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I knew my mother was depressed. I tried to reach out, but my words of comfort and support faded into the background, unable to penetrate the sorrow. I was grieving too. But for me, the grief healed. I took tentative steps forward to move on with my life. My mother struggled to do that, and when she finally lifted the despair in our home, she substituted her anguish with all the wrong things: alcohol and men.
She has come a long way, and at times I’m grateful for the reprieve she gets from her grief while having new and exciting relationships. But once they end, or the “honeymoon” phase is over, she pulls back into herself. Drowning in alcohol again, until she meets someone new, and the cycle repeats itself.
I take a right turn onto the road that leads into town and turn my music up as a distraction. I’ve had to jerry-rig my car to play music from my phone’s app because of how old it is. I think my next pickle jar will be saving for a new car. Or at least one that is more reliable.
Finally, I approach my childhood street, taking the last turn onto the road. It’s a short street with only a few older houses. New developments have come to the Lake Mead area, but this street is one of the oldest. Marked with time by the cracked asphalt and potholes worn by New York winters.
Nestled along the end of the neglected street is a small, worn-down, blue one-story house, a picture of my father’s faded dreams and forgotten aspirations. Its weathered exterior casts a shadow over any charm it might have once possessed. The once-bold blue has now surrendered to the elements, with patches of gray and brown. The house sags under the weight of its own weariness and that of its owner.
The overall curb appeal of our small blue house is anything but inviting. Yet, amid the faded paint and dilapidated state, I notice some areas of repair. The front porch has been freshly painted, and some of the weeds removed from the yard. My mom must be trying to clean it up a bit.
I pull into the driveway, silently offering up a prayer for this visit.
Glancing in the visor mirror, I pull my hair into a top bun and grab my purse from the front passenger seat. As I’m walking around to the back to get my bag, I notice a black SUV turn down the road and turn around in a neighbor’s driveway. A chill runs through me, and I eye the vehicle, but it makes its way back toward the main road.
I hear the squeak of the screen door open and my mother’s voice singsongs. I smile to myself and listen as my mother approaches.
At least she is in a good mood.
“Hi, honey! Here, let me take that.” She grabs my mini weekend duffel, which has seen better days, and sets it down before drawing me in for a hug. She smells like lavender, biscuits, and—cigars?Wait. What?My nose wrinkles as I try to suss out the new and unwelcome smell, and I give her a light squeeze back.
“Thanks, Mom. It’s been a week. The porch is coming along great. When did you get that done?” I slam the trunk of my car, being sure it shuts.
“A few weeks ago. Paid the high schooler down the street some cash to get it freshened up and nice again. Iwantedit to look nice,” she says, as her eyes rove over the house. She gives a slight sigh.
“I didn’t see another car here, so I pulled into the driveway. I’m not going to be blocking your boyfriend, am I?” I ask, changing the subject from the state of the house.
“Oh no! He has a car or ride share that drops him off. Honestly, we don’t spend too much time here at the house, but I wanted him to meet you here in a familiar place.”
She grins as though she is head over heels in love and I wince. She has fallen hard. Then I register her response.He gets dropped off?Does this man even own a car?
I don’t act the protective daughter all that often, but a sour queasiness in my stomach bubbles to the surface. My mind focuses on a man, unable to afford a car, letting my mother pay his way.
“Come in, come in. He is excited to meet you!” She grabs my duffel and I throw my purse over my shoulder following my mother into the house.
As soon as I enter my old home, a flood of memories comes back. Treasured memories adorn the entranceway. Framed snapshots capture a kaleidoscope of childhood adventures, each one a testament to the vibrant energy that once filled these halls. The images paint a vivid picture of the first eleven years of my life—but that is where they stop. No sweet sixteen photos or high school graduation. It’s as if that time after my father’s passing didn’t exist.
I stop at my favorite photo in an antique oval frame. A picture of tiny hands clutching colorful balloons, radiating innocence and wonder as I peered up at my father. My hair and nose are a copy of his.
I made a copy of the photo before I left for the city, but it’s hidden away in a box under my bed. I reach out to touch my father’s face but quickly jerk it away.
“In the kitchen! I have lunch ready!”
I linger for another second, then pad down the rest of the hallway into the small galley kitchen. I notice some cold cuts and sandwich fixings on the island and smile at my mom.
A deep voice clears from behind me and I spin around.
“Kate, this is Tony. Tony, this is my beautiful daughter, Kate,” my mother introduces.
I reach out my hand but pause as I take in this man’s face.
Does he look familiar?
He is an older man, probably fifties or sixties, with salt and pepper short hair, piercing brown eyes, and a larger nose. My mind is blank, I’m sure I have seen many men that resemble him during my work events. He is radiating confidence, and his stare is slightly unnerving.
“Hi, I’m Kate. Nice to meet you, Tony, I’ve heard a lot about you,” I say in my most convincing voice.
My mother blushes as a sign she knows I’m lying. My mother and I don’t ‘talk shop’ about her boyfriends, but she has mentioned him enough in passing messages and phone calls that the lie doesn’t taste bitter on my tongue.
