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I imagine most people would picture the good times they had with their parents. They’d remember happy birthdays and time spent smiling and having a good time. The only image my mind chooses to conjure is the tight, disappointed look on my mother’s face when I walked across the tarmac after being flown back to the states by that New Mexico biker club. There were no tears of joy or warm arms of a loving mother waiting to encase me in their safety. A brusque “your father lost the election” was all I got when I was within hearing distance, then I was ushered into a car.
I climb out of bed and put on the sweats and t-shirt I was wearing yesterday before walking out of the room. Returning to my childhood home without my mother there as a buffer between my father and me is the very last thing I want to do, but ingrained family obligation dictates that I go. I’m reaching for the doorknob on the front door when I hear someone to my right.
“Bye, bitch. Don’t come back.” I look to see Legs standing off to the side with a horrific sneer on her face.
“Bye,” I mutter like I would have if it were anyone else there.
By sheer muscle memory, I manage to order an Uber, go to my house, and grab my own car before heading to my parents’ place. Somehow, all without even remembering the steps it took to do so.
Like an unwelcome guest, I knock on the door just like I have since I left home years ago. No one answers, so I knock again a little harder. This goes unanswered as well, but when I try the handle, the door opens easily. Feeling like an intruder, I step inside my childhood home.
On my way here, I’d anticipated people all over the place, dusting, straightening, and making the house presentable for a gathering after my mother’s service. That’s what happened after Seth died. People from all over came to grieve and offer their condolences on such a tragic loss.
When I walk into the foyer, the dark house feels empty, isolated, and cold. There’s no longer any love here, nothing that draws me in and urges me to be the daughter my parents expected, not the disappointment I’ve become.
“Of all the people to die, it had to be your mother.”
My father’s words don’t startle me. I knew he had to be around somewhere, and when I look over to the den, he’s exactly where he always is, sitting in his chair with a bottle of liquor on the table beside him and a near-empty glass in his hand.
“But I guess she’s been dead for a while. Her death is on your hands. She was never the same after you killed Seth.” He tilts his glass up, emptying it down his throat, all the while staring across the room at the unlit fireplace. I’m not even worth his attention. My suffering, my loss doesn’t even register with him. I’m not surprised, but I can’t deny that it stings just a bit. Families are supposed to close ranks when tragedy strikes. We’re supposed to hold onto what we have left, not point fingers and issue blame.
I’ve learned the hard way over the years that you can’t reason with madness, so I clamp my mouth closed, biting the inside of my lip until I taste blood on my tongue. My silence and refusal to argue with him doesn’t prevent him from continuing.
“They should’ve killed you.” He scowls down at his empty glass, growing angrier at its lack of liquid relief as if someone else other than himself consumed the alcohol while he wasn’t looking. He speaks again as he reaches for the bottle and refills his tumbler. “I should’ve paid the extra money that man asked for to ensure I’d never have to see your face again.”
My eyes fixate on the man, who by all scientific processes is supposed to love me, if only by default. My head shakes back and forth, rejecting what he’s just said, trying to convince myself I heard him wrong.
“Wh-what?” It’s the only word I can manage past the burn of bile in the back of my throat.
He huffs with indignation before a slow, creepy smile crosses his aged mouth. He doesn’t bother to look at me. His focus stays across the room as he lifts his glass once again to his mouth, drinking down half of the liquor he’s just poured. At the rate he’s been going for the last couple of years, I’m surprised he hasn’t been hospitalized for liver failure.
“My political career soared after Seth was killed,” he says as if he’s talking to himself or recounting his memoirs to no one in particular. “It was the only consolation after losing my son. A part of me died that day with him, only to be replaced with a seething hatred for you.”
