end well for most of them. At least that’s what I remember about what I read in high school.
Folding the paper along the dark lines, I tuck it back inside of my wallet before pulling out two twenty dollar bills to tip the men from the junk removal company.
“That’s the last of it, miss,” the bulkier of the men says, smearing droplets of sweat on his forehead with the thick hair on his forearm. “Glad we got it done before this heat gets worse.”
Seems there’s always a bulkier man and a taller man in these types of scenarios. Straight from a Hollywood casting office for a buddy movie.
His thinner, taller colleague shifts his weight from foot to foot, pretending not to stare at my breasts where the August humidity glues the thin cotton of my dress to my bra.
Without glancing down, I peel away the fabric and use it to create a light breeze over my damp skin. One of the joys of being short and curvy is taller men have a direct view of my cleavage unless I wear a crewneck, or even better, a turtleneck. Loose curls escape my ponytail and cling to my neck like sticky noodles to a wall. The thick, gray sky teases rain, a promise of a storm to break through the humidity.
Taller of the two licks his lips and blatantly shifts his personal junk around in his shorts using the palm of his hand. With a lazy smile, he asks, “You staying in town?”
He’s familiar, but I don’t know his name. Don’t remember it from when they showed up an hour ago, and I won’t bother to learn it now. There’s no point in gathering more useless information like names of men I’ll never see again.
I’m never coming back here.
“Well, thanks for taking everything.” I wipe my hands on my skirt and try to put them in the dress’s pockets, only remembering too late this dress doesn’t have them.
What a waste of a nice blue floral summer dress. Every dress should have pockets. So should cardigans. This is why I buy mine in the men’s section of thrift stores. Old man cardigans always have pockets for candy or rubber bands, or whatever old men need to carry in their sweater pockets. My own grandfather put butterscotch and star mints in his. At his funeral a few years ago, I snuck a couple pieces of each into his casket.
Full of rejects from the garage sale, the big truck drives away. I stand alone in the driveway. The desire to wave good-bye hits me in the center of my chest, and I realize it’s not the stuff I’m going to miss, it’s my life.
Behind me, my grandparents’ house, the only home I’ve ever known, is an empty shell. Shadows of old frames and mirrors fill the walls, revealing the true colors of the Laura Ashley floral wallpaper my grandmother installed in the eighties. Sunlight faded carpet darkens where the sofa and Grandpa’s favorite recliner once sat. Upstairs, the bathroom sink still drips, unaware no one is here to curse at the incessant tap, tap, tap against the pink porcelain.
Let the new owners deal with the unreliable plumbing.
The closing is tomorrow. A new family will move in and fill this house with their own memories. I hope they replace the carpet—it’s seen some shit. Literally.
I’m alone.
Single.
No living family.
Can an adult be an orphan? Sure feels that way.
An orphan at twenty-seven. Too old for Daddy Warbucks to swoop in and adopt me into a life of wealth. No adorable mutt by my side to listen to my sad story.
I don’t even have cats.
The last pet I had was a depressed goldfish. He could barely muster up the interest to do laps around his bowl. I could totally relate to him feeling trapped, living a monotonous existence without purpose or passion.
My entire life has been spent in this faded upstate town, long past its prime. Whatever good or interesting that could happen here, already has. Tethered here by my family and small town expectations, I’ve tried to make the most of growing up in a place where success is an echo and hope is a memory.
Now there’s no reason to stay.
A strange sense of freedom expands my ribcage as I inhale the thick, humid air of the New York August day.
Now I can go anywhere. Adventure and the open road await.
Go west.
I stayed because of her.
Mom left once. Right out of high school. She packed up, impatient to put miles between her and this forgotten place. When she came home six months later, pregnant and married, her adventure became an example of why it’s better to accept our place in the world than expose ourselves to unknown disappointments.
At least that’s what the locals like to remind me.
The grass is never greener.
What about my father?
He followed her home and stayed. For a while.
Until he left in the middle of the night.
At first mom said he was away on a business trip.
Then the story changed to caring for a sick relative out of state.
Eventually, she told me the truth.
He’d been abducted.
By aliens.