The old fence in the backyard has been patched with newer pickets that stand out even in the dim illumination provided by the streetlights. They’re a bright white among the dingy, worn paint of the others. The grass needs to be cut too. I imagine that’s what my father would be doing this weekend if he weren’t headed out for a conference. Vaguely I wonder what conference it is. If I was earlier in my career, I’d have already texted him and would have preferred to spend my weekend at the conference rather than the dinner and movie plans my sister concocted. That seems like a lifetime ago too.
Sitting back in my car I stare up at the two-story family home with dark red brick and cream shutters. So many memories are carved into the walls of this house. Good ones and bad ones both, but right now, all I can envision are the times I smiled along with my sister.
As our mother did our hair at the kitchen sink and all the games of hide-and-seek that drove my father crazy. All the good times do little to settle the sadness that lingers in my chest. It’s a weight that won’t move and maybe that’s because back then, there was so much hope. So much innocence.
All I can think is that little girl I used to be would be horrified by who I’ve become.
My eyes burn with the sting of exhaustion and something else. I grab my purse, leaving my luggage and coat where they are even though I’m certain it’s bitter cold out there. It’s always ten degrees colder up here than it is down in Pennsylvania.
There’s an ominous feeling that greets me as I approach. After the large front door creaks open and shuts just as easily, there’s only silence in the large old house. I can’t remember a single time when it was this dark and quiet. “Hello?” I call out and expect my mother to shout down from upstairs. Maybe she’s still getting ready.
The lights being out in the foyer doesn’t help that strange feeling, so I flick them on as I call out for my mother, “Mom?”
A torn sob echoes from somewhere to the left, beyond the kitchen. I think it came from the living room.
“Mom?” I repeat, crying out as dread spreads through me and I pick up my pace. My keys rattle in my hands and my purse nearly slips as I get to the threshold.
My mother’s there, on her knees on the floor and she doesn’t stop crying as I approach. It’s like she can’t hear me.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” The moment the question is asked, my heart stops. There’s blood. So much blood. But it’s not touching her. I follow the pool and find it leads to my father. My purse drops along with my keys as my knees hit the stone floor hard.
My hands shake and I make my way toward him, inching myself along with my hands in the air as if to reach for him but they’re held back.
There’s so much blood and the smear of it in front of me, a smear from his leg being dragged through it is dried. With my right hand trembling, I place my palm on his back.
My mother’s sobs still haven’t stopped. My name is incoherent in her last cry as she rocks back and forth.
Breathe. He doesn’t.
Tears flow freely down my face, stinging my eyes.
“Dad,” I call out and then with the back of my hand, I press my fingers to his cheek. The second that skin touches skin, I pull back and push myself away.
His skin is cold as ice.
Thud, thud, my heart pounds and attempts to race, but it’s like it’s caught in free fall. It can’t speed up or slow down, it simply is what it is.
“Mom … what happened?” My question’s strength is nonexistent. It’s faint and full of the same fear that courses through my body.
Until I see the glint of metal next to my mother. A gun.
“You shot him?” I don’t know how I’m even able to question her. It’s not real. Of course she didn’t. She wouldn’t kill him. She can’t kill anyone. It’s my mother.
Before I can apologize, my mom speaks.
“I had to, baby girl,” my mother cries, tears streaming down her face, dragging the remains of mascara with it. With a sniff and a harsh wipe across her face, my mother’s dark brown gaze stares down at