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We hug for a while, letting out all our frustrations, after unspoken things had surfaced strong enough to cut through dry stone, after so much time had passed.
“Have you thought about my proposal?” my father twirls the black rosary between his fingers.
“Yes,” I bring my hand to my neck and look at my dusty Converse sneakers. “I'll stay in Matlock for a while, but I don't know for how long,” I say, wanting to make that clear from the start.
“You're welcome to stay as long as you want,” my father takes off his cassock and collar.
I follow him to the back, where my father has his office. I'm shocked when he drapes his cassock over the back of a chair, and I recognize several personal items of his. The presence of a bed confirms that my father's office has become his living space. I begin to connect the dots and realize that this is why I couldn't find his car at home a few days ago.
“You live here,” I conclude, and I look around, not at all happy about the idea.
“There's nothing left for me at home,” he sighs, and he changes into a classic collar t-shirt.
“Are you sick?” I fidget with my fingers, and anxiety takes hold of my fragile composure.
“I'm not sick, Rebecca,” my father shakes his head and gazes out the window behind the desk. „I'm fine.”
“That's what she used to say,” I rush to contradict him, not realizing that all I'm doing is rubbing salt in the wound.
“I'm sorry,” my father whispers, and I feel the bitterness sinking into the room, while I drown in sadness, too tired to swim against the current.
It's too late now... or maybe not, I think, choosing to keep everything about Mom a secret for now.
“I have to leave now. I'll wait for you at home,” I say before leaving the office without waiting for a response, after grabbing the keys from the cherrywood desk, which seemed to be patiently waiting for me. “I'm going to cook something for us,” I shout behind me.
“But you’re a horrible cook,” I hear my father's shy voice before I move down the corridor in front of the altar, and I can't help but smile.
I exit the church and pull the hood over my head when I notice a gentle drizzle has begun to cool down Matlock. The scent of wet earth and dry leaves raises the hairs on the back of my neck, fragments of memories hitting me in waves. I bury my hands into the oversized gray hoodie pockets and continue to walk slowly along the cobbled road. I revisit the places where I grew up, the streets I've walked countless times, and I realize that not all the emotions this town stirs in me are entirely unpleasant. Occasionally, at certain street corners, you can even see a smile peeking out from under my rain-drenched hood. I choose to ignore each familiar face, continuing to move forward with my face partially covered by a few strands of hair that have escaped my loose ponytail, all hidden beneath the soaked hood.
I stand before our house, memories flooding back, many of them still vivid. I tilt my face up to the sky and inhale the scent of the rain.
“I suppose it just wasn't meant to be,” I mutter to myself, my thoughts drifting to that night when we held hands for the last time.
Drenched from the rain, I step inside, and the familiar scent hits me in the chest. This house that once repelled me now welcomes me warmly, as if it had missed me. I carefully visit each room, and everything around me fills me with sadness. From the umbrellas in the entryway, Mom’s red one, Dad’s brown one, and one in a shade of pink, my favorite color, to the wallpaper in the hallway that my mother and I hanged, adorned with floral patterns, to the kitchen pleasantly lit by the sunlight, or the refrigerator magnets I've been collecting since forever. I touch each one of them and let melancholy seep under my skin. Everything I once loved about this house now breaks my heart, making me feel guilty because once, I wanted to escape from here, feeling my adolescence was a sentence and the house a prison full of rules. Now I realize that all the beautiful moments in my life happened here, and there's nothing that can undo the wrongs I've done.
My mother can't heal anymore, my relationship with my father is ruined, and I feel lost.
Yes. Things are as bleak as they seem.
I smile as tears flow down my face, and head upstairs. My first stop is my parents' room, reminiscing about the mornings when I would open my eyes and dive into their bed. Dad used to make us pancakes, and we would watch Friends together. I smile, looking at the bed with its floral bedding, but my gaze becomes blurry with fresh tears. Before I cry again, I throw myself onto the middle of the bed and bury my face in the soft pillows, desperately trying to relive the feeling of the past, but nothing is the same anymore. The scent of my parents has now been replaced by stale air, and the warmth of their arms by the coldness of the white, rose-printed fabric. I clutch a pillow to my chest and cry until my tears run dry. The walls hide my sobs of pain, but they offer no solace because my childhood home now feels cold.
I get up and head to my room. I look at the posters on the walls, many with my favorite bands and actors. Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, Amy Winehouse, Michael Jackson, Freddy Mercury, Backstreet Boys, Paramore, Linkin Park, Evanescence, are just a few of the artists that bring my room to life. My favorite movies are plastered around my desk, such as Final Destination, Vendetta, Wrong Turn, Friday the 13th, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Thirteen Ghosts, Halloween, Intruders, Drag Me to Hell, Trick 'r Treat, A cure for Wellness, and many other titles, all of which were the subjects of heated arguments with my parents, who deemed my taste unsuitable for a preacher's daughter. Maybe that's why I was never allowed to bring friends over.
How did these even fit in here? I think to myself in awe.
I sigh and retrieve the memory box from the closet, opening it and resting it on the edge of the bed. Inside, I find many photos cut from magazines and pasted into entire albums. I stumbled upon a page with a picture of Ben Affleck underneath which said: “I love you, but no one can know” – with a heart drawn beside it.
I chuckle and run my fingers over the old writing. Then I pull out an album from the bottom of the box. It's pink, with hearts on the cover and an adorable bunny. It's an album filled with photos from my childhood, featuring Sami, Masse, and Uriel at the pool, on picnics, in the park, in front of our house, at church, and in their backyard. In some of the pictures, I'm wearing a dress with two pigtails on top of my head, while in others, just my underwear, with wet and tousled blond hair. The boys are in T-shirts and pants, with matching socks. In all the photos, we're all smiling, and it seems like we're having the time of our lives.
When did we stop being like this?
A strong sense of regret washes over me, and I wish I could turn back time to when my family was perfect, when we all played together, and when we were happy. I see a photo of Mom, and above it, it says, “I love you so much!” She's holding me in her arms while I hold a Barbie doll. She looks so beautiful it hurts.
“Come back home,” I murmur as I gaze at the photos, not even realizing when tears start falling onto the album, staining it.
I close it and rest my head against the edge of the bed, gazing at the light drizzle through the window.
A light grabs my focus. I spring to my feet when I realize the light is coming from Samael's room.
