Between Sisters

Home.

No. It was where he’d grown up; home was something else—or, more accurately, someone else—and she wouldn’t be waiting up for him to return.

The off-ramp looped over the freeway and flattened out onto a tree-lined road. On the left side was a small shingled gas station and a mini mart.

Erv pulled up in front of the pump and came to a creaking stop. The brakes wheezed loudly and fell silent. “The store there makes some mighty fine egg-salad samiches, if you’re hungry. ” Erv opened his door and got out.

Joe wedged the handle down and gave the door a good hard push. It creaked wearily open, and he stepped down onto the pavement of western Washington for the first time in three years. He broke out in a cold sweat—whether from the fever or his arrival home, he didn’t know.

He looked at Erv, who was busy pumping gas. “Thanks for the ride. ”

Erv nodded. “You don’t talk much, but you were good company. The road can get lonely. ”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “It can. ”

“You sure you don’t want to go to Seattle? It’s only an hour and a half away. There ain’t much here. ”

Joe looked down the long, tree-lined road. Though he could only make out the barest hint of town, his memories compensated. “You’d be surprised,” he said softly.

His sister was just down that road, waiting for him in spite of everything, hoping he’d knock on her door. If he did, if he found that courage, she’d pull him into her arms and hold him so tightly, he’d remember how it felt to be loved.

The thought galvanized him.

“Bye, Erv. ” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and started walking. In no time, he came to the small green sign that welcomed him to Hayden, population 872. Home of Lori Adams, 1974 State Spelling Bee Champion.

The town where he’d been born, where he’d grown up and moved on from, hadn’t changed at all. It looked precisely as he remembered, a pretty little collection of Western-themed buildings dozing peacefully beneath this warm June sun.

The buildings all had false fronts, and there were hitching posts stationed here and there along a wooden boardwalk. The stores were mostly the same—the Whitewater Diner and the Basket Case Florist Shoppe, then Mo’s Fireside Tavern and the Stock ’Em Up grocery s

tore. Every sign sparked some memory, every doorway had once welcomed him. He’d bagged groceries for old Bill Turman at the grocery store one summer and ordered his first legal beer at Mo’s.

Once, he’d been welcomed everywhere in town.

Now . . . who knew?

He let out a long sigh, trying to understand how he felt at this moment. He’d dreaded and longed for this return for three years, but now that he’d actually come home, he felt curiously numb. Maybe it was the flu. Or the hunger. Certainly a homecoming ought to be sharper. Returning after so long an absence, after all that he had done.

He made a valiant effort to feel.

But nothing seized hold of him, and so he began to walk again, past the four-way stop sign that introduced the start of town, past the Loose Screw Hardware Shop and the family-owned bakery.

He felt people looking at him; it beat him down, those looks that turned into frowns of recognition. Whispers followed him, nipped at his heels.

Jesus, is that Joe Wyatt?

Did you see that, Myrtle? It was Joe Wyatt.

He’s got some nerve—

How long has it been?

Every one made him hunch a little farther. He tucked his chin close to his chest, rammed his hands in his pockets, and kept moving.

On Azalea Street, he veered left, then, on Cascade he turned right.

Finally, he could breathe again. Here, only a few blocks from Main Street, the world was quiet again. Quaint wood-framed houses sat on impeccably trimmed lawns, one after another for a few blocks, and then the signs of inhabitation grew sparse.

By the time he reached Rhododendron Lane, the street was almost completely deserted. He walked past Craven Farms, quiet this time of year before the fall harvest, and then turned into the driveway. Now the mailbox said Trainor. For years and years, it had read: Wyatt.