Don't Come Home

by Bea Bledsoe

  He leaned back in his chair, maddeningly comfortable wherever he was.

  “I liked it at first, following in my grandfather’s footsteps but then...” He pressed his hands to this forehead. “Well, let’s just leave it at that. Sometimes it can feel all kind of cliché. I guess I just thought fulfilling his legacy would be more…” Leigh braced herself for the word she knew was coming.

  “Fun?” She let her hand trace over his, Evelyn’s face a mask of empathy that she didn’t feel. He grinned and raised his glass with a grimace.

  “Yeah. Let’s just say that. Fun.” Her mother would have called him a silver spooner. Her dad, on the other hand, would have called him an asshole. “I’m going to take a year off, I think,” he said quietly. She clenched her fists under the table. The hubris of this kid was making it hard to stay Evelyn. Leigh would have punched him in the teeth, quite rightly. He seemed lost in his own thoughts for a moment. “Maybe go overseas; see the real world. Live off the land in a small town.” Leigh knew what it was like to live in a small town. She knew also what he did not: That the real world was right here, where they already were. She had made it here, to Harvard, and she would be damned if she ever went back to Blackriver, no matter how much it called to her. She had to stay…which is why she needed things with Henry to move a bit faster.

  Exuding sex, Evelyn arched her back and ran her fingers through her hair, eyebrow raised pointedly, suggesting what Henry was probably hoping would happen. “This cider is good, but what would you think about getting us some shots? I’m honestly feeling a little bit reckless tonight, like doing something wild.” She let her hand trace over his as she leaned forward. “Shall we lose ourselves a little, Henry Champney?” He didn’t even try to hide the delighted smile that broke across on his face.

  Five hours later, Leigh untangled herself from Henry’s arms and wriggled her way off the tufted leather couch. Henry didn’t stir. Leigh was tired but focused, her brain sparking in the dark. Pretending you were asleep for hours while a boy you barely knew breathed vodka-soaked breath over your face wasn’t the most satisfying thing, but it would pay off in the end. “Henry!” She whispered, then tried again louder. He didn’t move.

  Perfect.

  Leigh’s mission had been accomplished: with a strong assist from alcohol, aside from some intense kissing, she had succeeded in waiting Henry out. With a remorseful glance, she carefully brushed the hair off his forehead and turned his head to the side before stepping away from him. Leigh felt a twinge of guilt as she straightened up in the dark; Henry had actually been kind of sweet, and he was a decent kisser. She had chosen well, but for some strange reason, she had been more herself with him than with the others; all night she had perpetually reminded herself that she was Evelyn and not Leigh. She had laughed a little too loud, talked a little too much. She caught herself staring at his impressive jawline, admiring the deep groove where his collarbone met his neck and resisting the urge to press her lips against it. Leigh reached out and slapped her own face, hard. There, she thought. That was better. She was here for one thing and one thing only.

  She easily found Henry’s bedroom - they had briefly visited it earlier to grab a blanket - and shut the door silently behind her. Moving quickly, Leigh began rifling through his dresser. She raced through all his drawers, finding nothing but designer sweats. Near her foot was a small bedside table, and she knelt, slowly pulling open a narrow drawer at the top. Carefully she shoved aside underwear, socks, and a Bible – surprising! – to find nothing. Dammit. She let out a sigh and reached once more, a smile crossing her face as her hand closed around something. She pulled it out. Here, shoved into the back of the drawer was a cheap paperback romance. Either Henry had some interesting erotic reading tastes or… she flipped it open and pulled out the cash with a quick intake of breath. She counted it quickly: there was almost $2,500. A very good haul. Her heart pounding, Leigh tucked the money inside her sweater pocket. Carefully, she put the book back, tucking it away with the underwear and socks. With any luck, Henry wouldn’t notice it missing for a couple of weeks and by the time he did, the blame would fall on his fellow frat brothers. Then Henry would probably call Granddaddy, who would replace the money the next day. No one would be hurt in the long run. The green glow of his alarm clock filled the room as Leigh glanced at the face. “Crap,” she muttered. It was almost 6:00 a.m; time for Evelyn to make her exit.

