Going Home

Going Home

I stood still, staring at the freshly mowed lawn. The sight was unfamiliar. I hesitated at the edge, fearing that if I moved forward everything else that had once been familiar would change too. As long as I stood still the blue door with its tarnished brass knocker wouldn’t morph into the gateway leading to the disappearance of my childhood.

“Ma’am, are you here to view the house?” I turned to find an overweight woman who had curly blonde hair springing out from her head in every direction as if she had been electrocuted. Her lips had a thick coating of red that stuck to her two front teeth and matched her overlong nails. Clasped in her crimson-clawed hands was a sign obviously meant to be plunged into the newly manicured lawn. “I’m Ms. Jones.” She presented her sign as if it was a trophy. Under the words FOR SALE was the name Jones Reality, and beneath that was a much more attractive version of the woman standing in front of me. “As you can see already it is just fantastic.” Ms. Jones gestured towards the house while her eagerly grinning mouth revealed more smudged lipstick. “Just went on the market and already I’m getting some nibbles.” She mimed nibbling, resembling an oversized demented chipmunk. “Let’s head inside and you can wander around.” Not waiting for an answer she plowed towards the blue door, stopping quickly to stab the ground with her sign.

I shifted my foot forward and tested the pathway as if it were unstable. When nothing happened I moved quickly to the front porch. Carved into the support column at the top of the two front steps was a series of notches. They began at my waist and progressed to a bit above shoulder height. The pads of my fingers pressed against each individual memory, every one containing a birthday girl filled with excitement waiting for the proof she had grown since the last year. My fingers strayed to the topmost indent. Fifteen, the last time, before everything changed.

“Oh don’t worry about those.” The overeager realtor had returned. “One coat of paint and you’ll never even know they were there.” She opened the door wide and made a welcoming gesture. As if it were her house to invite people in as she pleased. I scowled but still walked inside, followed by an oblivious parasite.

“Can you believe these hardwood floors? And that crown molding is to die for.” She looked to me for agreement but only received a blank stare. Not that it fazed her. “You’ll want to see the kitchen of course. My favorite room in the house. Are you looking for you and your husband?”

“I’m single,” I muttered, wishing this overzealous woman would stop prying.

“All right then.” I could actually see Ms. Jones making a mental note. It was extremely annoying. “This way to the kitchen!” The woman practically danced down the hall. I remembered the kitchen just fine and didn’t think it was anything to have a realty orgasm about. Still, the electrified chipmunk would only come back and drag me if I didn’t follow.

My eyes searched the walls of the hallway for photos from my childhood as I passed by. My face had once plastered these walls next to the loving smiles of my two parents. Now I was missing, and Doctor Dave smiled at me from the circle of my Mom’s arms. I stalked past in disgust. Reaching the kitchen I halted in the doorway, the sight before me stealing both words and breath. The shock must have shown on my face.

“I know, isn’t it breathtaking!” Ms. Jones clasped her hands beneath her chubby chin in delight. “I could live in this room alone.”

I felt like crying. Gone were the white painted cabinets with their delicate flower stencil. Dark shiny wood took their place. The old faded fridge with letter magnets had disappeared, and a stainless steel monster glared back at me. But the worst was the countertop. Daddy had spent days getting those wooden counters perfectly cut and level just to Mom’s specifications. He had even let the 8 year-old me help with the staining. Now cold hard granite lay in place of my Daddy’s hard work, screaming Doctor Dave.

“I hate it,” I whispered.

“Hmm, yes, well.” Ms. Jones seemed uncomfortable, finally taking notice of the woman in front of her. “These can always be renovated. I have a few things to grab out of my car. Feel free to explore on your own.” The room seemed much larger once Ms. Jones waddled out. I stood for a moment, attempting to breathe normally.

This was a mistake.

Despite my errant thought I began walking out of the kitchen into the dining room. What once had been a cluttered mess of a table was now a polished glass atrocity. Cold to the touch. I wondered how much blood there would be if I smashed my fist through the surface. I moved on.

Through the next doorway was finally something familiar. I had spent a lifetime on that big red couch. TV in the afternoons, homework after school, movie marathons on the weekend. Hundreds of hours of naps were sunk into those cushions. I remember the last time I felt comfortable in its embrace. Daddy sat down next to me. I put a finger in my book to mark my place and he had my attention. “Honey,” he said to sweeten the news. Daddy said a great deal but all I heard was “Mom is sick. Mom is dying. I’m sorry.” And there, in those last two words, was the blame he put on his shoulders. As if he had made Mom sick.

