Homecoming
My parents and I weren’t close; we hadn’t been for several years. Once I was out of the house and could afford to pay for my own groceries, they liked to pretend I didn’t exist. Funny how things like that happen: kids grow up and become their own people, and one day you’re the cousin the family doesn’t talk about at holidays. I can’t put those decades of tension and fighting down on paper – at least not in any way that makes sense. To make a long story short, we weren’t on talking terms.
So after nearly ten years of little to no contact with them, their sudden death felt somewhat like a dream. Maybe not a dream; more like deja vu. Like something I had seen before but forgotten about until I was picking up that phone call from the county medical examiner.
Anyways – it was a car accident. As an only child, the funeral arrangements had naturally fallen to me. It had been easy enough to excuse myself from it; my aunts and uncles were more than eager to take on that responsibility and return to ostracizing me. My only requirement as the freshly orphaned and long estranged child was that I attend the funeral – which I did silently and without question, sitting in the farthest pew back – and deal with the home.
The house my parents left behind – my childhood home and everything still in it – unfortunately, fell only to me. I could neither avoid it nor pass it on to anyone else. So the day of the funeral, when they had been in the ground for little more than a few hours – I tucked myself and my black suit behind the steering wheel and gripped it with a finality that chilled me to the core.
I’m going home, I thought, the horror dawning on me as I watched the cemetery shrink in the rearview mirror. God help me, I’m going home.
–
Have you ever noticed how time changes everything but your hometown? Cruising up the exit ramp on the freeway, it’s like I’m thrown back by about twenty years – back to when my entire world stretched only from my front porch to the end of the block. I even get held up by a line of yellow school buses pulling out of my former high school’s parking lot. Coasting through my old subdivision, it’s like I can still see phantoms of a younger me cycling down the sidewalks or playing in the sprinklers.
Considering all that, it isn’t surprising that my childhood home also remained impervious to the passage of time. It’s so similar to how I left it all those years ago that when I shut the front door behind me, I find myself reaching for my shoulders, as if to take off my backpack after a day at school.
I’ve never known a silence to be this loud. It looks nearly identical to the house that haunted my memories, but it feels hollow now that my parents are dead and gone. Taking my first few steps in, I find myself noticing the little things. I stare for a long time at Dad’s gym shoes in the mudroom. A book I assume my mother was reading is propped open on an armchair. Mail lays unopened on the kitchen counter. The clock in the hallway has been ticking, keeps ticking, and will keep ticking.
Stubbornly resisting the urge to get lost in memories, I put on the coffee pot and go about unloading several broken-down boxes from my car. I’ll start in the bedroom, with their clothes, which will be packed up and donated. That should be easy enough. Their wardrobe should make for some young college student’s vintage dream. From there – maybe the kitchen or the bathroom – throwing away anything I can’t donate or sell.
I don’t even think about the room at the end of the hallway. I can’t face it yet.
–
The whole process is harder than I thought it would be. My mother’s clothes still smell of her perfume. I found some coins in the pockets of my father’s pants – he would pick up the ones he saw lying on the ground. It used to drive my mother insane when he’d forget to take them out at the end of the day. They’d get thrown in the washer with the rest of his clothes, and they’d make this loud dinging racket as they got flung around in there. But it never deterred him; he believed they were good luck – silly things like that.
But none of that is the worst part.
In the evening, I settle in my father’s armchair in the living room with a drink I’ve poured from the same liquor cabinet I used to sneak bottles out of in high school. The curtains are half-drawn over the windows and the indigo twilight outside. I turn on the television to cover up the deafening silence of the house, and find it already tuned to the local news station. The man on the screen is the anchor my mother always referred to as “such a handsome man”.
On the end table next to me, is a framed photo. The orange lamplight casts a glare over the glass, so that the smiling faces of my parents are obscured, but the figure between them isn’t. She’s a little girl, only nine in the photo, her hair still fine and shiny. She wears a shapeless, floral-patterned dress that matches her flowered headband. Her eyes bore into mine and leave me feeling burned, raw, torn open and flayed.
I reach over and slam the photo down.
Just as I do that, there’s a creak from the end of the hallway.
I freeze in the chair, my breath catching in my throat. Leaning out of the chair, I have to crane my neck in order to see down the hallway without getting up.
At the end of the hall, the door stands ajar.
I stare at it a long time before eventually standing.
Moving down the hall towards the room, my skin buzzes with the feeling of someone’s eyes on me. I reach to grab the doorknob and go still, the floorboards creaking beneath my step. I mean to shut the light off and close the door, honestly. But the room inside pulls at me. My eyes catch on the sliver of carpet inside the doorway and I just can’t help it. I push the door open.
It’s like not even a day has passed. The pale pink bedspread on the twin size mattress, the collection of stuffed animals in the corner. The white bookshelf and vanity, decorated with porcelain figurines. Her school photos, her art projects, her report cards. All framed and hung on the wall.
