Status: back in action
Town Limits
Yellow Brick Road
I’d been sitting outside the bus terminal when I’d received the phone call. The sun pressing against my bare arms, second hand smoke from a middle-aged man nearby wafting into my nostrils. At that point, I’d been gone approximately two months.
“Hello,” I’d answered, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when the phone rings. It was the third ring. I always answer on the third ring, making sure to leave enough time to make the caller believe I’m not alone.
There was a pause on the other end. An inhale. A blink. A slight frown.
“Nora Chism?”
“Speaking.”
The line crackled, so I stood, pressing further into the blinding rays, dropping my sunnies from the top of my head to cover my eyes. The soles of my cowboy boots scraping against the chipped sidewalk. It didn’t matter - the line remained staticky.
“This is the Old Shore police department.”
I reached the ledge of the sidewalk and paused, pushing my heels together and pressing my phone closer to my ear. A car ripped past, kicking up wind that blew strands of my mousy hair across the bridge of my nose.
“We’re sorry report the death of your mother.”
It’s funny, I think. I remember my physical reaction. Dropping to the ground, loose gravel digging into my shins; forgetting to inhale after exhaling; biting my lip so hard the skin breaks. But I don’t remember my thought process. Maybe my brain just... stopped.
“How?” I managed to choke out.
“It was homicide.”
***
My father was taken into custody three days later. The police had found him at a bus stop in Licking, leaning over one of the dirty porcelain sinks, cupping water between his worn hands and bringing it to his lips.
They said he’d been looking for me.
“Hello,” I’d answered, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when the phone rings. It was the third ring. I always answer on the third ring, making sure to leave enough time to make the caller believe I’m not alone.
There was a pause on the other end. An inhale. A blink. A slight frown.
“Nora Chism?”
“Speaking.”
The line crackled, so I stood, pressing further into the blinding rays, dropping my sunnies from the top of my head to cover my eyes. The soles of my cowboy boots scraping against the chipped sidewalk. It didn’t matter - the line remained staticky.
“This is the Old Shore police department.”
I reached the ledge of the sidewalk and paused, pushing my heels together and pressing my phone closer to my ear. A car ripped past, kicking up wind that blew strands of my mousy hair across the bridge of my nose.
“We’re sorry report the death of your mother.”
It’s funny, I think. I remember my physical reaction. Dropping to the ground, loose gravel digging into my shins; forgetting to inhale after exhaling; biting my lip so hard the skin breaks. But I don’t remember my thought process. Maybe my brain just... stopped.
“How?” I managed to choke out.
“It was homicide.”
***
My father was taken into custody three days later. The police had found him at a bus stop in Licking, leaning over one of the dirty porcelain sinks, cupping water between his worn hands and bringing it to his lips.
They said he’d been looking for me.