No Place Like Here

by Christina June

  “Thank goodness Heather carries an EpiPen with her at all times.” The Disney man shook his head. “I guess when you’re that allergic, you’re never really safe.”

  A girl on my floor last year was allergic to shellfish. It wasn’t a big deal, at least not at school; it’s not like Blue Valley was serving us lobster and crab every night. She told us it was easy for her to just avoid eating it. But peanuts were everywhere. I felt horrible for this woman, Heather, who thought she was coming here to have a good time with her coworkers, learn a little about herself, and go back to the office feeling rejuvenated. Now, she was in serious trouble.

  “Can someone call 911, please?” Baxter yelled.

  “I will,” I called automatically. I told myself I was contributing, being helpful, as I raced back to Deb’s office and dialed.

  “911, what’s your emergency?” I’d never called 911 before. At the dispatcher’s calm tone, as if she was asking me what time I wanted for my dinner reservation, was jarring.

  I willed my voice to stay steady, though my free hand shook with all the nervous energy inside of me. “Hi, I’m at Sweetwater Overlook and we have a woman with a peanut allergy who just ate peanut butter.”

  The woman on the phone asked me a few questions about Heather’s symptoms, which I answered as best I could. As I was giving her the address and directions to the cafeteria from the front gate, Baxter came in.

  “Tell them she had one adult dose of epinephrine and she’s sitting up and talking now. When they get here, give them this.” He handed me the EpiPen, which had the time he gave it to Heather written on it in black marker.

  “Okay,” I mouthed, and repeated his instructions to the dispatcher.

  “We’ll have someone out there shortly,” she affirmed, and we hung up. I didn’t know how long shortly meant, but I closed my eyes and hoped it was short enough to help our guest.

  Opening my eyes, I took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, and looked at Baxter. “That was terrifying.” My voice cracked. At least I’d been able to hold it together on the phone call.

  He nodded his blond head. “Yeah.” He was so calm and unruffled, as if he hadn’t just saved someone’s life.

  “How did you know what to do?”

  He shrugged. “My mom is allergic to peanuts too. I’ve used an EpiPen on her more times than I can count.” As he talked, I realized I knew nothing about him. And I wanted to know more. He was so quiet, yet his actions said so much. “Plus, the state requires all employees here to be trained in how to deal with anaphylactic shock.” He looked at me, puzzled. “Didn’t you complete the training?”

  My mouth dropped open. “No one told me.”

  Baxter grimaced. “Figures. The same person who didn’t train you also didn’t tell the kitchen about the woman’s allergy.”

  Baxter may have assumed this was all on our boss, but I still felt guilty. Maybe I could’ve prevented this.

  “Hannah says there’s a lot of stuff Deb does that Joan never would’ve let happen.” I thought about the boat repairs I almost had to call in myself.

  “Hannah is right. I don’t think Deb’s a bad person, but things aren’t the same.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet Joan. She sounds like a great leader.”

  Baxter smiled a little half-smile. “Yeah.”

  “Well. You were great in there. You saved her life.”

  He blushed, and I couldn’t stop myself from thinking it was adorable. “Thanks.”

  After the ambulance had come and gone, my guilt subsided a tiny bit. With Heather safely transported to the nearest hospital, I made my way back to what I’d been doing before the commotion—hanging flyers. When I approached the pool, Mallory spied me from her tall lifeguard chair. She waved at me and I reluctantly waved back. She looked so much more official than me, perched way up there in her blue racerback swimsuit. I continued on, taping a flyer on each of the locker room doors so clients would be sure to see it as they walked in.

  As I lifted a flyer to the women’s room door, an arm caught my waist and spun me around. My flyer—and all the other ones pinned under my arm—fluttered to the ground.