What the fuck?
I’m dumbfounded. I’m furious. Ten years. Ten years, and they kept her stuff up? They cut me off completely, acted like I never even existed, meanwhile they’ve made an entire shrine to a daughter that’s long gone?
My deep-seated anger at my parents had lain dormant most of the day, but it swells suddenly into an uproar, threatening to choke me. My grip on the doorknob tightens, my knuckles going white. I’m just about to slam the door shut and storm off to bed when something catches my eye.
Several colored pencils lay strewn across the floor at the foot of her bed. And amidst the mess, a child’s sketchpad lay open. My breath leaves my body in one smooth exhale. I take a few tentative steps into the room to get a closer look.
I feel my blood turn to ice.
Written on the open page, in large childish scrawl, is a single phrase.
Welcome Home.
–
“You don’t have to do this y’know.”
It’s my wife, on the phone that’s currently slipping between my shoulder and my ear. I’m tediously descending the pull-down stairs while balancing the last few boxes from the attic in my arms.
“I already passed on planning the funeral, I can’t just leave the house here.”
“You said it yourself, your aunt would love to clear that place out!”
“Yeah, but I’d never hear the end of it,” I groan, letting the boxes hit the carpeted floor.
“Besides,” I wipe my brow and readjust the phone to my ear, “this is actually going pretty smooth.”
She hums, obviously suspicious. “And you’re doing okay?”
I take a breath in, “Yeah, I’m fine.”
She doesn’t buy it for even a second. “I knew I should’ve gone with you. You should’ve just let me come with you!”
I kneel down to start going through the boxes. The thought of her seeing the home I grew up in makes me want to curl up into a ball and hide. The only thing she knows about this place is the little I’ve said about it. I’ve never gone into detail about my childhood with her. I hated the thought of her seeing this place and knowing that I came from it.
“Honestly, I’m fine, I like the work. It’s a good distraction.”
“I just worry about you in that house all alone.”
“Oh, come on. It’s just a house,” I say even though we both know it isn’t true.
“I just know how hard this is for you,” My wife continues, “Maybe it’s still too soon? Come home for a couple days, the house will still be there whenever you’re ready.”
Slicing open an unmarked box, her voice begins to fade into the background.
Inside are several video tapes, ordered in a neat row next to a large photo album. I pluck a tape from the row and read the handmade label on its side. Lake house, ‘96. It’s written in felt-tip, my mother’s handwriting.
I had completely forgotten about Dad’s interest in video, but now that I think about it; I can specifically remember him shoving his camcorder in my face during my earlier birthdays. That was before everything went digital (and our relationship soured).
I replace the tape and pick up the photo album. It’s the generic kind you’d get anywhere – plain leather, Family Memories embossed on the front in gold script. I thumb the laminated pages idly, debating whether or not to look through the photos inside.
The doorbell rings.
It snaps me out of my reverie like cold water. The realization that someone is at the door comes with a twinge of dread as well as a hint of annoyance. Who could that even be? I look over my shoulder, towards the front of the house, like I can peer through the walls and beams to see who’s there.
Clearing my throat, I realize my wife is still on the phone, then instantly feel bad for having forgotten, “I, uh-” I stand up, my knees aching, “I have to go. Someone’s at the door.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” rounding the corner, I stop and stare down the front door like it’s a threat. “I’ll call you tonight. I love you.”
Not giving myself the time to prepare, I unlock and open the door.
For a moment, I don’t recognize the woman on the porch, and then I’m overcome with a thousand memories at once.
She’s my old neighbor, an aging woman a little over my parent’s age. She used to bake us cookies for the holidays, and her daughter babysat me once when I was little. I haven’t seen her for more than a decade since I left for school. I didn’t know she even still lived in the area.
She seems startled by me, and in her hands is what looks like a casserole covered in aluminum foil. She hesitates, looking me up and down before speaking. “Hi there! I saw the car in the driveway and well-” she holds up the dish, “I thought I’d bring this by.”
She extends the foil wrapped meal towards me and I instinctively take it, even though my mind is struggling to catch up. It occurs to me then that through all of this, no one has offered me any condolences. Not even at the funeral.
“Oh,” I suddenly want to cry. “Thank you.”
“It’s just an old family recipe, my eggplant casserole.”
I’ve had it before. She probably doesn’t remember, so I say nothing.
She puts a hand to her chest and sighs. “Oh, it’s just terrible isn’t it? Just terrible, they were such lovely people.”
I bite my tongue. “They were. Thank you for this.”
She nods. Her eyes dart over my shoulder. “So, are you clearing the house out?”
“Yeah,” I huff an awkward laugh, “lots of stuff here to pack up. You can expect to see an estate sale in a day or two.”