I felt the corduroy and guilt under my fingers. I wasn’t sure if the couch was still here. So far this visit wasn’t going well. Perhaps relief could be found higher up.

The old wooden stairs creaked under my boots like a lullaby from my childhood. There was a door at the top that opened to a bathroom. New tiles covered the linoleum I had found Daddy passed out on. I had carefully picked up the broken pieces of the whiskey bottle as if they were the shards of Daddy’s mind. Slip, cut, blood was running down my finger and the sting was distracting. It was nice. The sink was the same white it had always been. I remembered it turning red that first time, and then those other times when I needed distraction.

Past the bathroom was the guest bedroom where the nurse had stayed. She’d bring mom the medicine for her lungs then go out for a smoke. Yellow teeth in false smiles of paid-for comfort. I didn’t even go in.

The master bedroom took one whole side of the hall, displaying its dominance. The door was closed. Two times before I had opened this door when it had been closed. The first time Mom was coughing up blood. The second time Doctor Dave was lying on top of her.

The doorknob was cold as I turned it slowly, afraid of what I might find this time. But when it opened no one was there. The bed was empty and neatly made. I looked at the pottery barn catalog that covered where I used to run for comfort after nightmares. The mattress was a smooth surface, Tempurpedic. No springs for a little girl to jump on or jump off into her waiting Daddy’s arms. Nothing remained of what was supposed to be Mom’s deathbed. No machines beeping or stands holding the special life-sustaining liquid.

But I had been here when they were taken away. Doctor Dave had rolled them out himself, smiled, and said, “You must be so happy.” Mom was happy. It wasn’t long before the door was closed and I walked in and found out why Doctor Dave continued to visit a healthy woman.

“I’m lonely,” Mom had said later when she could meet my eyes. She had been defensive, as if her daughter might not approve of her fucking her doctor two months after her husband died. The room no longer smelled of death or sex, just some pine-scented cleaner.

I closed the door again. Down the hall was one more room. My room. My haven. The bed Daddy built was in there. I lay in it the night he drove off the bridge with bourbon on his breath. I cried myself to sleep in it the next night. A worn quilt Nana had given me was always folded up at the foot. I wrapped myself in it after Mom showed me the new ring. I never let Doctor Dave in.

There was still a slight scorch mark on the doorway where Daddy had dropped my birthday cake, candles fully lit. He had thought I should wake up to the smell of frosting. Instead I got the acrid scent of fire. The knob stuck like always, needing the tug-and-turn.

The room smelled like sweat. The personal gym Doctor Dave had kept in the basement was now sprawled over the burning wreckage of my one safe place. He had come into my room and made it his. No matter that there was a guest room down the hall. He had never been denied admittance into that room. Only here.

Doctor Dave was obsessed with health. “It’s always important to stay active,” he said, then he patted my Mom’s ass, she giggled, and I went to the bathroom to distract myself. Little splinters from the doorframe caught at my clothes as I slid down to the newly carpeted floor. I had come home to find some source of comfort, but Daddy was dead and Doctor Dave invaded every pore of this house.

I heard the lullaby as Ms. Jones made her huffing and puffing way to find me. Thinly plucked eyebrows raised an inch when she found me slumped on the floor. No matter.

“There you are my dear. Yes, so this is the workout room.” Her red-claw gesture was dismissive. “I personally don’t see the need for one but the current owner just loves the stuff. Have you seen the master bedroom? It’s so spacious and lovely. And, if you adore the furniture the way I do, you’re able to purchase the entire set from Pottery Barn’s fall collection.” She clapped her hands, overcome at the thought.

I looked up at her overeager face then at the similar expressions in Doctor Dave’s motivational workout posters, and I realized something. They were gone. Every good childhood memory had been surgically removed by this new man my Mom tried to insist I call Dad. Hell no. I would have to leave this place before it wiped me away too. Daddy would never be in this house again, so neither would I.

“I’m sorry for wasting your time.” I struggled to my feet and her pudgy face fell. “There isn’t anything I want here.” I walked past her, the master bedroom, the guest bedroom, the bathroom, and reached the stairs.

As the first note rang out I heard her mutter, “I knew this room would be bad for business. Crazy workout freak.”

I smiled.