  “What—” I began to protest, and then I felt Marcus’ lips on mine. My shock and annoyance were overwhelmed by how good it felt to kiss him. Kissing Marcus was like a tiny little vacation. I didn’t think about my dad or my mom, I didn’t think about Deb or Sweetwater. I didn’t think about school or my uncertain future. It was just him, our hips touching, his lips on mine, and me, lost in the moment. I melted against him as his hands caressed my back, sending shivers up and down my spine. I ran my fingers through his hair and pulled him closer, eager for more of him. More of this.

  When we broke apart, I was breathless. “What was that for?”

  Marcus smirked mischievously. “You were there.” He planted a quick peck on my cheek. “Gotta get back to work before the boss sees me slacking. Mallory’s a firecracker.” Marcus ducked into the men’s locker room and disappeared.

  I bristled. Was a firecracker a good thing or a bad thing? Does he like her too? But he’s kissing me, so why should I care?

  I bent to pick up my fallen flyers and let out a little strangled cry. They were soaked, lying in a puddle of stray pool water tracked out of the locker room.

  “One step forward, two steps back,” I muttered to myself, and scraped the soggy flyers off the ground.

  Chapter 17

  In an effort to do damage control, Deb comped Heather’s room for her entire stay and offered the rest of her company a twenty percent discount on their entire package. If you asked me, which no one did, it was hush money. I was glad she was taking ownership and hadn’t accused me of any wrongdoing, but I still felt bad about the whole thing. Not bad enough to not take advantage of Deb’s “generous” mood, though. I made a point to check that she was okay with my offering a new service for the retreaters. She’d glanced briefly at the flyer, said, “Sure, why not?” and even said to let her know if I needed the credit card again to make it happen. Stunned at how easy it had been, I just nodded and thanked her.

  After Heather returned from the hospital—totally fine, thank goodness—I went back through Deb’s registration binder. There, in black and white, were the words “severe peanut allergy—cannot ingest” next to Heather’s name. If anyone else saw this, Deb could be in serious trouble. The fired kind of trouble. Maybe even the lawsuit kind of trouble.

  As if on cue, the next day, a registered letter, sent overnight, arrived for Ms. Deborah Gress. I signed for it and peered at the sender. It was from Heather’s employer. The same company Deb had paid off in hopes of burying her mistake. Had they decided to press charges after all? I gulped and took it back to the office, where Deb was seated at her desk, funneling a handful of jellybeans into her mouth.

  “This came for you. I think it’s about the peanut incident.” I held it out and willed my hand not to shake.

  She accepted it wordlessly and set it down atop a particularly precarious pile. I resisted gaping. I didn’t know what was in that envelope, but I’d seen ones just like it arrive at our house for my father. Rarely did they contain good news.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me and then reached for the envelope, ripping it open at a snail’s pace. I clasped my hands behind my back and rocked on my heels as she slid the contents into her hand. Deb skimmed the words on the page and breathed a heavy sigh. She glanced up at me, her stare searing into my forehead.

  “Is it bad?” I whispered, unable to help myself. I held my breath, fearing the lawsuit I thought we’d dodged becoming a reality.

  Deb folded the letter in half and tossed it on the desk. “No. It’s just a summary of actions taken and confirmation of funds exchanged. For our records.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.” I exhaled.

  Deb raised one eyebrow. “Were you worried?”

  I blinked. Was she not? “Of course. She could’ve sued Sweetwater. They
provided her medical information on the registration and it didn’t make it to the kitchen.” I chose my words carefully. I didn’t want to sound as if I was accusing her or accepting blame that wasn’t mine.

  Deb folded her hands calmly in her lap. “Lucky for Sweetwater that they didn’t.” She popped another jellybean in her mouth and chewed slowly, still staring at me. “Are you enjoying your time with us, Ashlyn?”

  Why is she asking me this? “Yes.” Mostly.

  “That’s good.” She pushed her chair out from the desk and kicked both legs up on top of the desk, crossing one ankle over the other. Papers fluttered to the ground. “Because the way I understand it, this job is a gift.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Pardon?”

