The Long Road Home
Author's Note: The characters belong to Charlene Harris.
The stars twinkled brightly as I put my sleeping angels into the back seat. Their faces a true reflection of innocence.
In the distance a night owl hooted as I watched a raccoon meander down the street slipping in and out of the shadows looking for an unsecured garbage cans. Many sights were familiar to me and they would be missed but I knew returning home was the right decision for me and my two small children.
A cool breeze tussled my hair as if calling for me to turn and look at my house for the last time. Climbing the familiar steps of the porch, I tugged a lonely key from my pocket. Turning it over in my hand I noticed for the first and last time the slightly worn spot from where my fingers must have twisting a path as I unlocked the door; something so sturdy and resistant to change had been worn away over time.
I locked the front door pausing as I heard the house shift a little, creaking a loud almost as if someone was walking across the wooden floors. As quickly as the sound came it left leaving a stillness in the early morning air. Slipping the key under the welcome mat didn't cause any sadness that I thought it might have. Instead it made my heart feel lighter than in recent memories.
The new owners would be arriving sometime later in the day. All of the papers had been signed previously that week and per our agreement I was out by Saturday morning. Slowly I turned towards the street which held my long road home. Stepping off the porch, walking the short distance to my car I slid into the driver's seat. Turning the key caused my heart to skip a beat as the silence of the early morning was broken.
The engine roared to life and my sleeping angels hardly stirred as my eyes darted into the rear view mirror. I let the old Buick idle for a few seconds before shifting into reverse. Pulling out of the drive for the last time, I could have sworn the ghost of Bill glaring at me as the flash of my headlights hit the stain glass window. Breathing a heavy sigh of relief I hoped his ghost and most of the memories associated with him would stay locked behind the front door of my old home. They would stay put; far away from where I was heading, hopefully.
Leaving the vast urban subdivision, which I had called home for the past five years, I started to think about the path which lead me to where I was in my life and the same path which laid ahead of me in my future. It was funny how the different paths of everyone I knew twisted, diverged, merged and ran parallel at times.
There had been a ten year hiatus from my true Home while I finished what now seemed like loose ends of my life. I couldn't believe I was returning to Rock Springs, Wyoming. I had vowed never to live there ever again a little over six years ago; this was right after I married. It wasn't like I hadn't visited over those ten years but going for a visit and living there were two different animals.
The miles had flown by and my wipers on the car were struggling to keep up with the on slot of bugs pounding the windshield. I knew I needed to stop, easing the old Buick on to the shoulder. I had travelled just shy of 100 miles into my trip. I am on the outskirts of Springfield Illinois, getting ready to manually scrap off splattered winged creatures from my windshield and headlights. Flicking on my emergency lights, I simultaneously grabbed the roll of paper towels and a bottle of Windex from the passenger seat. I had kept it out when I finished packing up the house for just this reason.
I jump from the car hoping to be as quick as possible. Standing on the highway at 4 in the morning is creepy enough but having extra bugs land on me is about to make me want to crawl out of my skin. I swat frantically at the blood suckers and other things which seemed to be attracted to me. As the shivers slipped up and down my spine my thoughts darts in and out of the crevices of my mind. I have dealt with enough unpleasantness in the past few months which make my imagination run wild at the smallest provocation.
Glancing over my shoulder I think I see two glowing eyes in the distance. It must be a feral cat or something because the area I am in doesn't have any large predators; only the human ones. Shaking the feeling of bugs and other loathsome creatures I jump back into the driver seat and speed down the highway trying to leave feelings and thoughts behind.
The bugs are thick for so early in June, the state has recently recorded huge amounts of rain. This was good and bad all at the same time; good because I am able to see my flowers bloom for the final time before my move and bad because there is standing water where the bugs are likely to hatch out from.
Splat! There goes another one center mass on the windshield. It is a good thing I had added washer fluid the previous day. I hate bugs, creepy crawly slimy bugs. My son on the other hand loves them. Constantly he is finding them in our back yard and brings them into the house showing me his new friends. I blame my brother, Jason, for this.
He had given him a Madagascar hissing cockroach right after the kids allergy testing had been completed. Unluckily for me it is one of two things both kids aren't violently allergic too.
"Jason, the kids weren't allergic to dogs! You could have gotten them a dog and I would have been all good with that!" I protested as he presented my three year old son with the ugly little creature which caused me to flinch in slumber or awakeness.
"Yeah but Sis you aren't squimish with dogs." He beamed as my son gently coaxed the half inch bug from his uncle's hands.
"Yurh the best Unkie Hason." My son mumbled as he petted the cockroach.
Looking accusingly at my brother, "How long do they live?"
"In captivity about four to five years." His grin was evil, pure evil. There was no other description which I could fit at that point.
