Chapter 8 - Tulsa and the Dust of the Past
In July, the heat became heavy and wet, sticking to our skin the moment we stepped out the door. Emily had a week of vacation from the hospital, her first long break in over two years.
“I want to go to Tulsa,” she said one night as we lay on top of the sheets with the fan blowing on us.
I looked at her in the dark. “Tulsa? To see where you grew up?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice quiet. “I haven’t been back since my mother died five years ago. I didn’t have the money for a proper funeral, Daniel. I just had her cremated and had the ashes sent to her sister in Arkansas. I never really... stood in the place where I survived, now that I’m actually safe.”
We left two days later, driving southwest through Illinois and Missouri into Oklahoma. The landscape flattened out, the lush green hills of our home giving way to wide, yellow fields of wheat and red clay earth that baked under a pale blue sky.
Tulsa was older and dustier than I expected, a city of brick buildings, oil derricks, and wide, empty streets that shimmered in the midday heat. We checked into a small motel on the edge of town—not out of necessity this time, but because Emily wanted to stay near the old neighborhood.
On our second day, we drove to the trailer park where Emily had spent her childhood.
It was located off a two-lane highway, behind a rusting chain-link fence and a sign with missing letters that read: PINE RIDGE MOBILE HOME COMMUNITY. The gravel road was full of deep potholes that made the car bounce. On either side, older double-wide trailers sat on concrete blocks, some with small patches of brown grass, others with rusted cars and plastic chairs on their small porches.
Emily pointed to a spot near the back, under a large, dying oak tree.
“That’s it,” she said.
The trailer was gone, replaced by an empty concrete pad covered in weeds and broken glass. But the tree was the same, its lower branches scarred where a swing had once hung.
We got out of the car. The heat was immense, smelling of dry dust and hot asphalt. Lily stayed close to my side, holding my hand tightly, her eyes wide as she looked around.
Emily walked to the edge of the concrete pad. She stood there for a long time, her hands tucked into her back pockets, her eyes scanning the empty space.
“My stepfather used to sit right there,” she said, pointing to a corner of the pad where a rusted metal pipe stuck out of the ground. “He’d have a blue cooler between his knees, and he’d watch the highway. If he was drinking beer, we knew we had about two hours before we had to find a reason to be somewhere else. If he was drinking whiskey, we didn’t come home at all.”
She looked down at her feet. “I used to hide my books under that oak tree. I had this plastic storage box I found in the trash. I’d put my library books in there so they wouldn’t get torn up if he had a bad night.”
I walked over and stood beside her, my shoulder brushing hers. “How does it feel to be back?”
“It feels small,” she said, a faint smile touching her lips. “When I was ten, this place felt like the whole world. It felt like this giant, inescapable cage. But now... it’s just some old concrete and some weeds. It’s not a cage anymore.”
She turned to Lily, who was watching her with serious eyes. “Lily, come here.”
Lily walked over, her small shoes crunching on the gravel.
Emily knelt down and took Lily’s hands. “This is where Mommy lived when she was your age. We didn’t have a lot of toys, and sometimes we didn’t have electricity. But look at Mommy now. I have a job where I help people. I have a beautiful house. And I have you and Daddy.”
Lily looked at the concrete pad, then at Emily’s face. “Did you have a red dress like mine?”
“No,” Emily said, her voice softening. “I didn't. But I’m so glad you do.”
“I can share mine with you,” Lily said simply.
Emily let out a wet, half-strangled laugh, pulling Lily into a tight hug. “Thank you, sweetie. But Mommy has everything she needs right now.”
We drove back to the motel in silence. That evening, we sat on the concrete walkway outside our room, eating cherry popsicles while the sky turned a deep, bruised purple.
“Thank you for coming with me,” Emily said, leaning her head against my shoulder. “I think... I think I needed to see that the trailer park wasn’t inside me anymore. Margaret and Vanessa always spoke about where I came from like it was a disease I was carrying. Like if they looked too closely, they’d see the dirt on me.”
“You are the cleanest, strongest person I’ve ever known,” I said, squeezing her hand. “And where you came from didn’t make you dirty. It just made you brave.”
She smiled, her eyes reflecting the neon sign of the motel. “I am brave, aren’t I?”
May you like
“The bravest,” I said.
For the rest of the trip, Emily seemed lighter. She laughed more easily, her shoulders dropping their usual defensive posture. We drove home through a summer storm, the wipers sweeping away the Oklahoma red dust from the windshield, leaving the glass perfectly clear.
