On the Doorstep

The shrill cry of the doorbell as I press. I hold my breath. My scuffed jogging shoes tap the pavement over and over, my nervous disposition is at fault. Never in my life have I been able to sit still. In high school, I fidgeted with the pencils, the desks, anything I could grab. When I got to college it didn’t get much better, especially during the times I would return home. Like now. I don’t blame my parents, my siblings or the rest of my family. How could I? It’s not as if they put the entire burden of their completely fucked up, wretched lives on my twenty-year-old shoulders, expecting me to do something about it. It’s not like they act as though getting into a sub-par college will magically fix everything wrong with us. Oh, never mind. I was thinking of normal, healthy parents. Yes, mine have done all of that. I don’t expect that this night will be any different. So when the doorbell rings, my stomach drops and my leg begins to bounce. I paint a smile on my face and wait.

Hinges creak, screaming like I want to. There in the doorway is my wonderful, brilliant sister, that girl with perfectly tied up hair that allows no loose strands. Her pointed nose is particularly upturned, giving the impression of either pretentiousness or animalistic resemblance. Your pick. She ushers me inside, takes my coat off.

“Nick! It’s so great to see you!” Her voice has a musical quality. 

“It’s good to see you too, Cathy,” I respond with enthusiasm. I shove the bottle of wine I clutched into her arms and brush past her. I have no time for her royal highness, too many other characters to greet before the food came. As soon as I have dodged my sister a fresh challenge appeared: the twins, Neal and Audrey. Multiple squeals later I am wrapped in both of their embraces, their arms wrapped around my neck, leaning into me so much I feel as though I might topple over.

“How have you been?”

“How’s college?”

“You came alone, you aren’t seeing anyone?” Nagging, nagging. They are pigeons, swopping in and following you until they bore and flutter off. Next are the grandparents, my grandma ruffles my hair and explains how worried she was about me because of my horoscope and my grandfather tips his hat and gives me a pat on the back. Sincere, for him. I am almost impressed. This leaves me on a high note, so when I face my parents, I am on the top of a mountain. Leave it to my parents to knock me off, blowing down the entire hillside if they must. My mother barely says a word, she waves but is too engrossed in the television to comment. That unwelcome lump forms in my throat and I hurry into the next room, for once eager to discover what the rest of the house has to offer. There is my father, in the kitchen, bent over a stove regaling Cathy about all of his fascinating exploits to the grocery store and perhaps a football game or two. When he sees me, his gaze hardens. Unlike the others, he does not pretend to like me. He purses his lips and without a word turns his attention back to the food. Cathy leans forward and whispers something in his ear, but I am already on my way out. I know when I am not wanted.

Collapsing beside my mother on the couch along with Neal, I attempt to lose myself in the TV. But it has nothing to offer me, the show she is watching is no more drama than what is about to unfold before my very eyes. Why not speed up the process? So I head back into the kitchen where Cathy and Dad remain along with Grandma, who has already had enough drinks for the entire evening. 

“How is college?” My sister asks, popping a grape from the fruit bowl into her mouth. I shrug.

“Nothing too exciting.” She nods.

“How is your love life?” Now I roll my eyes. I try to refrain from it most of the time, as the urge comes on frequently.

“Fine. No one noteworthy enough to invite. What about you?”

“Oh, you know, the usual.”

“So hopping from clueless boy to boy?” Cathy grins, but before she can even laugh Dad is stepping between us.

“No, no fighting. Come on, Nick, already?” I do not know how to respond to this. Just as confused as I am, Cathy swoops in and says:

“Don’t worry, Dad. He won’t say things like that again.” She is no longer on the verge of laughter.

Thankfully, before I am forced to offer any sort of apology, a timer rings. I release the air I had imprisoned in my mouth and rush from the kitchen. While the food is removed from the oven, stove and even microwave, I help set the table and sit patiently in my chair. It is in the middle of the table, wedged between Grandpa and Cathy. When Dad doles out the food, it is the mashed potatoes that he places closest to me, after which he promptly sits into the seat at the head of the table. No one, not even Grandpa questions the seating chart. For a long time, we eat in silence, the food absorbing all of their previous energy and enthusiasm. All the while, the oppressive silence grows heavier, I can feel it on my shoulders and my breathing grows laboured from the strain. No one else seems to mind, but I know that is just a false pretence. They are excellent pretenders, all of them. 

I fill my plate, then empty it, then fill it again. I raise the fork to my mouth but catch my father’s disapproving stare. I attempt to keep my composure and continue eating, but I hear the clatter of his utensils being set down.

“Son?” His voice makes my skin crawl. So I set down my silverware and fold my hands neatly. If I clench my intertwined fingers hard enough, maybe I won’t yell.

“Yes, Dad?” He clears his throat and looks away. 

“Nothing.” I draw in a breath.

“It is not nothing, you and I both know that. So why don’t you just go ahead and say it.” My father blinks, somehow still feigning innocence. Mom tries to swoop in.

“Now, Nick-”

“No, Mom. This is Dad’s problem he should be the one to fix it.” Dad slams his fist on the table, the forks and knives tremble. His elbow jams into the wood and he jabs a finger at me.

“Don’t you dare. My problem? Are you fucking serious?”

“Dad!” Cathy protests, but this is one of the rare occurrences in which she is ignored.

“We both know what you’re thinking, so just fucking say it!” 

“How dare you talk to me like that?” Now his voice escalates to a yell and he is on his feet, eyes wild. “After everything I have done for you? Trying to cover your tracks, trying to pull together this family at least once more? Do you know how fucking hard I have worked to try to make this family work, or at least make it function? No, of course you don’t. You are just in your own little world, up with the fairies or wherever the hell you go in your dreams. But me? I don’t get that luxury anymore because I don’t sleep. And whose fault is that?”

“Yours!” I scream, leaping to my feet, trying to reach his height. “You did this! It is your fucking fault that it happened! Not mine, yours! Stop putting your fucking shit on me!” As soon as the words leave my mouth, Dad sinks back into his chair and buries his face in his hands, his body suddenly racking with sobs. I throw down my napkin and storm out of the house.

Back on the doorstep, I think about turning back. Consider feeling regret or remorse for that crying man, his tears salting the meal he made for us. No, I cannot be taken by his charade. The others might buy it, they might crowd around him and rub his back, hissing words of comfort. I refuse. Instead, I do not look at the house again. Empty-handed, I turn from the building of a family I once knew and step off the doorstep. I cross the driveway, get into my car, start the engine and drive away into the cool evening. No one chases after me.