"Tell me it is like four years and ten months old!" My voice was going into an unpleasant range, even for my ears. His grin broadened with the tone change, he knew how much this creature was effecting me.
"Nope, the dude I bought it from said it is just a baby. It should grow another inch and half to two inches long." Quickly my eyes zeroed in on hard shelled hairless creature and then pierced my brother in the heart with laser like intensity.
"Can't kill either him or me that way Sis." He responded cheerily.
The stupid creature named Scar sat in-between my two angels in the back. True to his word the cockroach had grown to a three inches and seemed to be thriving, at least for another day.
I was in serious need of some coffee. Thankfully I had the forethought of making a huge thermos of it the night before. Cold, scalding hot, luke warm; I really didn't care what temperature it was as long as it was loaded with caffeine, sugar and a dash of cream. I knew by the time the kids would wake up we should be somewhere in Missouri. Deftly, I steered with my knee while I poured myself a cup. It was something I had watched my father do often over the years.
He, Jason, Gran and Pam were the four biggest reasons I was returning home. I missed them. Their quirks, caring, love and friendship. It was one of the biggest hurdles I faced when I moved east. They weren't within arm's reach for me to hold or be held. The stark realities of growing up were swift and without mercy. The past four years hadn't been without joys and friendships but I felt lost. There were a few men whom I settled with their company but none of them had the qualities I was looking for in a partner and only one of them had made it into the house at all. Don't underestimate the power of comparison. Unfortunately my father and brother are two very difficult men to be compared with. Smiling I began thinking about them.
My earliest memory of home was with Gran, Mom, Dad and Jason around the Christmas tree. I must have been four because I entered kindergarten the following autumn. Mom was just diagnosis with cancer and would be going to heaven that spring. Gran moved in with us shortly after the cancer started to ravage Mom; Dad was all about saving her. Regrettably, he had very little energy for me or my brother that year and it took him until I was in first grade to recovery completely.
The tree was beautiful and decorated perfectly. It was one of the last things my mom did before she announced she there was going to be no more treatments, needles or doctors. She was terminal and knew it.
Dad held me on his shoulders as I placed the angel on top of the tree. Jason ran around it throwing tinsel around in clumps as he screamed at the top of his lungs jingle bells and Gran sipped sweet tea in her rocking chair. Come to find years later, as an adult, she always generously laced her sweet tea with vodka! I chuckled to myself as I thought "No wonder how she handled me and Jason as teenagers."
Christmas morning dawned with a thin film of snow over the mountains and a dusting on our front lawn. The two of us crept down the hallway peeking into momma and daddy's room waiting for the signal to race down the stairs to the tree and awaiting gifts. It felt like an eternity as daddy helped momma out of bed. But soon enough we were looking through our stocking and shaking brightly wrapped gifts which magically appeared under the tree during the night. Boxes of every shape and size littered the floor as we rearranged gifts in front of the recipients.
I couldn't read but Jason could. He would hand me a gift instructing me where to deliver it. I was the elf. There were all sorts of gifts to open that morning, no other Christmas held the same magical quality for me until I became a mother myself.
The only vivid present I can still remember is a porcelain doll in a wedding dress. Momma had made it during her time waiting for chemo treatments. Hand sewn salt water pearls raced across the wedding dress, flowers emerged from there strands and lace hemmed every edge. In her spare time, mainly while I napped, she had painted the dolls' face and made the veil. It was one of my most treasured items.
When I left for the University I gently wrapped her in an old flannel shirt of my fathers. Gran had placed it in the attic and it is one of the hidden part of my life I want to unbury with my kids.
Their muffed voices break my train of thought. It is a little before seven and on schedule we are in the little town of St. Joseph, Missouri. Thankfully I have travelled close to another 160 miles nearing the Kansas border before my angels wake up and my bladder begins screaming for relief. Pulling off the highway I see the signs pointing me towards the local McDonalds. I am in desperate need for the bathroom facilities but more importantly mass quantities of Java. The kids need breakfast sandwiches and since I still need to feed myself I had better get one for me too.
Some reason both of them could rarely sleep past seven o'clock which is convenient during the work week but hell on the weekends. Alert and wide eyed they begin their daily assault of questions from the backseat. When I tell them we will be stopping in a few for breakfast and play time they were darn near jumping from their car seats in hopes of being able to play on the plastic equipment. The idea of allowing my kids to run around in a public area while wearing their jammies didn't appease me too much but I didn't have the energy to try wiggling two toddlers into day clothes while sitting in the parking lot.
Once inside they sprinted for the bathroom. Since they both finished potty training I was all about potty breaks. Copley complained that he had to go into the girls room to pee but there was no way I was going to let my son into a strange public bathroom to whiz. After our bathroom break and collection of food, the kids played at the little plastic indoor park while I walked around working the kinks out of my legs.
