What the hell had happened to those animals?
My
poor old car complained loudly any time I tried to push her over fifty, but I ruthlessly
held steady at forty-nine until I was within town limits. Slowly but surely, I
brought my frantic heart back down under control. There had to be a rational
explanation for what I’d seen... Right? There had to be. I just needed
some time to think rationally about it from a safe distance away.
Besides,
my brain was starting to get distracted by other thoughts and feelings. A sense
of impending doom began to creep up on me, a nostalgic depression at turning on
to the street that led to my mother’s house.
2.
MOTHER
W hen
I pulled onto the small gravel road that led up to our one-story house, it was
like I'd never left. Even the rusty metal junk my dad used to collect (with a
plan to rework and sell them; he was a man of varied, inexplicable hobbies) was
still there, piled up next to the rickety wooden shed. The mailbox was still
bent courtesy of some drunken teenager.
I
parked next to my mom's beat-up minivan and sat in my silent car for a minute,
gathering my courage. My heartbeat was getting a little erratic again.
I
can’t go in that house. I can’t. I won’t.
I
imagined myself as chubby toddler Cara, kicking and screaming in the throes of
a monstrous fit, purple in the face, screeching, “I won’t go in that house!” That
relaxed me a little, and a smile touched my lips. It was my survival strategy
of more than a decade: when I couldn’t get a grip, I made fun of myself to snap
out of it.
I could go in the house, and I would. I didn’t live here anymore—this
wasn’t my life. This was a temporary measure. All I had to do was ace the
interview tomorrow so I could earn enough money to go back to Chicago. Or even
a city a little closer, if that was what it took. This was temporary. Temporary.
I
repeated the word to myself as I got out and stretched in the gray drizzle, the
angry rain having calmed down in the ten miles I’d driven. Or maybe the storm
just hadn’t reached us yet. I pulled my hoodie around me and got my suitcase
out of the trunk. The rest could wait.
I
knocked on the door and stood waiting awkwardly. Even though l had a key, it
didn't feel right to just barge in after all this time being away. I hadn't
even come home for Christmas these past four years.
Too
soon, the door opened and I came face to face with my mother. Her hesitant
smile was reflected on my face. We were like acquaintances, forced to say hello
after years of not seeing each other.
She
was shorter than I remembered, and skinnier, but what my roommate Tessa had
called "skinny fat." There was an unhealthy yellow pall about her
skin, as if she was very ill, and her brown hair had gone almost completely
gray. I remembered a time when it had been the same shade as mine.
But
in spite of all those details, it was her blue eyes, so different than my own
dark ones, that made my heart clench painfully. If they’d been remote before,
they looked completely dead now. There was no color, no life, no essence of her
in them at all.
I’d
been planning to say something about all those slaughtered animals I’d seen,
but the sight of her unseeing eyes pushed those thoughts way back into the
recesses of my brain. It was all I could do to stand there, wondering what the
hell had happened to my mother.
"Come
in," she said softly, stepping aside.
I
tried to stop panicking as I followed her in. Looking around the dark, stuffy
room, it was pretty clear nothing had changed at all. The old his-and-hers
recliners were still there, both now pointed at the TV. On the wall were school
pictures of me, marching along from kindergarten through eighth grade.
I
glanced at her, but she just stood there, staring at nothing, seemingly lost in
thought. When I cleared my throat, she jumped.
“I’ll
let you get settled,” she said, shuffling over to sit in her recliner.
As I walked down the narrow hallway to my
My
poor old car complained loudly any time I tried to push her over fifty, but I ruthlessly
held steady at forty-nine until I was within town limits. Slowly but surely, I
brought my frantic heart back down under control. There had to be a rational
explanation for what I’d seen... Right? There had to be. I just needed
some time to think rationally about it from a safe distance away.
Besides,
my brain was starting to get distracted by other thoughts and feelings. A sense
of impending doom began to creep up on me, a nostalgic depression at turning on
to the street that led to my mother’s house.
2.
MOTHER
W hen
I pulled onto the small gravel road that led up to our one-story house, it was
like I'd never left. Even the rusty metal junk my dad used to collect (with a
plan to rework and sell them; he was a man of varied, inexplicable hobbies) was
still there, piled up next to the rickety wooden shed. The mailbox was still
bent courtesy of some drunken teenager.
I
parked next to my mom's beat-up minivan and sat in my silent car for a minute,
gathering my courage. My heartbeat was getting a little erratic again.
I
can’t go in that house. I can’t. I won’t.
I
imagined myself as chubby toddler Cara, kicking and screaming in the throes of
a monstrous fit, purple in the face, screeching, “I won’t go in that house!” That
relaxed me a little, and a smile touched my lips. It was my survival strategy
of more than a decade: when I couldn’t get a grip, I made fun of myself to snap
out of it.
I could go in the house, and I would. I didn’t live here anymore—this
wasn’t my life. This was a temporary measure. All I had to do was ace the
interview tomorrow so I could earn enough money to go back to Chicago. Or even
a city a little closer, if that was what it took. This was temporary. Temporary.
I
repeated the word to myself as I got out and stretched in the gray drizzle, the
angry rain having calmed down in the ten miles I’d driven. Or maybe the storm
just hadn’t reached us yet. I pulled my hoodie around me and got my suitcase
out of the trunk. The rest could wait.
I
knocked on the door and stood waiting awkwardly. Even though l had a key, it
didn't feel right to just barge in after all this time being away. I hadn't
even come home for Christmas these past four years.
Too
soon, the door opened and I came face to face with my mother. Her hesitant
smile was reflected on my face. We were like acquaintances, forced to say hello
after years of not seeing each other.
She
was shorter than I remembered, and skinnier, but what my roommate Tessa had
called "skinny fat." There was an unhealthy yellow pall about her
skin, as if she was very ill, and her brown hair had gone almost completely
gray. I remembered a time when it had been the same shade as mine.
But
in spite of all those details, it was her blue eyes, so different than my own
dark ones, that made my heart clench painfully. If they’d been remote before,
they looked completely dead now. There was no color, no life, no essence of her
in them at all.
I’d
been planning to say something about all those slaughtered animals I’d seen,
but the sight of her unseeing eyes pushed those thoughts way back into the
recesses of my brain. It was all I could do to stand there, wondering what the
hell had happened to my mother.
"Come
in," she said softly, stepping aside.
I
tried to stop panicking as I followed her in. Looking around the dark, stuffy
room, it was pretty clear nothing had changed at all. The old his-and-hers
recliners were still there, both now pointed at the TV. On the wall were school
pictures of me, marching along from kindergarten through eighth grade.
I
glanced at her, but she just stood there, staring at nothing, seemingly lost in
thought. When I cleared my throat, she jumped.
“I’ll
let you get settled,” she said, shuffling over to sit in her recliner.
As I walked down the narrow hallway to my
Similar Books
