six
It’s a grueling trip to get from Los Angeles to my rural hometown. My second plane ride lands me in Burlington, Vermont and then it’s a forty-five-minute drive in the damn brilliantly red BMW that my mother rented.A BMW.To drive over dirt roads.
The swears that come out of my mouth as I load my bags into the car are too many to count.
I pray that nobody notices this car.
I try to sink into the driver’s seat as much as possible. It’s pushing midnight, and Wake isn’t known for its nightlife, as far as I can remember, so it’s fine. I hope. Fortunately, I had the foresight to wonder about Wi-Fi and to map out directions on my phone because the last time that I was here, I was a kid and didn’t exactly pay attention to routes from the airport.
When I lose a signal and my GPS stops working, I am at least in familiar enough territory that I’m not utterly lost.
I turn on the radio in hopes of drowning out my past, but the reception here is virtually nonexistent.
So, it’s me and the back roads for the next twenty minutes. Then, I’m in the heart of Wake. The quaint streets with their small shops. Familiar roads hit me, familiar turns. Trees with arms that loop over each other. The sound that gravelly roads make when you drive over them. The smell of truly fresh, clean air. The quiet. It takes all that I have in me to only grip the steering wheel and not come undone because of how damn lovely it all is.
And then I’m less than a mile from my old house. From my old life.
From a time when Ihada life.
It’s with both acute fear and joy that I steer into my family’s driveway. Just as I set the car into park, I spot my dad’s red Pathfinder, and my heart about stops. He loved this SUV. He wanted to have this forever, to hold on to it until it was barely plugging along. Most of all, he wanted to teach me how to drive on this. My parents always ran their cars into the ground, and this Pathfinder would have been so up for some teenage-caused scuffs and dents.
I wanted that too.
But it’s got to be a mess of a vehicle now.
The night that my mother made us run, she left this here too, I guess.
What I’m stunned to find when I finally work up the nerve to approach the Nissan Pathfinder is that it looks as though it’s just gone through car wash, and when I open the driver’s door, I’m again stunned. My mother must have paid someone to clean up this vehicle because it’s pristine inside as well. She’s so logical, and it would have made sense to sell it. But she didn’t.
Rather than hop in, I shut the door and turn to look at the house that my mom couldn’t face. The one I grew up in. The one she abandoned and the one I have returned to.
I grab two of my bags from the rental car and lug them to the front door. I’m prepared for everything and nothing.
When I swing open the door, I feel like a stranded kid. Which I guess I am. But a kid who asked to take two steps forward.
My bags seem to drop themselves when I land in the entryway. It takes a second for the layout of our house to hit me, but when it does, I cannot help but laugh. Immediately to my left is the kitchen, a square, isolated room, totally cut off from the rest of the house. I flick on the light. Yep. It’s any realtor’s nightmare, and my mother must cringe anytime she thinks about trying to sell this place, as kitchens are key selling points. This one is horribly outdated. Shitty linoleum tiles line the floor, cheap counters and chipped cabinets don’t do much, the fridge and stove are beyond basic, and it’s hard to consider the tiny island in the center as anything but awful.
None of this mattered to me when I was growing up though.
There is a bottle of vodka in one of my bags, and after I bring in the rest of my stuff from the car, I manage to locate it. The ice cubes from the freezer are likely terrifyingly old, but I gamble anyway. A drink is a drink. Ancient ice probably won’t kill me. I mean, I assume it won’t. My drink doesn’t taste deadly, so I risk fatality and sip, slumping against the sad kitchen island until I’m solidly buzzed, prepared to face the rest of the house. And my past.
Like my dad’s old Pathfinder outside, this kitchen is too clean, and I don’t know why, so I scramble about, looking for clues.
Finally, I see a note on the counter.
WELCOME BACK, CALLIE. WE’VE ALL MISSED YOU.
I can’t move for a minute. It’s embarrassing and shameful that I don’t know whoweis.
I continue to explore the kitchen, and I find our old dishes and glassware in the cupboards. Ladles and spatulas and such in drawers. Beat-up pots and pans and a few sad cast-iron skillets.
Instinctively, I reach next to the fridge and find a step stool, and when I open it to reach a cabinet above the fridge, I scream out, “I knew it! Roasting pans and weird serving platters that nobody used! And ancient bourbon!”
It’s a good thing that my laughter doesn’t send me tumbling to the floor because I don’t know whom I’d call to take me to the ER.
When the last of the vodka leaves my glass, I again reach for the bottle. Another drink couldn’t hurt.
This kitchen feels safe and comfortable, but I realize that I can’t stay here forever. Sleeping on the counter probably wouldn’t be, like, super cozy or whatnot.