She shifts, her eyes darting over my shoulder again. “Is it just you here?”
I nod, thinking she’s worried about all the work to do. I hope she won’t offer to help, no matter her intentions. “Yeah. But really, it’s no problem, I’m happy to do it. Just a lot of memories here.”
“And their daughter?”
My smile drops. “What?”
“Their daughter! Surely she must have come back to town for their funeral. That poor thing, Lord give her strength, I hope she’s coping well. She was always a sweet girl, and they adored her so-”
I slam the door in her face.
The dish begins to rattle in my trembling hands. Pressing my back to it so my legs don’t give out, I slide slowly down until I’m sitting on the doormat. I spend several minutes taking shaky breaths to calm myself. I don’t stand for a long time.
–
It’s almost four in the morning when I wake up from a dead, dreamless sleep. The room is cloaked in darkness, the only light being the neon green glow from the analog clock on my parent’s nightstand. It takes several moments for me to gather my senses, and it’s only then do I realize just why I’d woken up.
There are voices in the living room.
They’re faint and tinny, and I can’t make out what they’re saying, but there are definitely multiple of them. They sound amused, and casual. Laughter echoes from down the hallway. My dry throat clicks as I swallow, and I sit up.
As I creep out into the hallway, the voices grow louder and clearer, and I realize in horror that they belong to my parents. I imagine the two of them, dead and rotting in the living room – white skulls grinning, waiting for me, beckoning to me to join them. It sends a jolt of dread down my spine. I force the image away.
Coming into the living room, the first thing I notice is that the television is on. The whole room is aglow with bluish light, and the screen reflects glowing squares in the wide front windows. I’m almost startled to not see my parents in the room, and then I realize. The voices are coming from the television.
On the screen, one of my father’s old home videos is playing. The camera is aimed at the floor, and telling by the gray linoleum tiling, it was filmed in the kitchen. My father’s voice is coming from behind the camera, just off screen, and my Mom can be heard from somewhere. They’re laughing. I haven’t heard the sound in years, and it sounds almost alien, echoing through the empty house.
The laughter subsides, and I hear Dad’s voice, ghost-like, “…Alright honey, smile! Look at the camera now!” A blur of movement – Dad moving the camera upwards – before it refocuses and my heart drops.
Her.
She’s maybe three or four – only a toddler. There’s a large painting easel set up, where she’s been haphazardly taking a brush to the canvas. Paint covers her chubby hands and arms, and there are streaks of it down her dress. She turns to the camera, her eyes meet mine, and I feel my breath leave my body. She offers a wide, toothless grin, as my parents coo and fawn behind the camera. Her hair is tied up in two little pigtails, like feathery tufts atop her head.
My eyes start to well up.
Rushing forward, I close the distance between us and collapse to my knees in front of the screen. I jam the power button until the screen goes black and all I can see is my own teary face in its reflection.
And her, waiting behind me.
I’m whipping around just as she opens her mouth to scream into my face, “Murderer!”
The sudden shriek of her voice cuts through the silence of the night, piercing my eardrums so deep I can feel it in my skull. The next few things happen all at once. She screams again and again, her shrill cry echoing through the house like an alarm.
She’s so loud it takes me a second to realize I’m screaming too. I’m screaming and scrambling across the floor on all fours, then I get to my feet and book it from the living room, knocking my leg into the edge of the coffee table. I snatch the car keys off the coffee table. I don’t even close the door behind me. I just sprint barefoot down the driveway and leap into my car and peel out of the neighborhood, all the while her words echo in my head, murderer, murderer, murderer murderer murderer–
–
I know what needs to be done, I just don’t know if I’ll be able to do it.
It’s the day before I leave. Tomorrow the realtor will meet with me and I’ll sign the last of the paperwork and I can be rid of this house for good. But even then, I wouldn’t be leaving guilt free.
I get back to the house after spending a restless night in my car. I had driven and driven until I broke down sobbing at the wheel, my body shaking so bad and my tears obscuring my sight until I had no choice but to pull over or risk dying the same way my parents had.
Shutting the door behind me, my weary body screams at me to just crawl into bed. These last few days have been hell. I hate being back here. But I have a feeling she hates it more.
My scraped-up feet carry me down the hallway to her room. I don’t stop until I’m opening the door and flicking the light on. I look around, my eyes falling on the open closet doors in the corner. I sigh. Walking over, I take a seat on the bed.
“You can come on out. I know you’re in there.”
Silence. The sun that’s rising is turning the gauzy curtains a rosy pink. Despite everything, I roll my eyes. “I don’t know who you think you’re hiding from. You’ve already made your presence very known.”
“Get out of my house.”
There she is. Her sullen, scowling face stares back out at me from where she’s squatting between the clothes. The expression is a bad look on her, with her rosy cheeks and expressive eyes.
