If I think of a childhood home, it’s the house in the suburbs where my parents were expanding their psychiatry practices. The lot next to ours was empty, so Ava and I used to gather blackberries there in summer and build elaborate snow forts in winter. We had tiny bedrooms that faced each other on opposite sides of the upstairs hallway. Mine looked out over the cul-de-sac and hers had a view of the forest.
As I walk through the front door of my parents’ new townhouse, the familiar smell hits me: lemon furniture polish and new magazines. I’ve never lived here, but it smells like that long-ago house. A home that smelled absolutely nothing like children. No fruity bubble baths, no play dough or markers, nothing baking in the oven.
From the entrance I catch a glimpse of the “family room.” More like a psychiatrist’s office, a home version of what my parents have at work. Modern and impersonal with nothing that invites you to kick off your shoes and relax. This is a house for adults, with sleek leather furniture and abstract paintings depicting harsh angles in neutral colors.
My mom stops in the front hallway and turns to look at me, as if searching for the right thing to say. Her hands flutter up to the reading glasses hanging by a chain from her neck, then back down again. “Do you want something to eat? Soup?”
“No,” I tell her, although I am a little hungry. “I’m okay.” My parents never had much interest in food, even when we were little. She must be making a real effort.
“Okay.” She looks at my father for help.
“Towels,” he says decisively. “You’ll need clean towels.”
“And sheets?” my mom asks him.
“No, I washed them after the last guest and put them back on.”
My father takes Mom’s arm and helps her up the stairs. She looks frail in a way that surprises me. I always thought my mother was made of steel, but she moves slowly, as if she needs my father’s support. Time didn’t stand still while I was in Texas, but I can see its effects only in the way my parents look. They still feel as distant as ever.
As they talk to each other, they lead the way up the stairs. I trail behind them like the little kid I used to be, one who could never get their attention. The only other person in the world who would understand how normal this weirdness feels is Ava. Before we hated each other, we were allies in this family. Her gaze was proof I existed, even when my parents didn’t notice anyone except each other. I almost miss her now.
We reach the top of the stairs, and Mom pushes open a door. I enter a small bedroom with a four-poster canopied bed flanked by small bedside tables with china-shaded lamps. If the rest of the house is cool and modern, this one room is almost a throwback, a little girl’s Victorian dream.
This is it, the closest thing to a childhood home I have. My old bedroom with the furniture I pitched a screaming fit for one Christmas. Just like in the showroom: the bed, the tables, the lamps, and the marble-topped dresser with its matching mirror. Of course, now my parents have removed the plush carpet, so the mahogany bed and tables are adrift on a polished oak floor. They’ve even removed the gauzy canopy so the posts of the bed reach futilely upward, supporting nothing.
This room should be like something from a storybook, except my parents have spoiled it. The bare floor has a judgmental gleam, and on the wall I see two more of those abstract paintings I hate. When Emma does something like that, at least she uses lots of color. Her art is active and messy and alive. These paintings are dead.
“You still have my old furniture?” I ask. Surely that means they care a little.
My dad looks at me blankly. “Did you want it?”
“If you can use it, just ship it home. Texas, you said?” My mom looks almost eager. Stupid. They didn’t keep my furniture because it reminded them of me; they kept it because they needed to furnish a guest room. They’ve done everything they could to force it to fit their modern aesthetic, and they’d be only too happy to replace it. That’s my parents. Pragmatic, thrifty, never sentimental.
“Maybe.” I wheel my suitcase into the middle of the room and drop my bag beside it. I want to ask if they’re worried about Ava, if they think she’s okay, if they think (like I still do) she’s just pulling a stunt. But I don’t think I can take another reminder of how little they care. It’s Ava’s fault I’m here at all, and for just a second I miss her more than I’m angry at her. She’s the only person in the world who had the same childhood as me, no explanation necessary.
“If you have anything to hang up, there should be coat hangers there.” Mom gestures as if I am incapable of recognizing a closet.
“I put a clean towel and washcloth by the sink in the bathroom,” Dad announces.
“Okay then.” Mom steps out into the hall, and I can see a flicker of relief pass over her face. She’s almost done having to act like a mother. “Call us if you need anything.”
“Good night.” Dad pulls the door shut behind him.
It is eight o’clock at night.
There are no chairs in this room, so I sit on the edge of the bed. This could be any one of the quiet nights from my childhood when Mom and Dad were clearly being whoever they were once they were finished pretending to be parents. I remember the way they whispered, even when Ava and I should have been asleep, the way they stopped talking when one or the other of us walked into the room. When it was “our time” at dinner or over homework, they hovered and asked us about our day, but it was hard to shake the feeling that they were playacting. Even now, it’s as if they had to ask themselves, What would real parents do for a daughter who came home to spend the night? And the only answer they could muster was to supply clean towels.
I wouldn’t mind being treated like a child, as long as that child was loved.
If I ever get back to my home in Texas, I will make sure Emma knows how much I love her, no matter how old she gets. I will make a big deal about her every time she comes home—having her favorite dinner (currently chicken nuggets), playing her favorite games (Chutes and Ladders), and never ever leaving her alone for a minute. I’ll probably drive her crazy.
I feel like I’m going crazy now. The silence is creeping under my skin, building up. No wonder I screamed and raged so much as a kid. There’s nothing else to do. I grab my bag and get back on the bed, messing up the white counterpane. That’s better. I scoot back and gather the bedspread around me like a nest, as if it could give me the warmth I need.
I’m not going to have to stay here long. Ava will get tired of this game. I just have to wait her out. And in a few days, Andrew and Emma will come up. Then I realize that Andrew doesn’t have any way to contact me. My parents have an unlisted home number. My phone is in Texas with Detective Valdez.
I wrap my arms around my knees. Everything will be okay. I’ll call Andrew tomorrow from the landline, probably one of the last landlines in America. I’ll tell him everything that’s happened. He still loves me. He has to. Emma doesn’t know I’m a liar. God, how I wish she were in my arms. But I don’t want her in this house. The last thing I want is to see her joy and confidence replaced by insecurity and loneliness. Maybe when I call Andrew, I’ll tell him not to come, for Emma’s sake.
The two windows in my room are bare, no blinds or curtains. The sun has set, but the darkness outside is punctuated by lights from the townhouses on either side and across the street. Maybe I should change my clothes in the bathroom or the closet, but I don’t give a shit. I strip and pull on an oversized T-shirt. This oppressive house is making me reckless, just like it always did. I’m tired, bone-tired, but not even a little bit sleepy. Tonight, I won’t go prowling in search of alcohol, but that’s something to look for tomorrow.