Remembered Pt. 4

I try to avoid going to my parents’ house as much as I can. It’s not home to me now, and if it has ever been, memories of a time when I could feel truly safe within those walls are gossamer now. But that sounds silly, especially given that I still only live down the hill. I guess I got as far away as I could without really changing anything. My natural avoidance of that house is one reason it feels so odd when I pull through the car wash and it stares back at me. I don’t even remember driving up the hill, but I had chosen, without thinking, to avoid the nice, standalone car wash I normally used near my apartment.

Everything about their house is so familiar, ingrained into my very being, but in the setting sunlight, it seems new, like a friend I haven’t seen in too long. New cars park in the driveway, unfamiliar furniture peaks through the windows, and they have hung a tire swing to the Maple in the front yard. That is a nice touch at least, why didn’t we think of that? I slowly pull up to the curb behind the mailbox. We had always kept a simple black box bolted to a 4x4 post of sickly green treated wood, but they replaced it with a shiny new fixture, leaves curling along its wrought-iron post. They had only been here a month and already they take better care of the house than we had. The house looks welcoming now, but it makes me a little sick.

By this point, I am decided, though my steps are heavy as I get out of my car. I shuffle up the driveway, immediately self-conscious. How must I appear to this nice, normal family? They probably won’t think much of me, to be honest, but I cannot help but imagine them questioning my presence in their yard. Besides, approaching a stranger’s house, as weird as it was to think of it as someone else’s, always makes me uncomfortable. Approaching anyone makes me uncomfortable, honestly. As long as I can remember, I have felt a pit in my stomach whenever I fail to escape someone and actually have to talk to them.

If I could, I would convince myself that this is not social awkwardness or some childish insecurity; it feels like a magnet lodges in my torso and, attracted to the earth by some ominous force, it drags against my every effort to appear normal. Sometimes the magnet wins, stopping my mouth from forming coherent words, or keeping my face from managing a smile.

I felt this weight so strongly as I stand on my own doorstep, a known place that feels so foreign, that I imagine my — their — porch can no longer hold me. The boards splinter, then stretch, snapping back into place with a sound like licked lips after they swallow every sinking inch of me.

“Hello?”

I must have already rung the bell. I shake my head, hoping to not look too disoriented, and look at the kid standing in front of me. He is just an inch or two shorter than me, though he cannot be older than 12; he has the stretched-thin look of a child stuck halfway towards becoming an adult.

“Are you okay?”

I muster all my concentration, “Yeah, I’m fine, sorry about that.” I don’t know how I expect him to respond, but for some reason, I wait, until his expectant face reminds me to continue. “I actually used to live here, before you moved in. It looks great by the way.” I gesture with what I hope is not a feeble wave in the general direction of the yard. The boy just puts his hands in his pockets, not irritated, just about done with me, and a little confused.

“Are your parents here?”

“No, they have church group on Wednesdays…”

I nod. My question must sound as weird as it feels because he steps back from the door and says, “What can I help you with?”

“Right, sorry. I actually left something here the other day when we were moving out, could I come in and get it?”

The kid grabs the door handle and ever-so-slightly closes the door. “I don’t know, could you come back another time?”

“It’s actually a box of pictures. That my dad took before he died.” He softens slightly at this but keeps his hands still. “I know this is weird, but it would only take me a few minutes.”

“I don’t think we saw anything like that when we moved in, I’m sure we would have noticed a box.”

“I…” I take a second, trying to decide what to do. I had not planned any of this, so being rebuffed further scatters my already disparate thoughts. “I understand. Would it be possible for me to leave my number? Maybe your folks could give me a call if they see anything.”

The kid nods and looks at me. My brain finally realizes that he’s waiting for me. I start, and say, “Would you mind grabbing some paper and a pen? I don’t have anything with me.” He nods again and shuts the door as he walks back into the house. I probably have just a few seconds, so I pray they haven’t found the spare key we always kept underneath a loose piece of trim along the base of the house. I bend and pull back the new mulch…it’s still here! The key just barely hits the bottom of my pocket before the boy opens the door.

“Here you go.” He hands me the pen and paper and I write a fake number against the door jam. It wouldn’t be too hard to track me down, but I figure the less they know about me, the better. Pulling my hands back, I hold the paper, folding it in half. “Thank you again, I…” I look down at my hands and realize that I’ve already folded the paper four times into the size of my thumb.

Glad I caught myself before I started mindlessly tearing it apart, I hand the pen and paper back to him. “Those pictures mean a lot. Thanks for your help.”
He nods and takes a wary step back into the house. Before he can retreat fully, I move without thinking. My foot presses against the bottom of the door, holding it ajar long enough for me to reach a hand out. “My name is Ennis.”
Leave it to the kid to have more social graces than me. He reaches to meet my hand and shakes it firmly, his hand not nearly as sweaty or shaking as mine. “I’m Simon.” He continues to close the door and says, “Thanks for stopping by, we’ll let you know if we find anything.” Thankful for a clear exit, I nod, wave, and turn back to my car.

Another terrible interaction with a fellow human.

Next Part

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