  Leigh padded back to the common room where Henry was still sleeping. Moving quickly, she snuggled back up against him, slipping under his arm as before and closing her eyes. She took a long breath and then gave a loud, violent cough. A second later she felt him stir next to her.

  “Oh hey.” Henry let his fingers trail over her face. “Hey…girl.” Leigh almost laughed. He couldn’t remember her name. That was perfect, actually. “What time is it?” she heard him mutter before he shook her shoulder. “Hey, Evelyn.” Dammit, he had remembered. Leigh stirred and blinked a couple of times before looking up at him in (feigned) shame.

  “Oh my God.” She shot up. Henry rubbed his eyes. He was adorable.

  “Hey. Hey! What’s wrong? It’s okay, we can just move to my room.”

  “Shit!” Leigh let Evelyn’s eyes fill with tears. “I should not be here – why did you let me fall asleep? I shouldn’t be here. God, he’s going to kill me.”

  “Who?” Henry looked like he was going to be sick; he was going to have one hell of a hangover this morning. Leigh looked over at him with panic.

  “Sorry. Um, it’s my boyfriend. Rafe.”

  Henry’s eyed widened. “You have a boyfriend? Why didn’t you say something last night?”

  She leapt from the couch, packing up her bag in front of him, letting him see that it was practically empty. “We had a fight. I wanted to make him mad.” She shook her head. “He’s the jealous type. Kind of crazy. He had been texting this girl and…I thought it I could just escape all this with you. I never intended to stay. I’m sorry, I just need to go. He’s on the wrestling team here.” Henry’s confused face was covered with sweat; he was minutes away from spending all day worshipping the porcelain god. She looked frantically at her phone. “I think I texted him last night. Oh God…”

  “Umm, okay. We didn’t really do that much but…” Henry waved his hand at her, trying to process the situation while managing his rising nausea. “You should probably go. Can you please leave your number or something? I want to see you again.”

  Leigh closed her eyes. “That’s probably not wise, Henry. You did nothing wrong – this one is on me.” I’m sorry for all of it, she thought. She felt a rare flare of shame pass through her. What was wrong with her? He went to hug her, but she ducked under his arm.

  “It was nice to meet you…Evelyn. Can I least pay for your car? Are you going to be okay?” He reached for her, but then thought better of it and lurched towards the bathroom. Leigh was already out the door. As she walked away, she shed her other self, Evelyn Porch existing now only on Henry’s lips. Leigh made her way across campus, wrapping her coat around her. In her pocket, she could feel the bulge of his cash. One more month of school; 30 days of breathing. That’s what this bought her. The dewy Yard was quiet now, the early spring air crisp in her lungs, the grandiose architecture taking her breath away. The buildings here were so different from the rustic but solid homes she had grown up with in Blackriver.

  Inside, the bursar’s office was warm and dry. Leigh plopped on the floor and leaned her head against the wall. The radiator beside her gave a comforting hiss, and the dusty smell of ancient plumbing hit her nose. It was two hours before the bursar would arrive and when he showed up, she would act like the kind of spoiled girl whose parents regularly sent her thousands of dollars in cash. Then he would pull up her file: a dire financial aid case, a girl from some nowhere town in Wyoming, a girl paying her tuition month to month and frequently behind, but it wouldn’t matter. Leigh would shove the money forward, holding her head high, because that’s what women who went
to Harvard did, even if the guilt in her chest was eating her alive.

  As much needed sleep pulled at her eyes, Leigh heard the sounds that were always buried deep in her mind: the howling of wind ripping through trees, the brush of pine needles over snow. The sounds of the home she had left behind haunted her when she was at her weakest. She slept.

  2

  Three weeks later, Leigh was lying on her back, finishing her literature homework – her third reading of The Manchurian Candidate – when a loud boom made her jump. She had just leapt to her feet when Imogen burst through the door of their dorm, her black curls piled on the top of her head. She was practically salivating.

  “I have an exciting proposal!” she exploded. Leigh swatted away her grinning roommate as Imogen began dropping things out of her bag like the hurricane she was. “We’re going out tonight!” She raised her head and saw the spread of paper and books on Leigh’s bed before her face dissolved into disappointment. “Are you going to tell me you have a lot of homework again?” She bit her lip. “That’s no fun.”

