Returning Home Mollie Bowman

Lydia Johnson was not quite sure how she ended up at the one hundred and sixty-fourth annual Woodcrest Farmer’s Market, but she knew that she was ready to leave. She was standing at the entrance, directly under a yellow banner with cartoon flowers and red text that read, “Woodcrest Farmer’s Market: Welcome Back Home!” In front of her, two rows of stands, tents, and tables were facing each other, stretching out for miles along a wide dirt path. Both rows seemed to be drawn to each other, like they were trying to overcome whatever force was keeping them apart. As her eyes looked farther out, the rows slowly shrunk down, getting closer and closer until they were finally able to conquer the distance between them, spilling into each other on the horizon. The sun was beating down, causing her to sweat for the first time in years. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck and she slowly peeled her damp, too-tight shirt from her skin. The seams dug into her armpits, the collar constrained her neck, and the hem exposed too much of her stomach for her liking. She figured that she would just have to deal with it. Lydia looked out at the path swarming with people who had emerged from a dirt cloud. She was almost able to recognize each and every one of them, or perhaps she had seen them before in a dream. Their faces blurred and smeared into one another, melting in the blistering heat, like ice cream dripping down a cone into a small child’s sticky hand. They didn’t seem to be concerned with the fact that their faces were slowly dripping down their necks; they each just went about their day, moving through the Farmers’ Market. Not one of them stopped to say anything to her, but they each saw her; their eyes were clear, their eyes were there, and they were looking at her. Did they know her? Why wouldn’t they speak to her? Maybe they could help her figure out how she got here so she could find her way back home. Home –– where was home? She couldn’t seem to remember. How did she even get here? Was there a car? That’s right, she drove here, didn’t she? But where did she park? She turned around to see if there was a parking lot behind her, kicking up a cloud of dirt at her feet, and held in a gasp as she discovered that the never-ending rows only continued further out towards the horizon behind her. Wasn’t she at the entrance though? She tilted her head up towards the sky, momentarily blinded by the glaring sun. She squinted her eyes, hoping to find the welcome banner hanging above her, but it was gone. As she was staring up, one of the melted-faced men stumbled into her. She jolted her head back down and stared into his frozen eyes. She shivered. His eyelids had melted off, exposing his eyeballs in their entirety; the white was too white, his irises too blue, his pupils too dark. “Excuse me,” she said, pulling down on her shirt. Her sweat oozed out of the fabric, slipping between her fingers. “Do you know where the parking lot is? I think I’m lost.” He said nothing and stood still, staring at her. His face was dripping further and further down his neck, but his eyes wouldn’t move. Lydia let out a breathy laugh and felt her shirt sticking to her, getting tighter and tighter. She kept pulling at it, but it wouldn’t give. “Oh, I’m sorry to bother you, I just… I’m sorry,” she said, forcing a smile. As she started to walk away from him, he stood as still as a statue, but his icy eyes strained themselves to ensure that they followed her every step. Oh God, she knew those eyes, but from where? Step after step, they followed her, like there was a string connecting his pupils to her own. He couldn’t look away, but neither could she. Once she had completely walked out of his eyesight, he began to move again. She let out a shaky breath and turned her head back towards the path in front of her. With sweat dripping down her forehead, Lydia walked further down the dirt path, passing by more stands, tents, tables, and melted faces. “Hey, girl! I got whatcha need!” a voice called out. Lydia looked around, unsure if that voice was speaking to her. “Yeah, you! You there!” Her eyes landed on a man whose face had not started melting yet. He was sitting to her left, behind a folding table covered in stacks of vintage suitcases, frantically waving her over to his stand. With a sigh of relief she began to walk over to him, dodging the bustling melted-faced people who all stared at her, yet made no effort to move out of her way. As she got clos-

er, she realized that this man was wearing a heavy knit sweater, but was somehow not affected by the heat; there wasn’t a drop of sweat on his chiseled face. He stood up once she finally arrived at his stand, revealing that the sweater was the length of a ballgown, extending all the way down to his feet. “Aren’t you feelin’ a bit warm?” Lydia asked, while wiping the sweat off her own forehead with the back of her hand. “No,” the man said, flashing her a perfect smile. “I’m feeling just fine, Lydia.” “Oh, well, that’s good. The heat’s really getting to me,” she forced out a chuckle in an attempt to sound polite. Once again, she tried to pull her shirt down and cover her slightly exposed midriff. “I actually can’t seem to remember where I parked my car. Do you––wait, how’d you know my na––” “Now, I’ve got something I want to show you,” he said, cutting her off. He started to push the stacks of suitcases off of his table and onto the ground in front of Lydia. She winced as the corner of a coral blue suitcase slammed on her foot and stumbled into the crowd of melted faces swarming behind her.

