As I get out of the SUV and walk through the high grass that’s just starting to die with the season, long forgotten memories flash in my head, bringing their voices back to me.
“Kick it back, dummy!” a four year old Dani giggles, as a soccer ball rolls up to bump my toe.
“Kids! Dinner!” Mom calls, sticking her head out the door. “Wash your hands! And not with the garden hose this time!”
The smell of the trees, the way the wind sounds as it blows through them. It’s so familiar. When was the very last time I was here? I can’t even remember. There are just these snippets. Moments of happiness where I felt free. Those weeks when I was outside all day, Dad easily forgot about me, too focused on his drinking and TV.
A ghost of a narrow path is still visible, barely bending the grass aside. It was a dirt path made by my feet and Dani’s as we ran back and forth between the house and the swing set that’s long gone.
“Push me higher, Ax!”
“You’ll fall on your stupid head!”
“No I won’t. And you have a stupid head!”
Careful to watch for snakes and other dangers in the unkempt field, I walk to the cabin. It’s locked up, but I have a key. I made sure I had keys to both houses Dad owned when we put him in the home.
Being out in the boonies a little, and long abandoned, I expect to find that the local teenagers have broken in and used the place to party, or that transients have camped here, but there’s no sign of that.
Our old furniture remains. Dusty and crumbling and moldy in places, but I remember how it looked before. If you’d asked me yesterday to describe this place, I’d have remembered very little, but just the sight of the living room brought it back, and I could tell you the color of the tile in the kitchen, or where the scratches break through the wallpaper in the hall.
When I step into the kitchen, I hear something skittering away, but I don’t see anything. Field mice probably.
This room hurts.
Because she’s in it. Mom is everywhere I look. Standing at the stove and smiling down at me, telling me I’d better not be bringing whatever critter I found in the woods into the house again. Washing the dishes and dancing around with the radio playing. Running a beer out to Dad on the back deck when he yells for one.
Nostalgia isn’t something I expected to feel in this place. There’s no yearning to go back to my childhood, but god, the ghosts here.
This is where I remember her best. How many times did I sit at that table and talk to her while she cooked and cleaned? With a coloring book in front of me, insisting she look at every page I finished.
Needy.
Clingy.
Never giving a thought to her or what she was going through with Dad, when I knew how she tried to protect me.
Exploring the second level of the house is a gamble. The old wooden floors are soft under my feet, and I have to be careful where I step. Was this place this much of a dump when I was a kid? Did those childhood glasses of ignorance filter everything out?
The room Dani and I shared has been cleaned out, leaving only a few rotted boxes, but the bed and dresser still remain in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. And the towel bar.
How did I forget about the towel bar? The wooden bar meant for a bathroom is still screwed into the wall beside his bed, the old black razor strap still dangling from it.
It comes flooding back to me. The screams. Mom’s, and Dani’s and mine. The bite of it across my skin. The paralyzing fear that would nail my feet to the floor when he’d pick it up.
Rage becomes my world, and I scream. All the words I wanted to scream at him when I was too little, too defenseless, too weak, pour out of my mouth. Grabbing the battered end table closest to me, I hurl it at the bar holding the strap.
It smashes into it, knocking the strap to the floor, and breaking one side of the bar. Seeing it dangle there just isn’t enough. Still cursing a man I can no longer get at, I throw everything I can get my hands on and finally grab the bar and yank it off the wall.
How could he? Even if I deserved some of what I got after Mom left, how could he beat me the way he did? Having Hatch puts so much in perspective. The thought of anyone hurting him is unbearable. Trying to picture me doing it makes me want to puke.
Tears burn down my cheeks and I’m glad I came alone. I’m not crying for him. I’m crying for them. The little boy who lived in terror, his sister and her fear, his mother who tried her best to make it all seem normal.
When I finally pull myself together, the strap lies beside me, and I know what I need to do with it. The weight of it in my hand is horrible. On my way back out of the room, I see one thing that catches my interest, leaned against the nightstand on Mom’s side of the bed. A photo album. Without bothering to look inside, I take it with me downstairs along with the strap.
The old burn barrel still stands out back. Rusted through in spots, but this won’t be a big fire. No danger of burning the place down, although that would probably be a good idea. Some dry leaves and pine needles tossed in the barrel with the strap flare right up under the flame of my lighter, and I stand there and watch as the strap deforms and blackens, emitting smoke that smells like burning hair.
Some peace starts to fall over me, and I pick up the photo album. The plastic covered pages did little to protect the photos from the elements, and most are ruined beyond recognition. Out of the book, I manage to find three that may be worth saving. One shows Dani and me on the swing set. Another is Mom holding me as a baby. I look around Hatch’s age, and she’s grinning down at me. The third is a family photo. Dad stands on one end while Dani and I crowd close to Mom a few feet away.
The distance is telling. It’s also convenient. The tearing sound that comes when I rip him out of the picture is almost as satisfying as watching his face melt in the flames.
Gone.
Just like him.
I sit there, on the dilapidated step while the fire burns out, and for quite a while afterward. Something in me feels lighter, a little more free. The daylight starts to fade, and I know I should go. Night falls like a blackout curtain in the country, fast and heavy, and I should get back to Hatch.
On the walk to my car, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. A deer stands still, looking in my direction. It’s a small doe. I remember sitting out on the porch in the evening to watch for deer. Another thing I’d forgotten. Hatch, my little animal lover, would go crazy for this.
The thought gives me pause. I’ve been looking for a place to build a house. Somewhere rural and a bit isolated. All the joy I had as a kid came from being out on this land. Playing in the creek that runs through the woods behind the house, reveling in the freedom of nature. I could give that to Hatch. I could give him the best parts of this place. Bulldoze and bury the rest.
Bury it under his happiness and laughter.
It’s been a week since the funeral, and Dani only returned home last night. Things aren’t terrible between us, but there’s a distance I haven’t felt there before. How much of it is caused by grief and how much is her resenting me for not capitulating when it came to the service, I’m not sure.
My fuck up with Naomi hasn’t helped the atmosphere of the house either. Since that night, even with everything else on my mind, I can’t stop thinking about her. She acts more like her old self, but she’s careful to keep space between us as she cares for Caden.