  Leigh shook her head and turned to her computer, firing up her essay; the next assignment on a very long list. “That’s what college is for, Imogen. Homework forever, stretching on into eternity. A glorious parting with earthly responsibilities in favor of the academic.”

  Imogen plopped down onto her bed, dropping her name-brand boots onto the floor beside a pile of neatly folded laundry. “You’re bored, huh?”

  Leigh smiled. “SO bored.”

  “What are you working on?” Imogen leaned over her roommate’s shoulder, and Leigh looked over at her with her usual expression of frustration and adoration.

  “An essay about the social habitation practices of the West Indies.” Imogen rolled her eyes and flapped backwards onto the bed.

  “That sounds utterly fascinating. So…about tonight.” She poked Leigh with her wool sock. “Keep on working. Pretend I’m not even here.” Leigh batted her toe away with a laugh. Imogen could always make her laugh, something she desperately needed. Her roommate’s lightness held back the tide of growing darkness inside of Leigh; the fear that she would get caught stealing, the lie of who she was, the constant terror of having to leave this place.

  “Don’t you have some rehearsal to go to?” she asked Imogen.

  “Lamont asked me to audition for Die Fledermaus, but I had to say no. I have too much on my plate right now with the rehearsals for Carmen. I just can’t add anything next semester.”

  Leigh shook her head as she typed. Imogen always had too much on her plate. She was a classical voice major – a mezzo-soprano with a deep golden hue to her voice, beloved by the music department.

  “I’m glad you said no.” Leigh pushed her tongue up against the back of her teeth as she tried to focus in on her essay. What had she been writing? Oh yes, Dr. Faukner’s micro-analysis of the subjects based on their location and the tribes with which they had first been introduced made them very susceptible to outside influences…

  “Leeiigghhh, I need a break,” Imogen moaned. “But can we go out tonight? There’s live music at the Cellar.”

  “Can’t. Drinks are expensive there and I need a new pair of black pants for the Bean House.”

  Imogen rolled her eyes. “No offense, but I hate that you are poor.” Leigh laughed out loud.

  “Surely not as much as I do.” Imogen rolled over on her bed and snuggled up with Leigh’s pillow, closing her eyes. Leigh counted to a hundred in her mind and then she heard Imogen’s telltale little sighs escaping from her mouth. Her roommate was notorious for falling asleep at the speed of light - that’s what happened when you ran a thousand miles per hour.

  Leigh moved her chair to look over at Imogen, but instead her eyes fell on her roommate’s backpack and the pile of mail underneath it. Leigh swept the mail up and sank onto Imogen’s bed to read it, tucking her legs underneath her. There was the normal haul for Imogen; department store coupons, Harvard music newsletters, and some sheet music that had been stuffed into her mailbox.

  For Leigh Mae Montgomery (she shuddered at the glimpse of her full name, a painful reminder of who she had once been), there was only a past-due tuition bill that she couldn’t bear to look at. She pushed it under her laptop on the desk, not wanting Imogen to see it. Imogen knew a lot of things about Leigh, but there was only so much she could share with her roommate without implicating her as well. After grabbing her water bottle out of their mini-fridge, Leigh plopped back down at the computer and stared blurry-eyed at her essay. Made them susceptible to outside influences...That’s when she noticed something poking out from under the laptop, a tiny piece of bright blue sky stuck to the tuition bill. Strange. Leigh slid it out and held it up in her hand.

  It was a painted postcard, vintage from the looks of it. At the bottom of the postcard was a beautiful illustration of a small wooden cabin. Just off the porch, two children gathered handfuls of blue wildflowers. Behind them, a graceful mountain range in shades of greens and browns pierced a sky full of ominous white clouds. In fancy cursive letters across the top, “Visit Blackriver” was written in a gentle arch. Leigh smiled to herself. This was probably the first and only postcard that had ever been made about Blackriver – it was no wonder Mom had sent it. She flipped the postcard over, reading only a few simple words before her heart stopped beating in her chest.

  Don’t Come Home.

