Town Limits

There is no shame in being alone. In ambling along the sidewalk by myself, clutching a worn notebook in one hand and I bag full of clothing in the other. But no matter how many times I repeat this to myself, the sensation of embarrassment crawling up my spine and caressing my neck like a noose is impossible to ignore.

I told myself I wouldn’t return. Doing so seems like a sort of injustice. Yet, some unspeakable notion is tugging me away from the bus station, dragging my feet toward 1234 Blue Street.

I can’t help but wish that someone were here with me, because the canvas messenger bag I’ve slung across my body is digging into my shoulder and I don’t have a third hand to adjust it. Because I think the new mural being plastered to the wall of the public library is horribly ugly, but I have no one tell. And because sometimes it’s just nice to have that presence beside you because it lessens the blow.

But I don’t, because I’d left everyone behind. And now there’s no one here to take me back.

Once I arrive, I stand on the front porch for five minutes, unwilling to reach into the zippered pocket of my bag to get the key. The droplets of dew festering atop the littering of lawn ornaments beneath the bay window make them seem like they’re crying. The once brown door has been painted robin’s egg blue. The snakeberry bush on the front lawn has been dug out and replaced with a fashionable arrangement of multicoloured stones. This is the only evidence that my parents lived for at least a little bit while I was gone.

I know what will happen once I get inside. The dust will rise in suffocating clouds and the ticking of the clocks will deafen me and I will not be able to stand after I inevitably collapse.

A sigh whooshes from my lungs as I turn, heading down the cracked cement walkway and back the way I came.

***

“Nora?” The silvery voice slices through my thoughts, and I glance up from the warm sand that I’ve been digging my toes into for the past ten minutes. “Do my eyes deceive me?”

There are some souls that you forget about until you experience their presence again. Those people that only seem to exist when they’re right in front of your face. At any other time, you don’t care about them, consider them, or even think about them at all.

Paige McCormack is one of those individuals.

We’d never been friends, not really. More like close acquaintances forced together by our mutual companionships, only holding easy conversations when one or the other or both of us were under the influence.

But she bounds toward me now, a hesitant grin stretching across her round face, nose tinted red from standing outside during this uncharacteristically hot September. “It’s so good to see you!” She states before tugging me into an embrace.

She doesn’t apologize to me for the things that weren’t her fault and I’m grateful for it.

Despite our wishy-washy relationship, I return the hug, the tips of my boney fingers digging into her shoulder blades. “Long time no see, hey?”

Strands of her blonde ringlets stick against my lips and I step away from her, pushing my own messy hair away from my face. She’s gained weight, but not in a bad way. Her once scrawny, harshly angled figure more womanly now.

“You look great. Haven’t changed at all,” she lies. I know that my skin is pale and my hair is scraggly and that my clothing hangs off my shoulders like tattered curtain purchased from a second hand store. Squinting her eyes, she continues, angling her head and peering down at me. “Hell, even your freckles are in the same places.”

I force a chuckle because being sad around Paige feels like a crime. Not too many people are as genuinely nice as her, so much so that it makes me feel guilty about forgetting her. A lump forms in my throat and for a moment I can’t breathe.

Luckily, she breaks the silence. “Listen, I’ve gotta get to work, but later a bunch of us are going to The Pulse. You should come.”

I want to thank her for inviting me, because I probably wouldn’t have invited her if it’d been the other way around. I wouldn’t have even thought of it. Instead, I just smile, hoping she gets the message. Avoiding sentimentality like I’m deathly allergic to it, I respond with a curt nod and answer, “I’ll be there.”