Her shouts cause my heart to stutter, not because she’s upset with me, but for the fact that I can hear the terror that has been consuming her for hours.
“I’m sorry, Mommy. I didn’t get any calls or texts. I was at tutoring until four, and then I started to head home.”
“It’s six now, Scarlett! Where were you!?”
“Woah, Woah, Woah. What’s going on?” my father asks, coming through the doorway with boxes of manila folders poking out from the top. He looks exhausted, drooping bags swelling the bottoms of his eyes while the vein in his temple beats uncontrollably.
“Your daughterjustgot home!” Mom shouts, dripping with rain.
“Okay, sweetheart, come inside. It’s pouring rain, and you’re going to get sick.”
“No! No, I am not going inside. I came out here because I was pacing a hole into the living room floor, waiting for our daughter, who doesn’t know a thing about this town, to come home or call me back.”
“Why are you in the rain, though?” he asks, his concern morphing into the subtlest form of amusement.
“Because I needed to cool down, so I don’tstrangleher,” my mother replies, cementing me to the patio with her enraged stare.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I start, coming out into the downpour with her. “I really am. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was coming home and saw these lofts that were for rent. You and dad mentioned me getting a studio to work in when we moved here, so I thought I’d check those out. I’m so sorry.”
The rage in her stare simmers down to slight irritation. Her shoulders deflate, hanging limply as the weight bearing down on them lifts.
“Call me next time,” she orders, pulling me into a fierce embrace, not letting me go until she kisses every inch of my soaking head and face.
I think all is well. My mom is in a good mood again, and I can see she hasn’t burned the fish she’s grilling up. Things are smooth, that is, until my father decides to let me have it next.
“You went off and looked at offices by yourself? What the hell are you thinking, Scarlett? You don’t know what kind of sick bastards are out there! Waiting to snatch up a girl exploring on her own!”
My dad isn’t as easy to calm as my mother is. He’s been around too much and experienced some of the worst horrors to be fazed by my sweet apologies and batting eyes.
“I was careful, Daddy. I promise. I had my pepper spray ready, and my finger was on the trigger the entire time.”
I stand in the rain for ten straight minutes, taking my father’s verbal lashing with cold acceptance.
You were prepared for this, Scarlett. You knew he’d be pissed, but it was all worth it for the possibility of artistic freedom. I could be whoever I want in there, create whatever comes to mind. I always did that anyway, but it was muted, tempered down in case one of my parents decided to walk in. We aren’t prudes by any means, but if my mother walked into my room and witnessed me sculpting or painting a nude man or any sexual act, she’d lose her fucking mind.
My fantasies can come alive in the isolation, and with the tension building up inside me, I feel the need to pop coming soon.
“Where is it?” my father asks, wiping his feet on the mat once we step into the living room.
“Corner of Lemont and Stewart Lane,” I utter, dropping onto a kitchen bar stool. My mom, dripping wet, places a tray of grilled salmon beside me, followed by baked potatoes and roasted vegetables.
I watch, salivating, as she fixes our plates. The issue of my absence seems to have resolved itself, and we eat in peace around the kitchen bar. I listen to my father go on about his day, how he’s searching for a runaway girl who was last seen at a party in the woods near the Providence region.
My mom listens intently. Her horror-stricken face would be a little amusing if it didn’t lead to a second dose of interrogation on my end.
“So, are you thinking about renting the space, Scarlett? I know you’ve been talking about it for years, and with college being a year away, I’d assume you’d like to start building your portfolio a bit more,” my father says, slicing into his fish with his detective stare slicing into me.
This is it, the moment you rehearsed your entire drive home.
“I actually already signed the lease. That’s why it took me so long to get home.”
Silence. No one really tells you how fucking loud it is until you’re drowning in the middle of it.
“And how did you afford that without a cosign? How did you pay for a loft in the first place?” my dad continues, growing more and more suspicious as the conversation goes on.
I smile, genuinely. Payment isn’t something I had to worry much about.
“I paid the first couple of months in cash. And before you flip out again, it was with the money I had saved from babysitting, working at the daycare, and teaching at summer camp.”
