Once I’ve been on the road about two hours, I stop to buy a prepaid phone and call Devon.
“Hey,” I say, when it connects.
“What happened?” he asks.
I fill him in and we’re both silent a few minutes. “You know what I’m thinking,” I finally say, not wanting to voice out loud who I think Ryan really is.
“You know I’m thinking it too,” he replies. “But no assumptions . . .”
“We only deal in facts,” I say before he can. This has been our mantra.
I’m still in the parking lot of the store where I bought this phone, pacing the length of my car again and again. I tell myself it’s because I’m stiff, but it’s fear that’s driving me.
“I’m back in Lake Forbing,” Devon says. “I’ll take care of my part, you take care of yours.” Before I can end the call, he says, “I’m close on the message board. Keep that phone so if I need you I can get you since I’m guessing you don’t have access to your Instagram account. The risk is low enough.”
I’m not sure what parameters Devon uses to gauge the risk versus reward in these situations, but I trust him enough that I don’t question his reasoning.
“Okay.” I pause a moment, then add, “If it looks like things are not going to end like we hope tomorrow morning, haul ass. Drop what you’re doing and disappear.”
“L, you know I’m not abandoning you.”
“Between Mr. Smith and the cops, we both know the chances of me walking away from this are slim. And there are other people to consider. Heather, for one, will need you.”
“Same goes for you,” he says. “It’s never too late to bail. Just get up and start moving.”
“I’ll check in when I’m done today,” I say, then end the call. This entire conversation felt so much like a good-bye that I couldn’t bring myself to actually say it.
* * *
It’s midafternoon when I pass the welcome to eden sign. It was a long drive with only a stop to buy the burner phone to call Devon, and in Winston-Salem to buy some clothes at Goodwill.
My eyes drink in the town I once called home. Memories flood in so fast that I almost drown in them. The fast-food restaurant where I hung out with friends and the fabric store where Mama and I spent hours poring over new arrivals every week are still there, but those buildings have been ravaged by time and neglect. I turn on the road that runs in front of my high school, and it’s almost physically impossible to breathe when I see the worn path through the grass between the side door and the parking lot that I traveled a thousand times.
The last time I was here feels like a lifetime ago.
It also feels like yesterday.
But as familiar as everything is, I am still a stranger here. There’s no one I would call up and visit.
One last turn and I’m on my old street. I pull into the trailer park and get out without cutting the engine. I study each one of the single-wide mobile homes crammed into this space, comparing what they used to look like to now and remembering who called each of them home. I save the middle one on the left side for last.
I cringe when I think about how embarrassed Mama would be for anyone to see it in this condition. Even though it wasn’t much to look at when it was ours, she always made sure it was neat and clean and the narrow beds near the steps had flowers planted in them. Now they’re full of weeds, and there’s a blue tarp covering some damage to the roof and a broken-down truck up on blocks next to the door.
It hurts to remember the girl I once was. The one who called this place home. That girl was happy here. Really happy. Even when Mama got sick, that young, naive girl thought she could take care of her. Thought she could save her from dying.
But that little girl learned a lot in that trailer. She learned that no matter how hard you try, sometimes it’s not enough. She learned the only person you could trust, the only person you could truly rely on, was yourself.
A woman peeking out from behind a curtain in the trailer closest to me reminds me I didn’t drive all this way for a walk down memory lane.
There is one reason I came back to Eden.
Once I’m in my car, I turn around and hit the main road again, stopping at Sheetz to refuel and do a quick wardrobe change in the bathroom. Then it takes only a few minutes to get to the newer area of town, where the businesses sit in a long row behind plate-glass windows.
I park near Dr. Brown’s office at the far end of the strip and make my way to the door.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks when I approach the counter.