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That guilt that settled on me in that motel room in Birmingham becomes heavier. Did Merry Carole want to go with me all those years ago? No. She loves North Star. Why don’t I? With my single-minded kitchen life in all those cities, I didn’t have time to ask these inconvenient questions. Finally. Something positive that came out of all those years. Merry Carole speaks quickly. “I don’t mean to make you feel bad. I just . . .”
    â€œNo, you’re right.”
    â€œI’m glad you’re back.”
    â€œMe, too.”
    We are quiet.
    â€œBut you’re thinking about the next city already, right?” Merry Carole asks, her voice clear, her eyes focused.
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œIs North Star that bad?”
    â€œFor me? Yes.”
    â€œThat’s just ridiculous.”
    â€œAre you trying to tell me they’ve gotten better?” I say, motioning to the world just outside Merry Carole’s sanctuary of a home.
    â€œAre you trying to tell me that whatever life you had in New York or Los Angeles or whatever that place was with all the turquoise—”
    â€œTaos.”
    â€œTaos? Are you saying that Taos is worth what it took out of you?” Merry Carole motions at me and the shadow I’ve become.
    â€œSo you admit that they’re still just as shitty.”
    â€œSo you admit that all those cities were just shitty.”
    We are quiet.
    â€œCal’s just like you. All he wants to do is leave,” Merry Carole says, not looking at me.
    â€œI know.”
    We fall silent again.
    â€œIf you’re looking for something to do, you can go visit Mom,” Merry Carole says.
    â€œPlease don’t tell me you’ve been going there.”
    Merry Carole says nothing.
    â€œI don’t know what you think you’re going to find. It’s not like she can apologize or make amends,” I say, sipping my coffee.
    â€œIt’s called forgiveness, Queen Elizabeth. It’s the Christian thing to do.”
    â€œWell, seeing as how she’s dead and buried, I imagine it makes it a lot easier to forgive her.” The last time I was in North Star I was feeling particularly dramatic and drove over to the cemetery that’s just off the church in the center of town. I got out of my car and immediately crumpled into tears—the kind of tears that feel so vast it’s alarming and mystifying at the same time. Then, just as quickly, I swept all those emotions aside and decided never to return. I do that a lot.
    â€œDon’t talk like that.”
    â€œYou don’t talk like that.”
    â€œMe? Me don’t talk like that?”
    â€œDon’t you dare try and make a hero out of that woman. I swear to God,” I say, leaning on the dining room table.
    â€œI’m not making a hero out of her, for heaven’s sake. I’m just saying that while you’re back in town for the twenty minutes you plan on staying, you might want to drive by the cemetery and place a nice bouquet on her grave.”
    A moment passes.
    â€œYou ever think about her?” I ask.
    The room goes cold. Merry Carole circles the rim of her coffee mug with her manicured fingers. Her face is twitching with all the energy it’s taking to remain neutral.
    â€œSometimes,” Merry Carole says, finally looking up to meet my gaze.
    â€œI check on her, you know,” I say.
    â€œYou what?”
    â€œYou can check on the prison Web site, you know . . . how she’s doing, if she won all those appeals.”
    â€œShe murdered two people in cold blood and got the death penalty—those appeals are offensive.”
    â€œShe murdered her own husband and the woman he was cheating on her with in her very own bed. A woman who was her very best friend right up until she cocked that shotgun,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. My hands are shaking.
    â€œYvonne Chapman is a monster and that’s all I’m