Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ✔︎

40 | Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

|photo by Maximilien T. Scharner from Unsplash|

For the first time, the sight of Manhattan from twenty thousand feet makes me cry. My tears come with shuddery intakes of breath that I release with these oh-so-embarrassing hiccupping sobs that compel the grandmotherly woman sitting next to me dig frantically through her purse until she's able to produce one crumpled tissue.

I guess deep down I thought Conner would come for me. That maybe he'd convince Chase to give him my flight information and then just show up and say something to make me change my mind.

When we land in Virginia I turn on my phone. Conner's not a fan of aviation. He would want to know I arrived safely. That's my justification for breaking my own rule.

I type: Touchdown.

His reply is nearly instantaneous: Whew!

I write: The Wicked Witch is dead.

I hope you mean that figuratively.

Yes. Auntie Em and I parted on good terms. How are you?

Severe chest pain. Difficulty breathing. Total lack of motivation. You?

I smile through a new batch of tears and type: Same.

Are you repealing the no-cell-contact decree?

No. I think we've already said everything—except goodbye.

I can't say that.

I understand but I have to. Goodbye, Scarecrow.

My phone buzzes again. Conner has sent me the sweetest picture: an off-centered close up of us kissing that makes my heart ache. I send him a gif of that iconic scene from the Wizard Of Oz where Dorothy kisses her Scarecrow's cheek.

"I'll miss you most of all," I whisper and the sobbing starts again.

The woman beside me pats my shoulder.

* * *

Helen doesn't come to the airport with Dad, and when we get home, I can tell they've been arguing. I write a text message in my head: Dear Scarecrow, I was wrong about the Wicked Witch. She's alive and well, living in my house. Kansas=Hell.

The bad witch follows me to my bedroom, hesitates in my doorway. She wants to talk. I want to sleep and dream myself back to Oz.

The decision is announced with a sigh. Helen crosses the threshold, unzips my suitcase and unloads my things, making orderly stacks across the end of my bed. I don't interfere until she uncovers the black and white shoebox. This I take from her hands and hold against my chest.

Helen sighs again. "Emily said you couldn't stop crying long enough to go out for dinner last night."

The announcement brings another round of tears. I think of what Chase said about dehydration and dig through my carry-on bag for the bottle of water I bought at the airport.

"She said you act like your heart is broken." Her tone is too soft, too maternal. "Is she right?"

I don't want to need Helen right now. But her evil motherly magic is strong and I don't have the energy to fight her off. I lay the shoebox on my desk, go back into the bag and pull out the framed photograph. Without looking at it, I hand it to her.

Now is definitely not the time to admit that she was right about me and Glenn. And I'll probably never share the details of the "something more" I found with Conner. So I simply say, "You were right about Chase's friend."