I had only driven a third of the total distance I needed to go to get home. But I was determined to get at least half way before stopping for the day. I figured I would be able to make it until noon when the kids should lay down and take a nap. We played for another 20 minutes until Copley observed people were staring at him in his jammies and I knew he was feeling self-conscious.
We headed back to the car and settled in for the next five hour ride. They were good and had the benefit of watching movies on my lap top or listening to music on their iPods. I refused to say my kids are spoiled; I am. I don't have to listen to them whine while we are cruising down the road. When they were comfortable, I did the long distance zone. It was like turning my brain on autopilot and still paying attention to the road around me.
There were other memories that flitted across my brain as I travelled down the high way but nothing of the magnitude as that first Christmas. I remember the burial plot where my mother was lowered into the ground and playing in the cemetery like it was a playground. I would play Barbie's with my mother or go whittle on my grandfather's grave and discuss the weather. People always thought I was a little touched in the head growing up and it didn't help when I would go my Gran's bridge club telling everyone within shouting distance what funny joke my long dead Grandfather had told me.
So it goes without saying growing up I didn't have very many friends.
The one friend that had remained so my entire life was Pam. We were inseparable during our school years and even though our paths had diverged after leaving Rock Springs, we were always a phone call away, especially when one of us were in the dumps. My mind focused sharply on the present as I changed lanes going around a semi that had its flashers on. Not wanting to lose speed or adjust my cruise control, I switch lanes and continue up the highway. With that shift so did my thoughts.
It had been a difficult ten years to make something of myself. Someone who I was really proud of with achievements attached to my name. I had finally accepted the facts of my past and was moving forward, facing the ghosts who lingered as the frayed edges of my mind. I had been a wall flower for most of my life, now I was living my life not watching others do so. I had been a follower and infrequently taking the helm of large tasks, now I was returning to run my own clinic with research which was important for me. I had always a planned out the next phase of my life, now I had given it over to a higher power and accepted to walk the path in front of me instead of forcing myself on an unnatural course.
Chuckling to myself I pulled away from the philosophical thoughts. It was what it was and now my life is what it is. Thinking on the "was" part of life caused the corners of my mouth to lift into a smile.
Prior to graduating I had never been to the prom or most of the football games just to watch. I was involved in clubs that would get me ahead of life; it had been all part of a larger scheme of things. I had been to the shooting range with Jason, Dad and Eric on the weekends for fun. There were science fairs, math bowls and lots of homework. I was involved in sports year round; swimming, tennis, hockey and karate. The last I earned a brown belt at the local dojo and was unwilling to go through with the initiation of qualifying for a black belt. Basically every black belt who did the same discipline as me, Kempo Karate, would be invited to spar me. It was typically an all-day event that resulted in a lot of bodily harm. Nope, I loved to spar but I just had a limit to it.
Everything I did was to attract the interest of colleges. Anything that the colleges looked at for entrance into a scholarship or low rates on tuition, I did it. In the spring of my 18th year I did graduate and earned an honor scholarship to the local community college. I had to have scholarships to finish my education because my family, although we weren't poor, by no means were we well off enough for my Dad to pay for college. We lived in the older part of town, not the fancy Victorian looking houses off of the hill. No my house was directly across from the cemetery, hence my ability as a child to sit on my Mom's grave and have long draw out conversations. We were a happy little family my senior year in high school. Jason was at the University of Wyoming finishing his degree in Mining Engineering. Gran, Dad, and I shared our little four bedroom house with my best friend Pam. My best friend was a riot- Pamela Ravencroft.
Although her mom on the other hand was far from a riot; it was more like she caused them. She was subject to schizophrenic attacks of psychosis; it was brutal to see what Mrs. Ravencroft had to endure. This was woman who in her 20's doted on her daughter, who had made us cookies for our second grade Halloween party, was so involved in Pam's life she was our Girl Scout leader from 1st to 5th grade.
All that changed shortly after she turned 30, things started happening. Small things like she would become too depressed to pick Pam up from school, or forget to take a bath for weeks on end. Mr. Ravencroft had been killed in a car accident shortly after these bizarre things started happening at their house, it only compounded the stress Mrs. Ravencroft was under. The community did their best to support and encourage her but within the year she was mainly sitting on the sofa lost in her own reality. Around Christmas our 6th grade year she was placed in hospital for treatment, Southwest Counseling Center up on the hill took her for three weeks and returned a woman who was completely transformed back into the woman we all knew and loved.
