“Visitor or resident?” he asks with a grin that I can tell is his normal state from the smile lines on his face. His bright teeth are perfectly straight except for one. When he sees my hesitation to answer, he continues. “I ask all my customers that question.”
“I’m a visitor,” I say and look out the window.
I hope he won’t ask any more questions.
“Welcome to Dallery, ma’am. Glad to be of service.”
I told him the truth when I said I’m a visitor in town. I never felt accepted in Dallery. I always felt like an outsider and never had enough money to belong. In Dallery, you either belong to the wealthy or you work for them.
Since my family was poor, they considered us to be outsiders. We were lucky enough that my father worked several tough jobs to get us what we needed to survive.
I was ten when we first moved into our rented home after living in shelters, garages, or relatives’ spare rooms. My father was so proud of himself. That first night, we sat on the floor because we couldn’t afford furniture yet, but we celebrated with pizza and my mother’s peach and lemon iced tea.
We had some great memories, but they’re buried underneath a lot of pain, disappointment, and betrayal.
“What’s your destination, ma’am?” The cab driver asks, breaking through my thoughts.
I give him the address. It feels foreign to my tongue.
The driver hums and sings as we drive along. It’s refreshing to come across someone who enjoys his job in a world where most people don’t.
His cheerfulness almost rubs off on me, but not quite.
Fear tries to convince me to turn back and ditch the plan of seeing my mother. I might be setting myself up for a lot of pain. She might not even let me into the house I grew up in.
Unfortunately, my past comes handcuffed to my future. No matter how fast I run, I’ll never be fast enough to outrun it.
While the cab navigates its way through the streets I used to know so well, I continue gazing out the window, trying to see if Dallery has changed as much as I have.
It hasn’t. Not really. And the sameness makes my memories even more vivid.
When we drive past the Icy Lane Skating Rink, I’m reminded of my first date with Alex. That night, I was about to go to bed when he showed up at my house. He knew my mom wouldn’t be home for at least another hour because she was at his house, tending to his mother’s needs. My father was working as a security guard at the local hospital.
I was home alone, and no one would know if I snuck out for a couple of minutes.
That night Alex taught me how to ice skate. It’s one of my favorite memories of us.
But there were more, and they’re all flooding back in one go.
The movie theater comes into view and I remember our first kiss, enjoyed while hidden by the blanket of darkness surrounding us. In my mind’s eye, I can still smell the popcorn and taste the lemon-lime soda on his tongue.
Those early days of our relationship were the happiest of my life. When he held my hand and pulled me close, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. He was my first, and he said I was his too. He confessed that his weight problem repelled many girls, and he’d never dated before me.
I didn’t see his weight. I saw the person underneath. When he looked at me, he didn’t see a poor girl. He saw his girl. He made me feel seen for the very first time in my life.
“This is it,” the cab driver says finally. He flashes me another smile.
I smile back, but I have a feeling all he sees is a grimace.
The smile disappears from his face. “Are you okay, ma’am?”
“I’m all right.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “Do you think you could wait out here for me? I’m only going in for a few minutes. I should be out soon.”
“Sure. That’s not a problem at all. The customer is always king, or queen in your case.” He winks.
“Thank you so much.” When I emerge from the taxi, the late morning sunshine showers me with warmth, like it’s trying to comfort me before I get hurt again. I can’t help thinking back to the many times I walked down the small path to my front door. Now it’s littered with leaves that crunch under my feet and sand blown in from the nearby beach.
Although Dallery as a whole has not changed, the storms of our lives have not left my childhood home unscathed. The scars across its front door match those on my heart. The small garden that used to be my mother’s pride and joy is unrecognizable.