  Underneath it, what looked like a bloody fingerprint marked the bottom. The words blurred together as Leigh read it again. She flipped it over, scanning for anything else she may have missed. Her sharp intake of breath woke Imogen, who sleepily opened her eyes. “What’s wrong?” she murmured. Leigh shook her head and turned the postcard over, handing it to Imogen as she replayed the phrase in her head. Her pulse raced as she considered the words, written by her mother’s hand – she would know her curly scrawl anywhere.

  Don’t Come Home.

  Don’t Come Home.

  Don’t Come Home.

  “What is this?” Imogen read the back before flipping it over, her eyes widening. “It looks old.”

  “I think it belonged to my mother.” Leigh muttered “She collects old postcards.” She reached her hand out and Imogen put the card gently back in her palm. Leigh turned the postcard back over, looking at it once more before reaching for her phone. Her parents didn’t have cell phones – why would they, when there was absolutely no cell service in Blackriver – and so she dialed the landline that she would always know by heart.

  With a tightening chest, Leigh waited for the phone to ring on the other end. They may still be angry at her, but she needed to find out what this postcard meant. Was it an order? A slap in the face? It might be that, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt urgent. She waited for the line to ring. She smiled strangely at Imogen, embarrassed by the sudden intensity of the situation.

  “It’s probably nothing” she mouthed. “Honestly, it’s probably just my mom’s way of getting me to call.”

  As she turned away, the hopeful lie cut into her. Manipulation wasn’t her mom’s style. Her fingers desperately clutched the phone as she waited to hear her Mother’s gentle voice on their ancient message machine. Instead there were three long beeps, followed by a monotone electronic voice: “The number you have called has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please try again.” Leigh shook her head and dialed the number again. The message replayed. This time she hung up and slowly and methodically typed the number into the keypad. Again, it went to the pre-recorded message, the robotic voice slightly haunting.

  Leigh shook her head as she put her phone down on the dresser. “That’s so strange.”

  Imogen uncurled from the bed. “When was the last time you talked to them?”

  Leigh bit her lip as shame flooded through her. It had been what…four months? That couldn’t be. She closed her eyes and thought over the last, painful conversation she had with mother, when she had told her parents she wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas. They co
uldn’t understand that she could either buy a plane ticket home or pay for another month of tuition. They didn’t understand that Leigh would lose hours at the Bean House – tons of hours, thanks to all her coworkers traveling home - if she came home. The trip would have put her in a hole that she would never get out of, and there were only so many stupid rich boys drifting around.

  And while she wanted to go home, to eat her mother’s warm spritz cookies and stretch out on the couch that fit her just right, she couldn’t. Not yet. Leigh wasn’t ready to go home; she didn’t know who she was there, and so it was easier to say no. Leigh could tell that her mother and father were deeply wounded, but she wasn’t expecting the sharp anger that followed, nor the silence. They hadn’t called. Not on Christmas day, which Leigh spent holed up in her dorm room with ramen noodles feeling sorry for herself. Not on Leigh’s birthday a month later. Even now, her parents still hadn’t called. Their collective cold shoulder had hurt, and so Leigh didn’t call them either.

  Leigh felt Imogen’s eyes on her. “I talked to them about four months ago. I told you about our fight. Honestly, it’s probably nothing.”

  Imogen shook her head. “Holy crap, Leigh. That’s a long time to not talk to them! I didn’t know it had been that long.”

  Shame mixed with the quiet panic inside of her. “Yeah, I know. It just…happened. But also, my parents are so poor that sometimes their phone gets cut off.” She grimaced at the admission.

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Said the girl who had never had to think about money a day in her life. Leigh turned around and took a deep breath, trying to quell her rising panic. What was going on?

  “I’m going to try their neighbor.” Leigh pulled up Hazel Collin’s phone number; her mom had programmed it in there “just in case” when Leigh had left Blackriver. Hazel was their nearest neighbor and her mother’s closest friend, literally – they could see her porch from their own. Now, as she dialed her number, she prayed to hear a voice on the other end. Instead, the cruel monotone voice echoed back that the number was longer in service. She passed Imogen the phone, who listened to the message with concern.