Katie McGarry - Nowhere But Here

Emily

I’LL ADMIT IT. I’m freaked.

Freaked that the flight from Florida to Kentucky was nothing more than a turbulence-ridden nightmare. Freaked that the man beside me on the plane puked three times. Freaked that June in Kentucky means severe storms. Freaked because I’m sweating through my favorite black dress and it’s dry-clean only. Freaked because I’ve been in this poor excuse for a cab for over an hour, with no air-conditioning and a driver who refuses to speak. Or maybe he’s mute.

Or maybe he murdered the real cab driver, picked me and my parents up at the airport and is taking us to our final destination before he chops us into Kibbles ’n Bits. Maybe...but probably not. We entered the small town of Snowflake a few minutes ago and if this guy was a mass murderer bent on a little fun, he’d find somewhere more original than here.

“Did you say Richard’s Funeral Home?” the cab driver asks. Wow, the man talked.

“Yes,” Dad answers. We flew into Louisville in order to be relatively close to Snowflake. The rental-car company botched our reservation and paid for the taxi.

The cab driver eases into the left turn lane and stops at the red light. Blood pounds at my temples in the rhythm of the car’s blinker when I spot the funeral home. It’s no different than the ones at home in Florida, except this one is surrounded by oak trees instead of palms and is one stiff breeze away from being condemned.

“You’ll be okay.” Dad squeezes my hand and I wrap my fingers around his before he can withdraw. “Keep breathing and try not to overanalyze it.”

Easy for him to say. “Did you get a hold of Eli?”

“No, I’m still going straight to voicemail.” Dad probably has to force the patience into his voice. It’s the fiftieth time I’ve asked since we disembarked the plane. Eli must have powered off his phone. Dad attempted to contact him, but I don’t blame Eli for not answering. I’d be devastated if my mom died.

Dad offers me a reassuring smile. “Eli will be thrilled to see you.”

I release a sigh... Sure he will. “What do I say when he asks about Mom?”

Dad’s smile fades and he lets go of my hand to readjust the watch on his wrist. “Tell them that your mother is sorry for their loss, but that she isn’t feeling well. She’ll try to attend later if she’s feeling better.”

Mom morphed into an unnatural shade of blue when she spiraled into a panic attack the moment we left the airport. Dad decided, since the viewing ends at eight this evening, that he and I would pay our respects first. Then if, after a rest, Mom was able to walk and breathe at the same time, he would go with her again.

Mom protested, but Dad, with his smooth doctor way, won. So she’s holed up at the sole motel in this dump of a town and I’m heading to a funeral home. I tried to throw myself into a panic attack in order to get out of this hellish event, but evidently holding my breath on purpose doesn’t count.

The light changes, the driver makes the turn, and I press a hand to my stomach. Oh, God. Dad has way too much faith in me.

The cab driver pulls into the funeral home, but is stuck behind two cars. Neither car shows signs of moving as they chat to the people on the sidewalk. The driver taps his fingers on the steering wheel in a ticked-off thump. I totally understand the feeling.

“My daughter and I will get out here,” Dad announces.

The cab driver assesses a group of men standing in a semi-circle outside the entrance. “You sure?”

“It’s not a long walk,” Dad answers.

I open the door and the driver freaks. “Are you sure this is where you want to be?”

No. Dad maintains his superhero calm. “Yes.”

“Snowflake’s not exactly Disney World.” The driver waves his hand toward the men. If Dad won’t listen to me, maybe he’ll listen to our now talking driver.

I lean so I have a better look at the men standing around. They all have Eli’s style: redneck with a hint of grunge. Sort of like if Linkin Park fashioned their own clothing line inspired by L.L.Bean: jeans and T-shirts covered by flannel shirts. Some wear blue University of Kentucky baseball hats—just like Eli. A couple even have his...well, my dark brown hair.

What probably messes with the driver is that almost every man here sports over their T-shirts or flannels a black leather biker vest with the words Reign of Terror in white lettering. On the back of each vest is a large white half skull with red flames raining down. Fire blazes out of the eye sockets. I bet the guys who designed the emblem pat themselves on the back for the play on words.

“This is not a place for a young girl,” the driver exclaims.

He’s off on the young part. I just turned seventeen. And despite my previous hopes, Dad doesn’t share the cab driver’s, or my, assessment of the situation. “We’ll be fine. Right, Em?”

The driver rotates in his seat, reminding me of a possessed person in one of those horror movies. “Those are bikers.”

In his dark suit, deep blue tie and clean-cut blond hair, my father could be a model on the cover of a business magazine. He screams competence and authority and all that’s good in the world. So the next words cause the driver’s mouth to slacken. “My daughter is a relative.”

While the driver continues to gape in disbelief, I inwardly cringe. I’m related to them . More specifically, I’m most likely related to the men with the patch on the front of their vests stating Mother Chapter . Which, according to Eli, means the founding chapter of their club.

I’m a relative by blood and blood alone. We are not family in the ways that really matter. I may share genetic code with the people inside the building, but that’s where our relationship ends.

Dad and I climb out and the cab backs up, leaving us alone. Well, sort of alone. The side entrance of the funeral home opens and a woman with dark hair hurries out with a toddler on her hip. The baby’s hacking the type of deep coughs that cause chills to run down my spine.

Without missing a beat, Dad starts toward them and I follow. The woman sets the blonde girl with pigtails on the ground and the little thing is a combination of red face, tears and coughs. The woman rummages through her oversized purse, tossing receipts and pens and other crap onto the ground.

“Excuse me,” broaches Dad. “Can I help? I’m a pediatrician.”

The woman’s head jerks up and her eyes have a wild spark. “I can’t find my phone. I need my phone. I can’t get her to take the medicine. I can’t get her to take this.”

She shoves an inhaler into my father’s hand and he reads the prescription. “Asthma?”

The woman nods profusely. “Yes. We have that machine at home with the mask and that works, but this was for emergencies, and she won’t use it.”

Dad gestures to the child, who is now hacking out more air than she’s taking in. “May I?”

“Yes. Please. Help us.”

Dad kneels next to the toddler. With a few calm words and an expression that makes every toddler relax, he has the inhaler in the child’s mouth. It’s not working exactly like it should. I mean, the child is young and doesn’t suck in as much as she needs, but with Dad’s help, she’s inhaling some of the medicine and, more important, she’s no longer crying, but breathing.

The woman strokes the child’s hair as Dad continues to talk to both of them in his calm voice. He peers over his shoulder at me and my chest tightens. “Emily, I want to stay with them. Why don’t you go in, find Eli and pay your respects, and I’ll be in shortly to pay mine.”

I fidget with the purse in my hand, clasping and unclasping the magnetic strip that keeps it closed. Um...no? “I can wait.”