I hold my arm out, motioning to her, “Come here.”
She doesn’t budge. “Where are my parents?”
I sigh, lowering my hand to the bedspread. After a moment, I speak. “They’re dead.”
Silence. I let the news settle between us and wait for her to blow up, to scream, to throw a tantrum like little kids do. She doesn’t do any of that, “Liar.” She hisses instead.
“I’m not lying!” My voice rises more than I intend it to. “Come out of there.”
“No. I want my parents.”
“They’re gone.”
“Murderer.”
“It was a car accident. You horrible little brat.”
“No,” she says then, her voice clear as she stands up, pushing the clothes aside. Her gaze doesn’t waver from mine. “Not them. Me. You murdered me.”
She steps out of the closet then, the shadows falling away from her like silk. She’s in a pale pink nightgown, her soft feet bare on the carpet. She doesn’t look nearly as demonic as she had the previous night. She just looks like a girl, young and afraid. I frown sadly.
“No,” I say, as softly as I can muster. “No. I didn’t kill you. I am you.”
She narrows her eyes, and it’s like she’s seeing me for the first time. Seeing my shorn hair, the slope of my nose, the eyes in my face that match hers. She is seeing all of this and with each second, she is realizing that I’m right. I am her, and she is me. This is our old room. Our old house.
I came out as non-binary in college. Once I was out of the house and out from under my parents’ crushing thumb, I finally realized just how little I knew. About the world, about myself. I was finally able to see myself for everything I really was. It was wonderful. It was frightening. And once I had started, I couldn’t stop.
I had come out to my parents in tears, and they couldn’t bear it – couldn’t bear to see their only child turn into something they couldn’t recognize.
So, they decided they couldn’t know me. They couldn’t know this new, real me. To them, it was like I was killing their beloved daughter. Little did they know the only thing killed was any chance they had of being in my life. And that belief must have stayed here after they died, festering like a wound, spreading like an infection into the walls of this very house.
We stand there for a long time, two versions of the same person. Wretched mirrors of one another. She is everything I was and I am everything she will be.
She looks me up and down and I resist the urge to squirm. In all the fantasies where I met my inner child – which admittedly, were few and far between, inspired usually by bouts of depression – I could never decide how that child-self would feel about who I am now.
I didn’t know I’d ever be finding out.
My child-self only frowns, and I can see the cogs turning in our little head. “I don’t get it.”
A laugh bursts from my throat – I can’t help it. “You and me both, kid.”
“You’re me.”
“In the flesh,” I respond, and then wince. Her eyes keep scanning me, and I start to speak again, eager to fill the silence between us. “We come out in college. So, y’know, you’ve got a few years to go. But I bet it’s already started, huh? That feeling? That you’re not normal?”
I can tell by how her eyes widen that I’ve struck a nerve. So I close my mouth, leave it alone for now. Give it a few more years, a little longer to cook up there. She’ll realize it alright – and it’ll hit us like a ton of bricks.
“If you’re me…” she takes a step closer, “then who am I? What am I?”
“I’m not really sure,” I say, “I think you’re a ghost. A ghost of me – what I used to be anyways.”
“But why?” She says, with a tremble in her voice that I know too well. Slowly, cautiously, she takes a seat on the edge of the bed opposite me. “Why am I here?”
I look up and around, knowing she doesn’t just mean our old room. She means this house – this moment in our time. “Well, if my ghost theory tracks…this is where you died. One way or another.”
She casts a level glare over her shoulder at me, and I shrug. It’s all I have to go off of.
“We look different.”
“Well, duh.” I crack a smile. “No one stays the same forever.”
Her fists clench in the bedspread “Our parents did.”
I let my gaze fall to my hands. The room is so quiet that I half expect to look up and find no one there, until she speaks.
“They didn’t like us. Did they?”
“Well, they loved you so much. Until…you became me.”
The child I used to be looks at me and the unspoken question hangs in the air between us like a shroud.
‘Why?’
I have asked myself the same question a million times over. I have no answer. I never will.
“But that doesn’t matter now,” I say, reaching out across the bed, curling a hand around my child-self’s skinny arm. “It doesn’t matter what they think of us, it never did. Because we love ourselves. We are more than anything they ever said about us.”
She comes to me easily, all that trepidation gone now that she knows who I am. I wrap my arms around her and I’m wrapping my arms around myself as well, giving her the comfort we never had. We fall asleep like that, a little girl in the arms of the person they would soon become. But all that a stranger would see the next morning is one person, asleep on their childhood bed, in a house that used to be home.
K Zalapi-Bull (they/them) is a queer, nonbinary Michigan-based writer and an undergraduate student at MSU studying creative writing with a minor in film studies. They hope to one day write novels and screenplays. They’re new to publishing their work, and their pastimes include reading, writing, and playing Dungeons & Dragons with friends.