The foundation (me) has arranged for Katrina and my parents to meet at 11 a.m. in front of the courthouse with a big prize check. It’s the prettiest building in town and the grass is always green. The local newspaper, the Sentinel, will be there; a news station is coming in from Midland; and I hired the best professional photographer in town.
Katrina is on the board of directors and thinks she’s a one-woman prize patrol—minus the balloons. She should be sober by tomorrow, and I am happy to fade into the background and watch. She heads up to her room, and before I lock up the F-150 one last time, I open the glove compartment to make sure all the other paperwork is in there and I pull out a charger cord attached to my old cracked iPhone.
I doubt it’s going to turn on this time when it didn’t before, but I plug it in first thing when I get inside my room. I wash my face and about jump out of my skin when I walk from the bathroom and the old iPhone pings and the face lights up. I snatch it up before it can turn back off. Lida and I smile from the home screen, and I put in my pin number. I look at the smashed selfie taken at the Lights Festival not too long before I died. That’s my big smile and bigger sunglasses. I remember posing at the right angle for the shot, but it’s like looking at a photo taken a long time ago. Like a high school yearbook picture. That’s not me now.
I pull up my messages and tap HotGuyNate before the phone has a chance to die. The texts turn from natural conversation to sexting in no time at all. They’re uncomfortable to read now. Him saying what he’s going to do with my big breasts and me writing how much I’m going to love it. Him telling me to meet him at the Kitty Cat Lounge in El Paso and what he had planned for later at the motel across the street. Me saying I can’t wait to ride him like a hobbyhorse. My chest burns with embarrassment, and through the cracked screen I read the last few texts:
HotGuyNate: Are you there yet?
Me: I’m about sixty miles away.
HotGuyNate: I can’t make it.
Me: Is this a joke?
HotGuyNate: Sorry.
Me: Why?
HotGuyNate: My wife found out.
Wife? I drove two hundred miles to meet up with a cheating asshat? I died in El Paso because of a man?
I toss the phone on the bed and turn to look out a window at the night sky crammed with stars. I guess Edie and I have much more in common than I thought. We both ended up at UMC El Paso at the same time for the same reason—only I didn’t try to kill myself. I’m still not exactly sure how it happened, but I rolled Momma’s minivan and died from my injuries.
I hardly sleep that night, and the next morning my nerves are shot. I put Katrina’s hair in a bun and give her camera-ready makeup. She dresses in my Marc Jacobs mint-green sheath and Ferragamo flats. She looks professional, and I watch her take her meds before we drive the few blocks to the courthouse and put HotGuyNate out of my mind for now.
The Sentinel reporter and Big 2 News wait with the photographer on the front steps of the courthouse. Katrina, with check and truck keys in hand, joins them while I stand beneath a big shade tree, close enough to see the event but far enough away not to be noticed.
I don’t have to stand there long before Momma and Daddy roll up in Daddy’s old truck, tools and dog in the back. They’re wearing their Sunday clothes and hold hands as they walk up the sidewalk. Even before they make it all the way, I reach into my purse and pull out a tissue. I started a charitable foundation to make sure they are provided for as long as they live. I’ve never been prouder, but I wish things had turned out different and were easier between us.
The ceremony lasts five minutes. Five minutes that seem to pass in five seconds. Katrina answers questions and gets her picture taken with Momma and Daddy. I wish it was me, but I’m just happy to know they’ll never have to wear old coats again.
Katrina joins me and we chuckle as Momma fires up the new Ford and follows behind Daddy and his dog in the old truck.
“That was fun,” Katrina says as we walk to the Saint George. “Who gets the next check?”
“I’m still lookin’.”
We cross the road and she says, “If you were born and raised in Michigan, why do you sound like the people around here?”
I shrug. “Read my aura.”
“I did, but the answer isn’t in your aura. I don’t see past lives or otherworld connections.”
Well, that’s a relief. A horn blasts from the street beside us and we both jump out of our skin. The window on the F-150 slides down and Momma sticks her head out and says, “Pudge and me don’t know why you’ve been so kind to us, but we want to thank you proper and invite you to supper.”
One of the hardest things I’ve ever done is look at my momma and say, “Thank you, but we’ve got a plane to catch.”
“Well, another time, then.”
“I’d like that.”
I watch her go, but my heart doesn’t break as much this time. I love my folks and Marfa as much as ever, but I can’t live with one foot in Texas and the other in Michigan. It’s too hard and I don’t belong here. Not because there’s no place for me, but because this isn’t my home anymore. While I was so focused on Texas, I didn’t see that I’d planted my Louis Vuitton’s squarely in Michigan and made a home for myself.
My home is where I walk my dog and buy him organic treats with blue icing. Home is where I found a beauty school I want to attend and where I’m working toward my dream of opening Shear Elegance. Home is where my sister-in-law, Meredith, and brother, Burton, live and where I love to watch their kids grow.
Home is where Marv and Claire live in a house as big as a museum. They’ll never be my momma and daddy, but I don’t want that of them. They’re my parents, Marv and Claire Chatsworth-Jones, and I love them for their class and generosity. They still miss the old Edie, but they also love me for who I am today.