No Place Like Here

by Christina June

  “Umm, I gave them to Deb. Let me look on her desk.” It was still my go-to when something was missing or delayed.

  The piles were now so high, and in such disarray, that I considered just taking a hand and swiping it all to the floor in one giant snow pile of papers. It probably would’ve been better organized if I did.

  Hannah stood there with one eyebrow up. “How do you even work in here? It’s such a mess.”

  “No kidding.” I counted back the number of days ago that Hannah and I had done inventory, estimated how many papers a day were tossed onto the desk, and grabbed a stack that looked about the right height. I lifted up one more, a list of meal requests from a group that came in last week, and, finally, there was Hannah’s list of repairs. “Here it is.”

  “So now what? I needed those boats repaired yesterday. I managed to squeeze an extra kid in each boat with today’s youth group, but there’s no way I can keep that up with adults. Plus, we’re short lifejackets. It’s totally unsafe.” Hannah’s face was red, both hands on her hips.

  I put up my hands in defense. “Don’t look at me. I am just the errand girl.” Hannah snorted. “But you’re right about the safety. I’m sure there’s some kind of code this breaks, right?”

  “Many codes,” she said in a huff.

  “Well.” I looked around the office. Deb kept all the important phone numbers in an old-fashioned rolodex. I’d never seen one; she had to explain to me what it was. “What if I called? Could I do that?”

  “You mean pretend to be Deb? I mean, I guess you’re just calling to make repairs. She can’t object to that. You’d only be saving her butt.”

  Hannah made a good point. I certainly didn’t want retreaters in sinking boats—or worse—and if it happened because I could’ve prevented it but didn’t, I could never live with myself. I flipped through the weird little files in the circular rolodex until I found a phone number for a boat repair company. My hand was reaching for the phone when Deb blew through the door.

  “What’s going on, ladies?” she asked, oblivious to what I was about to do. Saved.

  “Hi, Deb, we were just looking for the phone number for the boat repair company,” Hannah said, smiling. “You know, for the repair list I gave you the other day.”

  “On my to-do list for today, in fact. Ashlyn, get me the phone number, it will save me from searching.” Deb smiled back, unaware that before she entered the office, I was not only about to save her from searching, I was about to be her.

  “Whatever we can do to make things easier for you.” I handed her the phone. “Would you like me to dial?”

  Deb eyed me cautiously. Too far. I took it too far. “I can do it. Thanks.”

  I handed her the receiver, looking for a way to get the heck out of there. “I’m just going to help Hannah in the kiosk. Wipe down the equipment.” Deb nodded and waved her hand at me—her signature move. “The list of repairs is right on top of that stack by the phone. And there are some items that need to be ordered. Do you want me to look up the websites for those items when I get back?”

  “No, no, no need. I’ll just leave you the credit card and you can get what’s needed.” Deb seemed absolutely unconcerned that she was trusting me, an underage, temporary coffee maker, with the retreat center’s financials.

  “Um, okay. I’ll take care of that in a bit. Thanks.”

  With another wave of her hand, she sat down at her desk and began to dial. Whether she was actually calling the boat repair place or ordering Chinese takeout was anybody’s guess. Hannah and I bolted.

  “Did that just happen?”

  “You mean the part where Deb practically handed you the Amex black card? Yeah, that happened. Joan would have never done that. She kept that thing under lock and key, and only a few people had the privilege of being able to use it. She also had a whole system for making sure every area of the center had what it needed. Like, those boat repairs would’ve been taken care of in a few hours, not days. I’d have more lifejackets than I needed. Deb is so . . .” she searched for the right word, “careless.”

  It was totally the right word. Deb is so unlike my father, I thought. I knew from his many lectures over the years that to be successful managing others, and managing a business, you had to pay close attention to detail. Never mind the fact that he was also obsessed with the details of my life and making sure I did exactly as he expected. At. All. Times. The reality that my father himself had missed a few details in his grand scheme to fake out the government was neither here nor there.