  She nodded, a faint smile appearing on her face. “Your aunt mentioned some family trouble when she called to see if there was a place here for you—her reason for calling past the application deadline. So of course I googled and found out about your father’s incarceration.” Her smile widened. “I’m positive you aren’t looking to go down that same path, correct?”

  What is she implying? “Correct.”

  “Excellent. So we’re on the same page.” She stared me down again, as if she was trying to fire whatever point she was trying to make directly through my skull. I had no idea what page we were both on, but it certainly felt like Deb was accusing me of something.

  “Same page,” I echoed.

  Deb nodded and rose. “I have class. See you later.” The door slammed shut behind her.

  Though she hadn’t exactly accused me of anything, Deb’s tone and choice of words, just as careful as mine had been, held a definite threat. I couldn’t help but wonder how she would act if Hannah and I brought our other concerns to her. Would she fire us for being insubordinate? Would she find ways to blame her carelessness on us? What if she’d seen me as an easy scapegoat and purposely assigned me to the office with her? It felt like something my dad would do.

  Goosebumps trilled up and down my arms in spite of the stale inside air. I just shook my head. How could we confront her now? I didn’t want to make things worse for myself. On the other hand, if I kept my mouth shut, was I making things worse for everyone else?

  Unable to shake it, I walked over to the kiosk and asked Hannah, “Have you noticed Deb is making a lot of mistakes? Like real ones now?”

  Hannah thought for a second. “Well, there’s the obvious one with the allergy.”

  “Which she just semi-accused me of.”

  “No!”

  “Yep. I think it’s okay, but I need to stay out of her way.”

  “I’m sorry, Ash. Clearly, not your fault.”

  I gave her a sad smile. “Thanks.”

  “So what else?”

  “The boat repairs and lack of lifejackets,” I said.

  “That’s been corrected. Thankfully.”

  “Thanks to me,” I almost shouted.

  Hannah nodded. “True.”

  I propped my elbows up on the window ledge and rested my head in my hands. “I just worry there’s more. That desk is like a black hole. I worry about what else is buried under there. I mean, who knows what more could go wrong . . . has already gone wrong that we don’t know about.”

  Hannah shook her head. “Joan was never like this.”

  “Do you think we should keep track maybe? Like, an actual written list? I feel like Mr. Allen would probably want to know.” I looked to Hannah for agreement. She would know if the owner of Sweetwater needed to get involved. There wasn’t exactly a law against being bad at your job, until that badness actually broke real laws. I couldn’t help but wonder how Deb had gotten this job. She must have been exceptionally good at interviewing. Or somehow had glowing references. And if that was true, what had changed between those jobs and this one?

  Normally so decisive, Hannah seemed stumped. I pulled out my journal to show her I’d already started. “I’ll keep the list. You tell me if you notice anything new. Then, if we need to use it, we can. Sound good?”

  “Sure.”

  Hannah and I went over the items I’d already recorded and added the latest mistakes. I silently hoped the list wouldn’t grow any longer during our time here. But if it did, I hoped even more that I’d be brave enough to speak up. I wanted to believe that I would be, but my track record for letting people know what’s on my mind wasn’t exactly stellar.

  When Uncle Ed picked me up for my second visit to see my dad, there was a plate of brownies wrapped in plastic on the front seat.

  “Greta worked on those for hours for you girls,” he said, pulling out onto the main road. “I know Hannah asked for cookies, but this was a new recipe someone recommended to her, so she went for it. Hope you like chocolate.”

  “Who doesn’t like chocolate?” I said.

  “I knew we were related,” he said with a grin.

  We chatted comfortably while he drove. Greta had reduced her hours at her agency for the summer so they could spend “quality old folks time” together. So far, they’d seen five movies, had three lunches out at new restaurants in town, and were planning a weekend trip to the beach and another to Philadelphia. It sounded nice. I couldn’t help but compare that picture with that of my parents. I imagined when I was out of the house, they probably had most of their interactions at cocktail parties and business dinners. Before I’d left, they’d spent evenings in separate corners—Dad in his office working and Mom reading or watching TV, while I studied in my room. I couldn’t remember the last time they’d gone to a movie together.

