Kensie
The closer I approached my childhood home, the queasier my stomach grew. I hadn’t told my parents that I was coming in case I changed my mind. It’s been two years since I visited them, and they’d only been to Houston a couple of times once I graduated from college and decided not to return to Shreveport. After the disastrous visit with Canaan two days ago, I resolved to start living again, to push forward with my career, and to rebuild my personal life. And it started with my parents.
Our home had been remodeled and expanded to a four-bedroom house with a deck, up from a three-bedroom house. From the outside, we appeared to be the ideal family. A married couple, both heavily involved in the church, with their only daughter, an honor student and a member of the choir. No one knew that my parents were barely civil to each other and ignored me since I was a quiet child, comfortable in solitude.
When I pulled into the driveway behind my father’s Ford pickup truck, the porch door opened, and my mother, who could pass as my sister, walked out. “Kensie, you didn’t tell us you were coming.”
I opened the door and climbed out of my car. “At the last minute, I wanted to see you. Is that okay?”
Mama pushed her microbraids behind her ears impatiently. “Of course, it is. Don’t know why you don’t visit more often. We’re always home.” We met in the middle and hugged stiffly.
“Is Daddy here?” I looked around her to the porch.
She waved her hand. “I wish he would go somewhere sometimes. Always in the house, bothering me when he’s not on the boat. I’ll tell him to get your bags out of the car later.” My father has worked offshore ever since I can remember. He would be gone to the Gulf for two weeks and then home for two weeks. Mama, who was a manager at JCPenney’s, always seemed happier when he was away.
We entered the living area that had been refurnished with a beige leather sectional since the last time I was home. “It looks good in here, Mama.”
She waved her hand. “I know it’s not Houston chic, but I love it.”
Daddy, a husky, dark-skinned man with a bald head and full mustache and beard, walked into the room with a bottle of beer in his hand. “Baby, I didn’t know you were coming. I would have thrown something on the grill.” He smiled and warmly hugged me to him. The Irish Spring soap brought back good memories of how excited I would be to see him when he came home before the inevitable arguments started. “How long are you staying?”
“A couple of days.”
The ends of his smile dipped, though he gestured for me to sit like I was a guest and not his daughter. And in many ways, my childhood home no longer felt that way. “Do you want something to eat? Kim, go warm up that roast from yesterday.”
Mama scoffed. “Your idea, you can warm it up.”
My father’s smile turned into a scowl, and I raised my hands. “I can warm up the food.”
Mama shook her head. “No, no . . . I’ll do it. It’s enough for all of us to eat together. Just sit down and relax. We’re so glad to see you.”
“I’ll help too,” my father volunteered. “It’s not often my baby comes home.”
The blend of sadness and happiness in his tone evoked my guilt, though I knew it wasn’t his intent. “I’m glad to see you too.” I hugged him again.
And for a second, I felt like the beloved only child of Al and Kim Garrett.
After a full stomach and light conversation about the latest in Shreveport, we headed to the den that hadn’t been updated. The brown sofa next to my father’s recliner was at least fifteen years old. ESPN blasted in the background as it always did whenever my father was home. This was his man cave more than our family room.
Once we were settled in our places, my father in his recliner and Mama and I on opposite ends of the sofa, I clasped my hands together. “Where do I start?”
“Start what?” Daddy asked.
“Al, she didn’t come all the way here for nothing without calling,” my mother said sharply, shaking her head. “She obviously has something on her mind.”
My father snapped, “It’s a simple question. Don’t know why you have to be so nasty.”
I groaned.
“Because you ask questions when you already know the answers.”
Before he could retort, I hit the cushion beside me. “This is what I’m talking about . . .this.” I gestured to the two of them. “I don’t come home because it reminds me of all the sadness I used to feel growing up here.”
“Sadness?” Mama questioned.
“Yes, sadness. I was sad a lot when I grew up here.”
“You never seemed sad to me. Rarely saw you cry,” Mama said, folding her arms, already guarded.
