My name is Maria Bosco, and I live outside Etowah, Tennessee. I’m not originally from here, something I only forget when I’m at home staring out the window into the spaces between the trees.
They say you’re not supposed to do that—stare into the woods, I mean. But I’m not sure I believe in the same monsters the folks around here believe in. Even if I did, I might be on the monsters’ side.
In town people can tell I’m not from Etowah. It’s my accent, or my lack of theirs. It’s the clinking jewelry, which is less than what I used to wear. It’s also the olive complexion. I’m white, but Italian by heritage, and that’s dark-featured enough for people to wonder what’s different about me.
“Bosco?” they might say, checking my ID at the liquor store. “Am I saying that right?”
“Yep, like Costco with a B.” That always gets a small laugh. I take my brown bag of tequila, because the wine selections have disappointed me, and leave.
This morning I’m getting a facial, which is something new I’m trying in order to take better care of myself. Some people think of them as a treat, but since moving here I’ve thought of my body, which I guess includes my face, as an object to maintain, something separate from me entirely like a car or a horse. I don’t want to think about enjoying it or I might feel too ashamed to go. It’s just another chore for personal upkeep, like going to the dentist or cooking another bland chicken dinner.
It was Carrie from yoga class who convinced me to do it. Not directly, just a comment on Instagram. In the photo I’m in the garden holding up a tomato with the sun in my face. She called me a “natural beauty.”
I don’t know what Carrie does, if it’s Botox or church or just incredible genes, but she is five years older than me, a mother of three, and a face as sweet and smooth as a candy apple. Naturally her compliment landed in the worst way possible.
I have no skincare routine beyond wash, moisturize and apply SPF if I’m going to be outside and if I remember. So I booked the most expensive service at the first spa listed on Google. Maybe this is a way to blend in a little better, or maybe I’m just avoiding the fact that I don’t belong here at all.
The esthetician Diane takes one look at me and says, “Oh honey, you don’t want a chemical peel.” I see a flash of my grandmother in her, although Diane is much younger. She has the same wide blue eyes, and her accent isn’t so far off either.
“Would you change it in the system?” she asks the receptionist. “We’re going to give her a standard facial.”
She winks at me. Not trying to flatter me, just save me money. She leads me down the hall and to a dim room. “A peel is too much for your first time. We’ll work up to it. Now, you just get comfortable for me. I’ll be right back.”
I’m on my back and there’s a machine shooting steam onto my face.
“I can tell you’re not from here,” Diane says.
“What gave it away?”
“Well, because I’m not either. People here have this politeness about them. Not that you’re not. But you’re not fake.”
“Where are you from?” I say.
“New York,” she says. Now it make sense, the accent. I always thought there was a similarity between New York and New Orleans accents. That’s why she sounds a bit like my grandmother.
She kept talking. “And I don’t particularly love it here, I’ll tell you that. No culture. But this is where my husband’s family lives. We lived in Queens before, forever, my whole life really. But he missed home, so I said I’d move. And what about you, how’d you end up here?”
My eyes are closed while she rubs some substance over my cheeks that makes them burn a bit.
“My husband, too,” I say. “He’s a professor at UT, forest ecology. He wanted to live as much in the woods as possible.”
“Oh honey, he commutes all the way to Knoxville?”
“Well the commute really got to him after the first year. Now he stays in some kind of campus housing during the week. Comes back here Friday to Sunday.”
“Oh honey, that’s awful,” she says. She’s rubbing a part of my shoulders that is tight all the way up my neck and through my jaw. “Just try to relax, okay? That sounds so lonely.”
I don’t understand when people say to relax. At a deep tissue massage on vacation, the therapist told me that, and all I could think was, I’m here aren’t I? Coming here is me relaxing.
But something about Diane makes it a little easier than usual. The hot towels. Her gentle touch. She isn’t digging into my neck fighting against tension, but rather coaxing the softness out.
And the resemblance to my grandmother. The eyes. The voice. Besides the accent I now hear a songlike rhythm to her speech. Before my grandmother had her larynx removed and eventually passed away, she would sing that cheerleader song every time I had good news.
We are proud of you, yes we are proud of you, hey hey.
It used to embarrass me when she sang it. But I have a hard time conjuring a memory of anyone else saying so, that they were proud of me. Now I wish I’d heard her sing it one more time. I wonder, had I heard it more, if I would have ever followed a man someplace I never wanted to be.
“It is lonely,” I say, and some fiber near my collarbone gives way.
“There you go, sweetie. That’s it.”
We’re done with the facial and Diane brings me a miniature bottle of water.
“No rush at all. I’ll meet you out front by the desk.”
“Listen,” I say as she’s nearly shut the door. “Would you ever want to get together for dinner? Just you and I, or the husbands too if you prefer.”
“Oh honey, that is so sweet, and I would love to, but I guess I didn’t mention—my husband passed away. About fifteen years ago now? Yes, fifteen years. Just a little while after moving back here.”
“Why’d you stay?” I ask, my eyebrows curled in judgement. “I mean—oh my God, I’m so sorry, that’s so rude.”
Diane laughs. “It’s fine. Yes, I stayed. At first I thought, you know, his family needed me to help with everything. And I had this job and my house. Before you know it, fifteen years is gone like that. I guess I’m here to stay. But really, I don’t love it here. Although I’m not sure I’d love it anywhere.” She shrugs and before leaving adds, “Yes, I’d love to do dinner. Let’s talk outside.”
The door clicks.
Fifteen years. Is that how long you can make do somewhere without ever really feeling home? Could I last that long? I try to imagine myself fifteen years in the future. I’ve befriended the monsters in the woods. I’m one of them now. It doesn’t even feel like me anymore.
That question I blurted—“Why’d you stay?”—it screeches from above like a bird of prey.
In fifteen years that’s what I’m asking myself. Why’d you stay?
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Matt, heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time. I hope there is a new friendship moving forward. ❤️
This was an enjoyable read. Thanks, Matt.👏 Over the years, we've experienced the “not from here” comments and questions and had many laughs because of them. I wonder if long-distance moves create those "not home" feelings.
(BTW - I had never heard the NYC / NOLA accent comparison before. How interesting! 😊
Have a good week. Hugs to both from NY. 🤗🤗 ♥️