Relief was easily seen on everyone's faces as she gently sat at the New Year's feast. Gran had cooked all of Mrs. R's favorite foods as a welcome home, we sat around the big table. There were scars in the wood from past generations and feasts. There was laughter and joy that day at my house. But it was short lived.
For the next seventeen years she was in and out of the various hospitals. Through junior high and high school Pam lived mainly at my house, she would return to her mom's house to check up on her in the afternoons and if she was alright Pam would sleep in her own bedroom but more than likely- especially when her mom was having a serious episode landing Mrs. Ravencroft in the hospital- Pam would have the top bunk in my bedroom.
I was driven throughout high school always studying for the next big test; I had something to prove but I was never certain who I needed to prove it to. Under no circumstances did I considered slowing down and enjoying the social aspect of school. That was Pam's department. Dances, committee's, social clubs, study groups for fun were her extracurricular activities. I hadn't gone through any of the typical social milestones because I thought I didn't need to. My brains would carry me through; this would cause me great angst when I arrived on the east coast near my 21st birthday.
I was so advanced in math, English and science the local teachers had nothing to offer me during my junior year. It was the decision of my dad and administrators' it would be in the best interest for my education if they sent me up the hill to the Community College. It was fondly nick named Wicy Wac.
By the time I graduated high school in the spring, I was considered a sophomore in college. Taking classes year round helped me graduated with my Associates degree a year after high school. Graduating in the top two percent of my class earned another scholarship to the University of Wyoming, to start in the fall. That summer was the last time Pam and I would share a room for more than three days in a row for close to ten years.
For the year while I stayed in town to finish my Associates, Pam went ahead to the University in Laramie. Since she was there a year before me, we never shared a room afterwards, except when we came home for breaks; a rarity for me.
Taking the maximum amount of credits at the University helped me graduate earlier than most of the incoming juniors and gave me an edge at accomplishing my goals; it wasn't an uncommon semester for me to have a 21 credit load. A normal student credit hours would be near 14 for a full time schedule. My schedule was insane and people took a wide berth from me as I would race from one class to the next.
I was blessed with my scholarship because the burden most students had for tuition, dorm or books wasn't a concern. Pocket money wasn't too much of an issue either since I had a work study included in my scholarship. So budgeting money wasn't one of my strong skills until I suddenly found myself alone with adult financial predicaments just shortly before my 25th birthday.
Times of enjoyment or relaxation were brief and more of a family requirement than something I looked forward to. Pam would drag me home for quick weekend trips when she needed back up at home and it was a requirement to return for the two Christmas breaks, fall breaks, and spring breaks. The summer was no time for breaks as far as I was concerned but a chance to rapidly move towards the sheep skin. The one summer I was there I stayed and took a stupid amount of classes. While Pam worked for the chamber of commerce in our home town, I was drowning in chemistry classes. When she came back in the fall starting her junior year, I was finishing my final semester for my undergraduate.
It did take four semesters of class to complete the final two years of college. Working on them consecutively helped me finish a year and half earlier than my high school counterparts. Graduation day was a cold and gloomy affair outside, but my classmates and I were completely hyped to be finishing. I graduated in the top one percent with my Bachelors in Biochemistry and was youngest of my class at twenty and a half years old.
My family was there in the audience cheering me on as I walked across the platform. I couldn't have been happier when I grasped my diploma. The chemistry and biology department were looking for a Teacher's Assistant for the spring and I took the position while studying for my GRE. I passed the huge graduate exam with flying colors and was accepting offers from tons of Universities to come and visit. That summer Pam and I had a Huelva time toad tripping across the country seeing which institution I would attend.
Since I had never been to the East coast, and they were willing to foot the bill for my doctorate, it was a pretty painless decision when choosing my school; University of Baltimore-Maryland. I made my way there in my fuchsia Buick Dad had bought me for my graduation present. The road trip was lonely, as was the next year. I was so involved in my schooling I never had time to stop and enjoy the scenery or any of the benefits of living on the East coast. One day while studying in a very packed library a dark and handsome man approached me about using the other half of my table, I had about every book I ever owned with me and had reserved the table for the two years I should be working on my degree. I was a little pissed about the fact the library could not accommodate everyone that needed to study for spring finals but I adjusted my books and waved to the clean half of the table ungraciously. Gran would have been pissed that I was not more hospitable but to tell the truth; I was a bit worried about acing my up and coming exam than being polite. Over the next two weeks it became a ritual that he would approach, I would clear a space and then we would work in silence. At the end of the two weeks I was automatically leaving 'his' half of the table open. A couple times I had to scowl at undergraduates who would approach the mysterious man's half of the table. By the third week he was bringing me latté's or caffeinated beverages to keep up the vigorous pace of studying. On the last day of the semester two hours before my last final, he introduced himself.
Here is the time line that goes along with this story: