“Ivy’s bringing her new beau over to meet your father.I already know Gil.He’s a sweet soul—you’ll love him,” he says.“I’m making lasagna.”
Though lasagna sounds wonderful, I feel myself unraveling at his rapid-fire information.My hands fist at my sides as tension fills me.My father has a romantic partner?Ivy has a new boyfriend?They have plans together?Dinner with Ivy, Dad, and two veritable strangers isn’t the homecoming I anticipated.
My deadpan expression meets his excited one, and he takes me in, his grin falling into concern.“How about I take your bags upstairs, and when you’re ready, you can join me for a cup of tea?Your father’s hibiscus honey blend is lovely.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, but heaves my luggage upstairs.I follow slowly, taking in the familiarity of home.The buttery wood walls, the faint scent of Dad’s teas, and the warm light of his Tiffany-style lamps.It’s minimal, but comfortable.
But there are differences besides Christie.I take in the expansive great room with its practical navy blue sectional—one end covered with folded throw blankets because Ivy and I routinely needed them—and my father’s worn leather chair.His side table is stacked with books and scientific journals, in which he often appears for commentary.But beside his reading materials are paperbacks featuring couples in varying states of undress, Christie’s presumably.A newer leather chair with a matching ottoman has been placed between my father’s side table and the fireplace.
Christie must be important to my father to have his own chair.
I head upstairs, noticing that the formerly barren wall is now covered in framed prints.Not just any prints, but my artwork—drawings that I gave to Dad growing up.A baby turtle hiding in the grass behind our house.A squirrel’s nest I observed while climbing a tree.A cardinal pecking for worms under a bush.
My artwork often helped me express myself when I couldn’t do so otherwise.Only the best drawings from my field journals became gifts, after Henry lit up when I first gave him one, a frog we played with once.
“Frank the Frog.I love it.I’ll keep it always,”he said—a promise I’m sure he didn’t keep.
The absence returns, an ache in my chest.Home sometimes hurts.
“We’ve made some upgrades,” Christie says as I meet him on the landing, “to make it more comfortable.No more twin beds or Ivy’s stuffed animals.”
I turn the corner into the loft bedroom to find a full-sized bed adorned with plush, hotel-style linens in sage and gray.Soft light from the skylights overhead creates rectangles on the bedding.The large windows bring the outside in, and the glass door leads to an outer deck.A cedar chest has been added, and it holds my old notebooks, probably a hundred filled journals, some bursting at duct-taped seams for the many feathers, leaves, dried flowers, and even the occasional dirt or bark sample I tucked within the pages.
Christie hovers over me, as if gauging my reaction.“Your father wanted them kept safe.It must be fun to see all of your journals in one place.”
“Not all,” I correct weakly, “but yes.It’s very organized.”
It’s a wonder that he kept them, let alone stored them so carefully.They’re messy and rudimentary, but these remnants of my past show skill and promise.Instead of trophies, certificates, and acceptable grades, I had these.Being a so-called genius proved detrimental in school.There, I rarely, if ever, felt smart.
My work desk is clean, as if waiting for me, but the shelves above it are still lined with specimen jars and beakers.The small plant clippings I once propagated are now mature plants.The thick vines of a half-dozen varieties of pothos curl along the shelves and climb the wall, latching onto the wooden surface with their aerial roots.They will soon crest the ceiling if I don’t trim it back.
Still, I love plants that go wherever the hell they want.
“I love this room,” Christie coos, opening up the balcony doors with a flourish.“It feels like a treehouse.”
All I can say is, “Yes, it does.”
“I’ll let you get settled,” he says, with a delicate pat on my shoulder.“When you’re ready, come downstairs for tea and nibbles.You must be peckish.”
Christie disappears, and I step outside, reveling in the pines and oaks surrounding me.The viney trellis hangs off the balcony’s side, latched between the railings and the house, and is where I used to climb down and escape, usually to Henry’s house.Sometimes, he climbed up to see me.On closer inspection, I spot a familiar broken slat.Though Henry was slight in his younger years, by tenth grade, he was taller than me.By our senior year, he'd filled into his six-foot-two frame, his branches thick with muscle and his base broad at the shoulders, like a stick-figure, expanded and broadened with lines and colors that added richness and depth.He was exquisite, and, at eighteen, too substantial for the trellis.The wood split when he climbed up it.
“Meet me in the greenhouse.”His words flutter into my thoughts like tired wings.
My fingernails dig into the wood railing as I stare at the overgrown path toward his house.We were back and forth so much then that the trail just appeared underfoot.Now, short grasses fill in what used to be upturned dirt from my boots and his sneakers.His childhood home is a half-mile through the trees to the northwest, a ten-minute walk.
I wonder if he’s there.Somehow, Ifeelhim there, making the ache inside of me gnaw and throb as it grows.I’m a parasite, desperate to reclaim the sanctity of my host.To feel wanted again.To feel… liked.To feel his arms securely around me, holding me in place.
I survived my so-called education by two conditions: first, that it was best to keep my head low and my mouth shut, though I was not very good at either.
My second was Henry.To this day, he’s the only friend I’ve ever had.
I imagine taking our path, making it worn and clear again, and tapping gently on his bedroom window until he stirs and lets me in, sleepy-eyed but smiling to welcome me.
Like it used to be.
Like nothing happened.
Like we could erase the time between.