  “Good thing she has us.” Hannah shrugged at my response. “Maybe we should keep an eye out. You know, in case there’s more stuff.”

  Hannah nodded. “Probably a good idea. My mother says you have to document everything when you want to make a change. You need evidence.”

  “Is what Deb’s doing actually wrong, though?”

  “Not sure. But it doesn’t hurt to keep track of stuff if we notice it.”

  “True.”

  I was making a list of the things I’d noticed about Deb so far, in the back of my quote journal where no one would look for it, when a large man in a Hawaiian shirt knocked on the office door.

  “Hello there, young lady. Might I bother you for a quick minute?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. If the word jolly had an illustration on webstersdictionary.com, it would be this man’s picture. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, my name is Harish Patel and my family is staying here for a few more days.”

  I grinned wider. “Oh! The Patel family. Everyone has been talking about you all.”

  “All good things, I hope.” Mr. Patel winked at me from behind thick glasses.

  “Definitely. The staff is glad to have you here.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful. We’re glad to be here. Listen,” he said, looking at my nametag, “Ashlyn. We’re not from around here and we’d love to see some local attractions off site. We’ve heard good things but we are unclear on what the possibilities are. Is that something you or Ms. Gress could help us with?”

  I knew nothing about this part of Pennsylvania, but I was a champion googler. “I’d be happy to help you, Mr. Patel. Let me talk to Deb and then I’ll put some information together for you.”

  “That would be excellent.”

  He gave me the details of the number of people and ages in their group, thanked me, and said he’d see me soon. I checked the campus schedule and saw that Deb was signed up for back-to-back cooking challenges. She was doing a charcuterie-themed session followed by an homage to apple pie. “The firefighters are going to be so full by the end of the night,” I said to the empty office. It also meant Deb would be occupied for a good long while.

  With no one around to “supervise” me in the office, I turned on the computer. I could practically hear gears screeching from rust and misuse. When it finally finished booting up, I pulled up a browser and searched for tourism in this region of the Keystone State. It turned out there was a lot to do here. Who knew? I started making a list of activities and destinations that looked family friendly:

  •underground caverns with stalactites and stalagmites to explore

  •a trip down the nearby river in an inner tube, complete with a tube for your cooler

  •a visit to a local farm that has its own ice creamery

  •a tasting at a winery that has a playground on the premises

  It looked like the Patels could stay in the area for an additional week and not run out of things to do. I checked their reservation in Deb’s dog-eared binder and saw they had one afternoon and one morning free before they departed. I opened the spreadsheet software and typed in the suggested destinations, included the estimated time to be spent at each option and cost per person, and added a link to the website for more information. And, for good measure, and because it was my brand of fun, I also included links to restaurant menus where social media users had left positive recommendations.

  This is a terrible idea. You can
’t just do whatever you want. You’re being reckless. What would your supervisor say? whispered my dad’s voice.

  I closed my eyes and shut him off, inhaling deeply to cleanse the negative energy he brought. For the first time since coming to Sweetwater, I felt like I was doing something useful. Meaningful. I didn’t want him to ruin it.

  I printed the document for Mr. Patel, intending to deliver it personally. Then I checked his family’s schedule and saw that they were just about done with the ropes course. I closed the office door and headed out in that direction. When I got to the edge of the course, I could hear cheering coming from deeper in the woods. The last obstacle on the course, after crossing a bridge made of wooden slats that hung over a picturesque stream, was a flat, slippery wooden wall. The goal was to get all members of your party over the wall. The only help you had was each other.

  As I approached to get a closer look, I saw Ruth standing on the front side of the wall, arms crossed over her chest. There were three Patels left to go over and eight already on the other side. Baxter was crouched down low to the ground, watching them. I walked over and stood next to him. A little girl, who had to be less than ten, dangled her legs over the top of the wall, trying to decide if she wanted to jump down.

