Chapter 3: Homecoming
I was poked awake by a cold finger on my arm and I pried my eyes open, only to find myself face to face with a short, pale-skinned blonde woman in a flight attendants uniform, who was staring at me with a tight-lipped smile.
"Rise and shine," she chirped, "we've made it to Seattle." I rubbed my eyes and began to move slowly. I hadn't slept a wink last night. By the time I had reached the police station, it was nearly one o'clock in the morning and I needed to be on my way to the airport a few short hours later. I had, instead, spent my time talking to Cheryl about whatever topic we could think of. I had been so thankful that she stayed with me and I had actually developed a sort of friendship with the woman. I rubbed my eyes and pulled myself slowly from my chair, pulling my backpack out from under the seat in front of me and righting myself. I followed the flight attendant down the now empty aisle and exited the plane carefully. I pulled my phone from the front pocket of my backpack and powered it on. As I walked to baggage claim, I texted Michael a quick, 'im here,' and tried to calm my nerves as I navigated the airport terminal, making my way to the baggage claim area. It had been fourteen years since I'd seen my father, and I couldn't help but wonder if I would meet his expectations. My phone vibrated. 'me 2. by carousel 3.' I glanced around quickly and found the baggage claim carousel in question. Not many people were standing around it and the majority of those that were there were pale as snow. One man, however, was deeply tanned. His face, which I recognized from the news video, was kind looking. It lit up when his gaze landed on me and he smiled wider than I had ever thought possible. He ran toward me, taking me up in his arms and spinning me around. When he set me down, I saw tears streaking his face and he brushed some from my cheeks that I wasn't aware had fallen. I noticed my suitcase and guitar case getting ready to pass me on the baggage carousel and I grabbed at them. Michael took my suitcase from my hand and held it for me, wrapping his free arm around my shoulder as he led me out into the parking lot. The sky was dark with storm clouds that looked so heavy with rain that they could burst any second. Michael opened the door of a grey truck for me and then ran around to the driver side. After placing my suitcase in the back seat, where I also set my guitar, he got in his seat and started the engine. The heater kicked on immediately and it was then I realized how cold I really was. When I was leaving Atlanta, it had already been heating up and I had simply dressed in jean shorts and a t-shirt. Michael laughed deeply as I shivered and glared at the sky out the window.
"You'll get used to it," he said as he pulled onto a highway.
"It's not always like this is it?" I asked. He chuckled again and I groaned. A silence settled in the truck and I grasped for something to say.
"So tell me about yourself," he mercifully broke the silence, "I, unfortunately, don't know anything about you." I pondered his statement and, for a moment, I wondered if calling him was the right decision. I had been getting by ok with my mother, no matter how intense her breakdowns may have been. Now I found myself at the doorstep of a new life – one that I felt like I was jumping into with my eyes closed. I pushed the doubts away quickly, telling myself that this was a good thing. I deserve to be happy.
"Well," I started, "I'm not sure where to start…" Now that we had found a new topic, I had no idea how to approach it.
"Let's start with the basics. You are going to be eighteen soon right?" I was shocked that he would remember.
"Yes. March third."
"Do you enjoy school?"
"I did. I actually just graduated. School was kind of my escape." He glanced at me as he continued down the highway. I saw a slight bit of concern in his eyes and realized I had opened up a topic that I wasn't ready to tackle quite yet.
"What do you do for a living?" I asked quickly, hoping he would abandon the inevitable conversation about my mother, even if it were just for a little while. I think he understood.
"I am a contractor. I own a small company in Forks." I nodded and smiled when he smiled at me.
"That's really cool."
"What about you? Any sort of job back in Georgia?" he asked. I nodded again.
"I've been working in a small clothing shop since I was fourteen." I thought back to the friends had made there and my heart ached at the thought of not saying goodbye.
"Wow. I'm proud of you for holding a job that long. That's very responsible of you."
"Thanks." Even though I was forced to leave out the fact that I had held a job in order to keep food on the table and that the clothing store had been paying me under the table - which my mother had insisted on - I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. That was the first real compliment I had received from someone that wasn't a teacher. It was nice but, at the same time, it felt so strange.
"Enough of the serious stuff, what's your favorite color?" We laughed together, the sound filing the cab of the truck.
"Purple," I said, still giggling a bit at the randomness of his question.
"Oh, me too," he said grinning. Well that might explain it, I mused as I recalled my mothers disgust of everything purple.
"Do you like sports?" His questioning voice broke me from my thoughts.
"Oh hell yeah! Football is my sport."
"That's my girl. Who's your team?"
"Cowboys all the way," I said, trying to hide my smile over the "my girl" comment, "please don't tell me you are a Seahawks fan. I may have to find a new place of residence." He laughed again, that deep, consuming laugh.
"No dear, you are safe. Dallas is my team as well." We spent the next two hours discussing our favorite players and debated the effectiveness of having Romo as quarterback. We eventually passed by a sign that said "Welcome to Forks" and the gravity of the change I was about to encounter hit me full-force and I started to grow excited and impatient. I had done my research and found that La Push was a small Indian reservation just outside of Forks.