  When we got to the prison, Uncle Ed decided to stay in the waiting area on this visit. Said he wanted to let me and my dad have some time alone. I wondered if he didn’t want to see my dad or if he knew my dad had something to say to me. He patted my shoulder and said nothing more as the guard led me into the sterile white room.

  When my dad came in, my breath hitched in my chest. Though he looked a little like my father, he was definitely not the father I had burned into my memory. His hair, normally black and shiny from expensive product, had grayed at the temples, and the lines in his forehead and around his eyes were deeper. He had actual crevices, not wrinkles that could be laughed off from too many years spent golfing in the sun—that hadn’t been there during our first visit. There was silver stubble on his chin and cheeks. His face sagged; his shoulders slumped forward. My dad looked broken down. Gone was his easy confidence, his command of the room, his mask of perceived superiority. I barely recognized him. And this gave me hope. A kernel, a tiny flicker—maybe on the inside, he was tired too. Maybe he was exhausted from holding himself up, from clenching so tightly it hurt, like I was. He’d taught me to present myself to the outside world as if I had everything under control, and here he was, for the first time, looking completely out of control. He looked like I felt all the time.

  “Hello, Ashlyn, how have you been?” Even his voice was depleted, like it took him every ounce of energy to produce sound.

  “I’m fine, Dad. How are you?” He’d always put on such a good face; was this the moment he would finally tell me something true? It was too much to hope for a full-on emotional conversation—no one changed that quickly—but given his physical state, it would be reasonable if he slipped a little bit.

  “I’m hanging in there. I keep mostly to myself and follow the routines.”

  I could read between the lines. He didn’t have any friends or allies in here. He kept his head down and tried to not call attention to himself. I doubted prison was actually the way it appeared on TV, but I knew enough about psychology to know that humans struggle in stressful situations when they don’t have other humans to rely on.

  “Is your roommate nice?” Roommate? Cellmate? Bunkmate?

  Dad nodded. “I share a bunk with a young man from Florida. He works in the kitchen. Sometimes he saves me an extra portion at breakfast.”

  I guess that was the definition of nice around here. “That’s good.” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair
. His regard, harsh or accusatory like usual, was somehow muted. Diminished.

  “Tell me about work.” Dad looked me right in the eye and held my gaze. Was he actually interested in what I had to say?

  I couldn’t remember the last time he changed the topic from himself to me. It was always the other way around. “It’s really good. I’ve started putting together tourism packages for clients who want to get out into the surrounding area.” I tried to curb the growing excitement in my voice. My dad and I didn’t do emotion. “I’ve already given some ideas to one family and I’m really excited to start spreading the word to the clients.”

  Dad’s silver-tinged eyebrows knitted together. “What does Ms. Gress have to say about this?” Did he think it was a bad idea? My shoulders sagged. I knew he wasn’t going to tell me he was proud of me for coming up with something new and useful, but my heart kept hoping. Over and over and over.

  “She was fine with it.” When I finally got to talk to her about it, I didn’t say.

  “Was?” Dad’s tone cut through the stale air like a machete. “Did you get her permission before you did this?” There it was, the old dad, wounded but still dangerous.

  My cheeks flamed. Of course he picked up on that. And assumed the worst. “She gives me autonomy,” I said, backtracking. “And several of the senior staff members thought it was a fantastic idea.” Well, one at least. “It’s fine, Dad.”

  Dad put both hands down on the table and looked down at them. “As long as Ms. Gress has blessed it.”

  Wait, what? This was not the father I knew. Normally, after dictating something, he would try to intimidate me with a stare, but being here was chipping away at him little by little. If he retreated this easily now, it might not be as difficult as I thought to convince him I needed to come home. On the other hand, if he got worn down so much, if his hardened exterior shattered, who would he be then? The devil you know . . .

  “I have a meeting scheduled with her to talk more about it later today,” I lied.