  “Sometimes it takes them a while to come down.” Baxter spoke without looking up at me.

  “Why’s that? Fear?”

  “Sure, some of it’s fear. Also, a lack of trust. Which is interesting if you think about it. Kids her age,” he nodded towards the girl, still waiting on top, “love their parents unconditionally, right? So, she should have no hesitation believing they’d catch her.” A man and a woman on the ground were pleading with the girl, arms up, promising they wouldn’t let her fall.

  “So what stops her?”

  “Not sure.” He turned his gaze on me. “Would you jump down to your parents?”

  It wasn’t unkind or probing, but I shuddered to think, from the gentle pointedness, that Baxter knew more than the little bits about my family I’d let slip. “Did Hannah tell you about me?”

  Baxter’s ice-blue eyes were on me, making my cheeks warm. “Tell me what?” There was a certain authenticity to his words, and I immediately felt bad for doubting my cousin.

  I sighed and turned my gaze back to the little girl, who had slid a few inches forward, her toes reaching for the ground. “No. It’s nothing. Forget it.” I expected him to push me on the subject, but he too turned his attention back to the girl, who I still wasn’t certain was going to take the leap of faith to her parents below or hoist herself back up to the sure safety of the solid wall.

  After a few moments, as the little girl continued to struggle with her decision, Baxter looked at me. “I guess there’s not really a good answer to your question. Everyone’s got their own reasons for not jumping.” We watched as the girl finally slid off the wall into her father’s arms while her mother embraced them both. “But I’ve found that when they do jump, they always land on their feet, one way or another.”

  Baxter stood up and walked to the girl to congratulate her on her courage. As he did, I couldn’t help but wonder if we weren’t talking about the ropes course anymore. I handed the list to Ruth to give to Mr. Patel and walked away, mulling over Baxter’s words.

  Chapter 16

  I felt energized the next day. My feet moved a little faster as I walked to Deb’s office—proud of myself and excited to tell her what I’d done for the Patels. Maybe, I could make this a regular thing, have more responsibility, actually help people at Sweetwater, do more than fetch coffee and shuffle papers. I imagined myself sitting down with the reservation-makers, discussing how much time they had for an excursion, the interests of the members of their group, if they had any goals to accomplish, if they wanted to eat, to adventure, to sightsee, all kinds of questions. Since Deb was such a fan of binders, I could print out brochures for the destinations and have it ready to show. It was the perfect complement to what she already had been doing with the agendas. Unless she’s angry you defied her, my dad’s voice reminded me. I twisted my pearl necklace between my fingers, shook him off, and continued on my route.

  When I got to the office, the door was unlocked but the lights were out. I flipped them on and found a post-it note on my table that said, “running errands in town” in Deb’s chicken scratch. The bad news was, I had no job unless she dictated it. The good news was, I could do whatever I wanted to fill my time until she returned.

  I turned the computer on and scanned the software available. I opened one for cards and calendars, found a “flyer” template, and clicked. For the next three hours, while Deb was M.I.A., I went to work. I made a flyer to post in retreater guest rooms that showed all the offsite excursions they could sign up for. It was actually beautiful. Tatum, brilliant graphic designer that she was, would be proud of me. I added eye-catching fonts, selected enticing photos from each website, and included select quotes from online reviews.

  I wondered if this was what it felt like to be a travel agent or an event planner. I made a note in my journal to investigate those career choices.

  At the bottom of the flyer, I debated whether or not I should put my name, Deb’s name, or just Sweetwater Overlook Retreat Center Staff, as who to contact to make your plans. In the end, I went with my name. I did all the work, after all.

  I printed out enough copies to have one placed in every guest room and several extras to tape up in strategic places around campus. Then I set two aside, found two envelopes, folded the flyers, and slipped them inside. One I addressed to Tatum, with a post-it that said, “You’re not the only designer now.” And the other, I addressed to my mom at her rehab center, with a note:

  Dear Mom,

  Here’s something I’ve been working on. I think the guests are going to be excited about it. Maybe when you leave, we can do some of these things together.