“No, no, no, come back here,” the dry man in the sweater said, his hands once again waving her back over. The ground by his table was now covered in different suitcases, but he had left one on his table. It was boxy and looked like it was at least fifty years old; the leather exterior was scratched and worn, covered in faded stickers that had once told all who saw it where in the world it had been. There was a combination lock placed above the handle that kept it shut tight. It pulled her in. She wanted to touch it, to see it, to decipher its history. Whose was it? Why did they leave it behind? Was there something in it? As she took her first step back towards his table, the melted-faced people around her suddenly stopped moving. Lydia froze as they all turned their heads toward her, their cold eyes bulging out in the deafening silence. Those standing between her and the sticker-covered suitcase slowly parted like the Red Sea, forming a walkway. With a hesitant step, she resumed her trek back to the man’s table, the eyes of each person following her as she walked through the path they created. Once she arrived in front of the table, they all began to move again, swarming like bees, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. “Listen, I just wanna know where the parking lot is,” she said, though her eyes were glued to the suitcase on the table. The man in the sweater chuckled and pushed the suitcase towards her. “I knew you’d like it. Go on, you can touch it.” She tried to suppress a smile as she reached her hand out and ran it across the top of the suitcase. Her fingers bumped along the hoarse surface and elevated slightly as they encountered the smooth, faded stickers. The stickers were worn beyond any recognition, but she lingered her hand on each one, trying to feel what they had once displayed. She closed her eyes as she rubbed the oblong sticker placed in the right corner of the suitcase. She felt a breeze against her face; it smelled of freshly cut grass and springtime. The buzzing sounds faded out. The sun beating down on her was no longer unpleasant, but offered a comforting warmth. The sweat on her body was dissipating and her shirt began to loosen up. She took a deep breath, feeling at peace for the first time since she found herself at the Woodcrest Market.

“Okay, okay, do you want it or not?” the man asked. The breeze was gone, her shirt started to tighten, and she once again started to sweat. She looked up at him, noticing that beads of sweat were beginning to form on his forehead. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her hand still resting on the case. “I just––I really need to find my

car.”

“Come on, it’s one-of-a-kind,” he said, pressing his hands onto the table and leaning over it. The buzzing noise was back. His sweat began to drip off his face and form a puddle on the plastic surface. She grasped the handle of the suitcase and pulled it closer to her. “Okay, sure. How much?”

“What’d ya got?” Lydia instinctively reached for her purse at her side, but encountered only air. Oh God, it wasn’t there, she hadn’t had it this whole time. How did she not realize? Her wallet, her phone, her keys were in there. Frantically, she began to pat her pockets, hoping to discover that she had placed the contents of her purse in them. Nothing. She felt nothing. Her pockets were empty. “I–I don’t have my wallet,” she said, with quick, shallow breaths. “I don’t have anything.” She clenched her fists by her sides, digging her nails into her palms. She couldn’t cry, not now. The collar of her shirt was so tight, it felt like it was going to choke her. “Hey, that’s okay, I can take something else.” His face was starting to droop. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t have anything to give you.” Her eyes stung and her nails dug down deeper and deeper into her palm. “Yes you do,” he said, moving his hand up to his face to hold his putty-like cheek in place. Then, he reached his other hand out towards her, causing her to jerk her head back. “Do you really want the case?” he asked, his hand lingering in the still air between them. She stared into his eyes and felt that same coldness she saw in the melted-faced man’s icy blue eyes. Her palms were bleeding now. He still had one hand holding up his cheek as he reached out for her again; she didn’t move this time. She studied his hand as it got closer to her face. She knew the shape of his fingers, the patterns in his palm, the freckle on his wrist. This hand had nurtured her, fed her, loved her––it was her father’s hand, or perhaps her mother’s, but this man was not either of them, he couldn’t be. His fingers touched down on her slippery cheek and began to dig, breaking through her skin. She let out a pathetic whimper, but held her ground. Tears were evaporating off her face as he struggled to disconnect her cheek. She saw white and felt a chill run down her spine. With a flash of red, he pulled back, her cheek now in his hand. He held it up, his hand and the sleeve of his sweater now bloodied. She felt bile creeping up her throat. Buzzing filled her ears. He ripped off his own melting cheek with the hand that was keeping it in place and replaced it with her own, with such ease that made it seem like he had done this before. “The suitcase is yours.” She could feel the blood pumping through her entire body; through her arms, her legs, out of her face, out of her trembling hands. She grabbed the handle of the suitcase and slowly pulled it off the table, her eyes never leaving those of the man wearing her cheek. As her arm bore the weight of the suitcase, she realized that it was heavier than she imagined it would be. He smiled at her; there was no longer any sweat on his body and his face was perfectly solid. “Thank you, Lydia. I’m afraid I don’t know the code for the lock, you’ll have to figure that one out on your own.” The man in the floor-length sweater sat back down in his chair and flicked his red hand towards her, as if he were swatting away a bug. “Move along.” With one trembling hand pressed against her bleeding face and the other holding onto the suitcase at her side, she stumbled back into the swarm of melted faces overpowering the path behind her. Unsure of what to do with herself, she began to walk back down the path, hoping to find her way out. The swelling eyes no longer looked at her. Why wouldn’t they look at her? Didn’t they recognize her? She knew them, she had to know them. They were all walking in the opposite direction, eyes down, dripping, buzzing, but stayed at least one foot away from her, like there was now some barrier surrounding her that none of them could cross. She moved through them, her face dripping with a concoction of tears, sweat, and blood, her suitcase weighing heavier and heavier with each step she took. The case was too heavy, her shirt was too tight, the sun was too hot. Her arm was stretched and pulled closer to the ground, until finally the suitcase slammed into the dirt. She turned to look at it, her hand still pressed against her cheek, the melted faces still buzzing around her. It was all she had.