"So," I said carefully, "you're my father?"
He looked at me a moment and smiled, patting my fidgeting hands.
"I am. I'm so happy to finally bring you home," he said, growing a bit misty-eyed. I beamed at him, trying to convey my joy. I think I was just as happy to be coming home. In no time, the truck was being put into park in front of a beautiful house. He got out and grabbed my bags from the backseat as I sat, staring in awe. The house looked a bit like a two story cabin, wooden with stone around the base. It had large windows on the lower level and two smaller ones upstairs. It looked like what I would expect at a ski resort. A tap on the window next to me pulled me out of my trance and I looked through it to see my father smiling widely at me. I opened my door, slid out, and put my backpack on my shoulders, before opening the back door and pulling out my guitar. We walked up the front porch steps and my father unlocked the door.
"Welcome home," he said softly as he pushed the door open and gestured for me to follow him inside. The house was much bigger than it looked from the outside. The first floor was very open, with the kitchen and dining are on my right and a large living room straight ahead. The large L-shaped sofa looked inviting to my tired body and I fought the urge to go nap on it as I shut the door behind me. My father directed me towards the staircase directly to my left. He stopped at the first landing briefly – possibly to be sure I was still following and hadn't given into my sleepy urges – and turned to his right to continue up the rest of the stairs. At the top was a hallway and my father went to the end of it to the last door. He opened it, stepping to the side. I walked into the room and he followed, putting my bag on the simple white bedspread that looked freshly laid across the large wooden bed. In the room, besides the bed, were a matching side table, dresser and desk. The hardwood floors looked shiny and new and the white walls seemed to shine in the sunlight that was coming through the glass double-doors in the center of the back wall. I smiled as my father scratched the back of his neck.
"Thank you so much," I said, throwing my arms around him in a hug. He kissed my forehead and his deep laugh echoed in his chest.
"Why don't you unpack," he said, "tomorrow we can look in to new bedding and a little paint for these walls if you'd like." I nodded happily. My father pointed to a sliding door on the wall opposite the bed.
"I put some hangers in your closet," he said, and he gestured to the door on the other ide of the desk that was next to the closet, "and I put some towels in your bathroom." I smiled again and murmured a small "thank you" as I continued to scan the room. He told me he would be in the living room if I needed anything and he left, shutting the door behind him. I stood and looked around again. I was in awe at the way that he had prepared the room for me but I brushed off my surprise and set about to unpack my things. I hung up the few shirts and tank tops I had, along with my one sweater, in the closet. My underwear, pajamas, and shorts went into the dresser. In the shelves of my desk, I stacked my song notebooks and sketchbooks. On top, I set my computer, and I strung the power cord behind the desk and plug it into the wall. Finally, I pulled out my small jewelry box and set it on my dresser. Satisfied I had unpacked everything that belonged in my room, I pulled my suitcase to the bathroom. In the shower, I placed my shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and razor. On the vanity sink went my makeup and hair products and hairbrush. With everything in its place, I set my suitcase and backpack on the floor in the closet and let my guitar lay in its case on bed. I looked around, satisfied that my room felt more like mine. Mine. It felt so foreign to have a place that I could call my own that would actually feel safe. I turned my attention to the double doors. I hesitantly opened one and stepped out, finding myself on a balcony overlooking the backyard and surrounding forest. The sight was enough to leave me breathless. To my left, there was an identical balcony, complete with the same white fencing around it. I assumed that it was connected to my father's room. When it began to drizzle, I stepped back inside and quickly changed into a pair of sweatpants and pulled my sweater from the closet and shrugged it on. I doubled back to the bathroom to check and be sure that the makeup I was using to cover the discoloration of the bruising on my face was still in place. Bless the setting spray that I had settled on using this morning, as it had kept almost everything completely covered. I dabbed just a bit more foundation under a particularly angry looking area just under my eye before gliding to my bedroom door With one last satisfied sigh as I looked around my new home, I went downstairs to find my father. I quietly crept down the stairs and looked down towards the living room. I could see dad sitting on the couch with the phone pressed to his ear and Sports Center muted on the television. It sounded like his conversation was winding down and as I made my way into the living room, I cleared my throat to signal my presence. He said a quick farewell and hung up as he turned to me, smiling softly.
"That was your uncle," he said, "he'd like to see you. Do you think you'd be up to it today?" I grinned widely and nodded. He stood from the couch and clapped his hands together, an excited expression on his face. I followed him out to the truck and got in. After about a minute drive, we pulled up a dirt driveway in front of a small red house. I opened the door and stepped out, just kind of standing there looking at the door. My father appeared next to me, nudging me gently with his elbow, and offering me a small smile. He linked his arm with mine and I felt slightly better. We climbed a few steps to the door and he knocked. My heart sped as the doorknob turned.