The Last Call to Yellow Brook

Mike shimmied out of the backseat of the Ford Focus with a nod of thanks to Harold the Lyft driver, who was now almost a Ben Franklin wealthier after bringing him from the airport terminal to the dilapidated curb now at his feet. His duffle bag, containing enough items to get through the 24-36 hours of his stay, was slung over his left shoulder as he faced his immediate future.

“Well,” he said aloud to himself with a breathy sigh. “Here goes nothing.”

This was the first time Mike had stepped foot in Yellow Brook, Indiana for nearly two decades. Time apparently still passed everywhere else but here, making the 1990’s look like quicksand to the forgotten development of his childhood hometown. The town was, how he described it to his friends in New York City, “30 minutes from Indianapolis and 30 years behind it.” The grass between the road and the sidewalk must have just completed a marathon, with its pale, yellow color desperate for hydration. The sidewalk itself cracked and bowed the entire length of the street, yet somehow still managed to abruptly end before even making it to the intersection, which saw so little traffic it didn’t even warrant a stop sign.

The house itself, in which Mike spent years of his youth, felt foreign and out of place in his mind. The two-story home once boasted a pearly white exterior with lush landscaping and a wooden porch with furniture that welcomed passersby. What was now in front of him featured siding cracked in numerous places while being stained the color of teeth with an aversion to the dentist. The porch was highlighted by broken railing and one idle rocking chair, which almost made Mike sad. It was obvious that his mother either feigned interest in the upkeep or failed after a few attempts.

As he walked up the weed-infested runway to the house, he was caught off-guard by how ridiculous the realtor’s hair was on the sign in the front yard. Coiffed, yet rigid, the hair bled off the sign and was larger than the COMING SOON that was supposed to be the main attraction; it might have reached the Ozone Layer for all Mike knew. He guessed that “Crispin Hendrix” was the type of Indianapolis guy to wear a Rolex on a jog solely on the off chance that he ran into someone he knew and needed to assert his status. Mike hoped he wasn’t becoming one of those guys, but he didn’t dare ask himself the question while knowing the answer. Four emphatic creaks up the porch steps later, he knocked on the door while knowing full well his mother wasn’t going to greet him.

“Michael? Is that you? It’s open!” He heard his mother exclaim, as he anticipated. He opened the door to find the barren kitchen to his right, while he could see his mother sitting in her favorite recliner in the living room to his left. He turned west to give his mother a solemn nod with waves of anxiety beginning to flow through him. A space in which he sprinted around during his youth now felt claustrophobic, his wingspan now almost touching his childhood bedroom on the second floor.

“Hey mom, how’s it going?”

His mother shot him a look out of the sides of her eyes. “If you had to guess, would you say it’s going well?” She said, seemingly pinned between her walker and the chair.

Fair enough, Mike thought. His mother’s cynical wit remained razor-sharp.

She let out a guttural cough that was followed with a heavy sigh. “You know,” she said, searching for the words in the floorboards. “Whether you believe me or not, it really is good to see you.”

“I believe you, Mom.” He didn’t, really. But he didn’t have much other choice to buy into her sincerity. He sat his bag on the floor in front of the loveseat and proceeded to sit down himself — though not before he wiped a layer of something off of it first. He was, after all, wearing a suit that was worth more than all of the furniture surrounding him.

“Why, after all this time,” The words came out with a wheeze as she turned her head to look at him. “Did you never pick up the phone to call?”

“The phone has always worked both ways Mom. It’s been four years since Dad passed and I’ve been on my own for a while now, so you can’t use him as an excuse to avoid conversation.”

“Oh please, not everything is about your father,” she waved him off. “Contrary to his own beliefs, anyway.”

Mike now searched for answers from the floor, incredulous at how some things never change, no matter how much he thought they had in his head. He always resented his mother for making him choose parents when he was young, leading to rare, strained conversations as time passed. Now that he was older, he realized they were absolutely in an impossible position while navigating a loveless marriage. Yet being forced to carry that weight for 19 years had taken its toll on Mike, and he wanted answers.

A few seconds of stubborn silence passed. Mike looked up and caught his mother’s eyes, asking, “Did you hate Dad more than you loved me?”

“Of course not! I loved you every second of every day. That’s why I let you make your own decision, no matter how much it…” she began to sniffle and stare out the window. “No matter how much it hurt me.”

“Ok, Mom, the theatrics are not really necessary.” Mike said, eyes rolling. Yet when his mother looked back at him from the window, he knew she was serious.

“Your father was the one who wasn’t opposed to having another child,” she said. Bringing Carrie into this conversation put a sour taste in Mike’s mouth. His older sister, five years his senior, always made him feel like a human landfill for his lack of willingness to hash things out with their mother. “You were an accident, and I was worried I wouldn’t have enough love to go around, as stupid as that sounds.”

“Then why did you go the opposite direction and continue to be so hard on me?” Mike asked, eyes beginning to sweat on a brisk fall day.

His mother paused. “I, I honestly don’t know.” She was exasperated and had seemed to give up on the conversation. “I just wish we could have talked about this sooner to figure things out.”

Mike rested his head in his hands. “Me too, Mom,” he mustered through silent sobs. “I’m sorry.” He realized he held the answers he was searching for, but ruined things at the hands of his own pride. As he began to come to terms with that notion, the door creaked once again as he turned to see a startled Carrie in a gothic dress staring at him.

“What the hell, man?! You didn’t tell me you were here,” she said, gasping to reclaim her breath. “What are you doing?”

“I was trying to get some closure with mom.”

Carrie looked around the room, wondering what he was talking about. “Well, you did miss the funeral so that’s probably best from a karma standpoint.” She walked over and grabbed his shoulder, guiding him out of the room. “Come on, you can help me with these,” she said, lightly shaking the urn in her right hand.

They walked outside to spread the ashes on the backyard of the place his mother loved; a place he wished he had gotten to remember more fondly. The gray specks ceremoniously flowed through the grass, waiting for the next gust of wind to push them in a new direction. Mike couldn’t help but understand the forces guiding them from experience. After all, once they made their way out of Yellow Brook, the odds of a return were slim. Yet if, if they found their way back, maybe there was a reason why.