“Two for the price of one! That’s right, I’ll give you two for the price of one,” a voice yelled out. Lydia did not look around to see said this, but kept her eyes on the case. She squatted down and grabbed the handle of the suitcase with both of her hands, exposing her bloodied chunk of a cheek to the world. She began to walk backwards, slowly dragging the case through the dirt with all her might. Her entire body ached. The buzzing was getting louder. “I got every book you ever read, come on over and pick one out.” She kept moving, eyes on the case and its faded stickers. She remembered the pleasant breeze and the smell of springtime. “If you want a ring, head on over this way. I have the gold one your mother always wore. Don’t you want it?” Everything and everyone was blurring around her, but her worn case was clear. She was gripping onto the handle tighter than she had ever held anything in her life, her feet digging into the ground as she tried to pull it down the path. All around her there was buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. “Hey, you over here. Doesn’t everyone wanna feel loved? I can make sure you do for just a small

price.”

Her shirt had merged with her sweaty skin; it was never coming off now. “Do you need to sit down? I have just the chair for you! Carved it myself.” The harder she pulled, the heavier the suitcase got. It was too heavy now, stuck in place. The buzzing, the yelling, the people, the swarming, the pain––she couldn’t take it anymore. It had to stop. She slammed her eyes shut, and finally everything was quiet. She stood there with her eyes shut for hours or a minute, grasping her suitcase, afraid to open them and be forced back into that hectic world. She didn’t want to see the melted faces, she just wanted to go back home. “Lydia,” said a voice that filled her veins with sunlight. “Lydia, it’s okay. You can open your eyes.” Slowly, she opened her eyes. The stands and tables were still there, but everyone was gone. Everyone but the kind-looking old woman standing in front of her, wearing a pink sundress. “I think it’s time you went home,” said the woman, with a sad smile on her face. Lydia let out a gasp of relief. “You know where my purse is? Or my car?” she asked, finally letting go of the suitcase and standing up straight. “Can you help me carry this?” She motioned to the case between them. “Oh no, no. I don’t know where your car is.” “Well––how am I… I have to get home. Please, just help me.” “I’ll help you,” she said. “Open that up.” “The suitcase?” The old woman nodded. “There’s a lock, it needs a code. I don’t know it.” “Yes you do.” “What?” “Of course you know it. Just open it. Go home.” Lydia dropped to her knees and reached out for the suitcase laying flat on the ground. She gripped the sides and pulled herself towards it, her knees scraping in the dirt. The combination lock was placed right above the handle. There were three number dials, all set at zero. She took her still-bloodied hand and moved the first dial to the number one, the second to six, and the third to four. Something in the case clicked. Lydia laughed and smiled wide, moving her hands to the latches keeping the suitcase shut. She popped them open and pushed the top of the case up, revealing what was inside. Her smile fell. The suitcase was filled with dirt. The soil was flowing out of it, into the Earth. Lydia looked up to face the old woman, but she was gone. On the ground where she had stood was her pink sundress, covered in melted flesh. Lydia’s heart was pounding. Her breaths were short, shallow. Was she going to melt too? She shoved her hands into the suitcase’s soil and began to dig. She

couldn’t melt, not her. She dug and dug and dug and dug, feeling the dirt lodge under her nails and seep into her bloodstream. It was past her shoulders now. She kept digging, further down into the darkness. Her head was covered; the soil filled in her missing cheek. She dug past her torso, her legs. She dug until she was completely burrowed inside the soil of her suitcase. She was safe here. The gentle breeze was on her face, the scent of springtime in the air. The darkness of the soil surrounded her, held her; was this home? It could be for now.

30

peachy golden sun oozing across south carolina cotton fields; miles and miles of glowing puff balls dotting along our path.

trees dripping the evening’s paint gracefully, from branch down to branch.

above them,

the moon waits its turn to glimmer in the sun’s gaze; it’s stoic posture urging patience.

peach soon turns to rose— the paint peels up.

before i mourn the loss of gold, a silver giant steals my affections.

i am grateful for all of it.