  I love you,

  Ashlyn

  It wasn’t a direct ask to come back home for my senior year. But it was close. I sealed the two envelopes and stuck them in my back pocket to toss in the camp mailbox.

  I checked the clock. Literal hours had passed and Deb still wasn’t back. I wanted to make the Patels’ reservations but felt a little sneaky doing it—plus offering this whole new service, without Deb at least knowing about it, might blow up in my face, or so said Dad’s voice in my head.

  But Deb isn’t here, I rationalized, before grabbing my flyers and heading out of her office.

  I ran into Amos before I left the building. He was locking the door to his classroom, probably on his way to the cafeteria for lunch.

  “Hello, Amos,” I called from down the hall.

  “Hi, Ashlyn, how’s everything with you today?” He tipped an imaginary hat my way.

  “Really good, I think.”

  “You think?”

  I chewed on my bottom lip. “Well, I had what I thought was a good idea, but I haven’t been able to talk to Deb about it, so I just . . . did it.”

  Amos chuckled, his laugh rough in his throat. “What is this idea of yours?”

  I handed him a paper. “I want to help our clients do off-campus sightseeing. Mr. Patel asked me to put something together for him and I thought it would be good to offer it to everyone.” I paused while he read over the flyer. “What do you think?”

  Amos nodded slowly as he evaluated my work. He was the senior-most staff member, nicknamed “Teach” because of the way he made all the retreaters use their brains in his classes.

  “I think this is a wonderful idea,” he said to my delight. “Come to think of it, I have no idea why no one has put together something like this before. This is such a lovely area of the country, don’t you think?” I nodded in agreement, even though I still hadn’t seen much of it. “These folks should feel excited to be here. Good for you. Very enterprising, young lady.”

  I looked down at the chipping polish on my toes, not quite ready to celebrate. “Do you think Deb will approve?”

  Amos l
owered his head closer to mine and spoke in a loud whisper. “She has to be here to approve, doesn’t she?” It seemed too easy, though. I pressed my mouth into a line and was ready to question him when he said, “Sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness, not permission. And truly, if you’re the one doing the hard work, it’s no skin off her back, now is it?”

  “No, I guess it isn’t.”

  With Amos’ blessing, I began posting my signs over the water fountains and outside the mess hall. I was only a few feet past the doorway when I heard a bloodcurdling scream from inside. Without thinking, I raced in and found a small crowd gathered around someone sprawled on the floor. I jumped up on a chair to get a better look, and what I saw chilled me to the bone. A woman, around thirty or so, lay on the floor, her eyes closed, her lips blue. Her face was swollen, like she was part-balloon, and her skin was all blotchy. Baxter Clark, facing my direction, was on his knees, hovering over her, his fist raised with an object I didn’t recognize in his grasp. He brought it down onto her thigh in a swift stabbing motion.

  I startled, as if Baxter had stabbed me instead. “What happened?” I whispered loudly to the closest person to me, a middle-aged man in a Disney World T-shirt.

  “We think it was an allergic reaction. Heather is severely allergic to peanuts. The cookies served for dessert may have had peanut butter in them.”

  On the table to my left was a plate with two cookies—one with a bite taken out of it. I broke the whole one in half and sniffed, then took a small bite. There is absolutely peanut butter in here. I clenched my jaw. Clients were asked to list any dietary restrictions on their reservation form. I’d seen it a bunch of times this summer. And I also knew that Deb, as manager, was supposed to deliver that information directly to the kitchen staff so they could make arrangements for that guest’s food.

  My cheeks warmed with shame. I knew Deb’s haphazard organizational skills. I could’ve taken that list to the kitchen if I’d realized Deb hadn’t done it. I should’ve assumed, given all the other evidence against her. Was this my fault? My breath caught in my throat. My fault.