Page 96 of I Saw Her First
A weary sigh gusts out of me. “I know.”
“And as for dinner—”
“It’s fine.” I set my soda can down, wanting nothing more than to get away from the people in front of me. “I’m actually quite tired,” I say, despite it being no later than 5 p.m. “I might head up to bed.”
Dad just grunts again, and Mom looks relieved.
I direct a tight smile their way and scoop my duffel bag from the floor, turning to go. “Goodnight.”
“Night,” Mom calls, and as I begin up the stairs, I hear her mutter to Dad, “I don’t know what she’s doing here. It’s very odd.”
I pass my brother’s room, untouched since high school, like a time capsule designed to preserve every aspect of my brother’s life, but when I come to my room, they’re cleared it completely; my photo wall has been taken down, my bed moved to a different corner, with a different comforter. My desk is gone, my dresser replaced with an elliptical machine. My books, my clothes, my knick-knacks… Every trace of my existence erased, as if I’d never lived here at all.
As if they couldn’t wait for me to be gone.
I know I’m the one who left. I know we fought. But they’ve kept every scrap of Brad’s room intact. I might not be perfect, but I’m still theirchild.
Except, it never really felt like that, did it? I always felt like I belonged more with the Walkers; that’s why it hit me so hard when they died. And maybe my parents knew that. Maybe they resented it and wanted to punish me for it.
I shove the door closed and collapse onto the guest bed as tears flood my cheeks. If I’ve ever had any doubt about my decision to cut off contact with my parents and move to the city all those years ago, it’s gone now. They can’t even muster thepretenseof enthusiasm at my being here. And while I’m not surprised, I can’t say it doesn’t hurt.
It doesn’t matter how old you get, how independent, every child wants their parents to love them. To care about them. To be happy to see them.
My mind flashes on Weston, on the way his face lit up when he talked about how great it was to reconnect with Jess. What must it be like, I wonder, to have a father who is that delighted to have you in his life? A mother who would do almost anything for you?
I don’t know. But I do know that I can’t be the thing that comes between Jess and his father. I can’t live with the guilt that eats away at me, knowing I’m what drove them apart.
I curl into the mattress, letting the tears fall freely, suddenly exhausted after the confrontation with Jess last night, after hardly sleeping since, after spending hours on the bus. Then that cold reception from my parents…
I’m so worn down, so disheartened by the unfairness of my life. Finally, I find a man who makes me feel loved in ways I could never have thought possible, a man who helps me reconnect with the thing that brings me more joy than anything.
And what happens? I fuck it all up. Jess finds my photos and my life implodes. What was I thinking, even developing those photos?
Hell, what was I thinking even picking up a camera again? Photography has done nothing but get me into trouble, every single time. I should have known better than to chase that dream again.
And when I think about that, my mind returns to the Walkers, to the people who believed in me and encouraged me. To the family I had, for such a short time, and lost.
I wriggle under the comforter and pull it over my head, letting the pillow soak up my tears. I’m not welcome in this house, and yet I can’t imagine going back to my life in the city; my job at Joe’s, my shitty bedroom in Denise’s apartment.
A life without the man I love.
All I can do is cry, and hope I sleep through the night.
It’s earlywhen I wake. My head hurts, my eyes puffy and sore from my crying jag last night. I peel myself from the bed, tiptoe along the hall to the bathroom, and splash water on my face. I can’t bring myself to look at my reflection.
In the kitchen, I switch on the coffee machine and listen to it drip while looking out over the backyard. The sun peeks through the hedge that borders what used to be the Walkers’ yard and ours, and after pouring my coffee, I take my cup and step into the cool morning air. The leaves of the red maple tree glow burgundy in the early morning light, and I pick one up from the grass, twirling it in my hand. When I look up at the branches, the sun pours through in beautiful shafts of light, andthe photographer in me aches to pick up my camera and capture it.
I shove the thought away, looking into the dark steaming liquid in my mug. I don’t know what I’m doing here, why I was drawn back here. What did I possibly hope to achieve?
But when I glance up and spy the Walkers’ old backyard through the fence, realization dawns inside me like the sun rising through the trees.
I didn’t come back here to see my parents. I came back to reconnect with the Walkers. With the person I was back then.
WithDaisy.
I peek over the hedge into their old yard. It’s early enough that whoever lives there is probably still asleep, and I push through an opening in the hedge to their side. The garden is nothing like I remember; the wildflowers that Willow had so lovingly nurtured are gone. In their place sit neatly boxed rows of roses, tulips, and other flowers that are far too fancy for themselves. They’ve even taken down the huge oak tree that Beth and I used to climb.
My heart falls and I turn to go, when my gaze snags on a profusion of large daisies clustered along the back fence. The very same ones that Willow named me for. They’re far enough back from the house that the new owners probably don’t bother taming them, and I couldn’t be more glad. I set my coffee down and kneel among them, my heart brimming with joy.
