* * *
The dreary, cold Seattle weather felt both familiar and foreign as I waited for my Uber driver to arrive. Memories of rare snow days and sleds made out of plastic garbage bags lingered at the back of my mind, reminding me that the city hadn’t always been associated with negative emotions.
I used to be happy here.
The thought was staggering, setting me off balance as I climbed into the back of the car with just my backpack.
“That’s all your luggage?” the driver asked, eyeing my bag.
I nodded. “Don’t need anything else.”
As another benefit of my military training, I’d learned how to pack light. If I couldn’t carry it on my back, I didn’t need it. Besides, if Mom took one look at me and decided not to let me in the house, I’d have less to cart back to the airport.
An unexpected spark of nostalgia hit me as the driver exited the freeway and turned into my old neighborhood. The familiarity of it was odd. Not much had changed—there were a few new buildings, a couple of different business, the little greasy-spoon restaurant that used to serve pancakes was now a sandwich shop—but it all seemed smaller somehow.
We passed my old high school, and I was shocked to see how different it looked. The school hadn’t changed, but it wasn’t the huge, looming building I remembered it as being. I used to have to rush to get from class to class in time, but young me must have been slow as shit, because I could run laps around the building between bells now.
When the driver turned down my street, he had to slam on his breaks to avoid two young thugs standing in the way. They glared at us like it was our fault they were clogging the narrow street before slowly stepping to the side so we could pass.
“Nice neighborhood,” the Uber driver grumbled, his words heavy with sarcasm.
“Sure. We’ll go with that.” I watched out the window, pointing as my childhood home came into view. “It’s that one on the right. The little blue house with the white trim.”
The driver idled at the curb while I grabbed my bag and climbed out. I thanked him, then sent him a tip on my phone before turning to stare at the house. It was a small bungalow, built in the early nineteen-hundreds like all the other houses on the block. Dad’s old red Chevy truck was parked outside, and the lights were off, not surprising since it was just past five. Mom should be home from work soon.
The Uber motored off, leaving me standing on the broken concrete walkway, the closest thing to a sidewalk our neighborhood had to offer. I scanned the area, noting that the two thugs had drifted this direction and were watching me. Ignoring them, I hefted my bag higher on my shoulder and marched past the tiny strip of low-maintenance bushes Mom called the front yard.
The cement evened out, becoming a true walkway before it raised in steps that led to a wooden gate that reached the middle of my thighs. Bending, I unlatched the gate and it creaked as I pushed it open. Caught off guard, I stared at it pushing and pulling to recreate the sound. I’d never heard the gate creak before. Dad would have attacked it with a can of WD-40, preaching about the pride of home ownership, long before it got rusty enough to make a sound.
But Dad was long gone now.
I creaked the gate closed. Once it latched, I made my way up to the front of the house, pausing in front of the bay window. The curtains were open, and Dad’s recliner still sat in the center of the living room, nestled between the matching sofa and loveseat so he could hold court between me and Mom. Our last family portrait still hung above the fireplace, our expressions a testament to Dad’s waning patience, my abundance of teenage attitude, and Mom’s forced happiness.
Mom’s knickknacks still covered the fireplace mantle, her china cabinet that had never held china, and the coffee and end tables. The newspaper was still perched on the arm of Dad’s chair, as if waiting for him to come home and open it up so he could get in his daily bitchings about politicians, sports, traffic, and weather. They all seemed to piss him off equally, almost as much as I did. He was a gruff man, a creature of habit and tradition, hailing from an era when men didn’t talk about their feelings and children were expected to be seen and not heard.
He’d expected perfection from me, and I’d done nothing but disappoint.
When I played basketball, I was never fast enough on the rebounds or accurate enough in my shots. It didn’t matter if I made a hundred shots, he’d focus on the one I missed and lecture me for hours about working harder and practicing longer. When it came to school, I studied my ass off to make the honor roll, but B’s were never A’s and an A- might as well be a C.
“I’ve worked hard to give you the opportunities I never had, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you piss them away, Landon!” he shouted, his face turning red as he shook a fist at me.
“Dad, I’m working with my English teacher. I’ll bring it back up.”
“Landon?”
My mother’s voice interrupted the memory. Grateful, since my last fight with Dad wasn’t something I was ready to face yet, I sucked in a deep breath and turned toward the road. Mom stood at the wooden gate under a black umbrella, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open in shock. The past seven years had deepened the lines around her mouth and eyes and added a lot of gray to her blonde hair. She was thinner now, smaller and frailer than I remembered. Her dark eyes flooded with tears and all the words I’d been rehearsing in my mind fled at the sight.
My sudden appearance had upset her.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I should have called. I… I can go and come back later or—”
Shaking her head, she fumbled with the latch on the gate before pushing it open and rushing toward me. Her umbrella caught the wind and flew backward, and she released it, seemingly unconcerned. She came within a foot of me and stopped, putting a hand to her heart.
“Landon? You’re really here?”
I nodded, unsure of what else to say.
Mom pounced, wrapping her arms around me. Her small body shook as she sobbed into my chest. I awkwardly patted her on the back, wondering what to do.
