The Long Way Home

My fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against the cold steering wheel as I stopped at the red light. The heater sputtered pitifully, no match for the cold wind blowing snowflakes against my windshield. I clicked the wipers up a notch.

The path was hazy from the flurry, but I knew it by heart. I’d driven it hundreds of times in high school. Now that I was in college, I hadn’t seen the familiar streets in months—not since Mom died in that crash in the summer. Not since Dad followed shortly after while I was away, not even there to see him one last time.

I hesitated as the light flickered to green. It was amazing how one right turn could change so much in just a few months. An empty house was the only thing that awaited me at the end of the long, twisty road. Could a house even be called a home without the people who made it so living in it? I didn’t think so.

A horn tore through the air like a siren, and I jumped, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. I loosed a sharp breath and jerked the wheel to the left sharply instead. The car lurched awkwardly at the sudden change in direction, but I was past caring. I couldn’t go home. Not yet. I wasn’t ready to face the oppressive emptiness that threatened to dig an unending hole in the cavity of my chest.

This path wasn’t foreign to me, but it was more unfamiliar. I took quiet comfort in that.

It didn’t take long to reach my destination, just a few harsh, lonely minutes where all I could hear was my own barely-controlled breaths. I pulled the car to a stop by the crumbled curb in front of a gate. Downton Cemetery.

The gate was closed, not expecting visitors in the middle of a snowstorm, but not locked. The frigid wind bit harshly against my red nose and cheeks as I slammed the car door shut behind me. I pulled my scarf tighter against my face in a pathetic attempt to conserve what little heat was left in my body. It didn’t matter much; I wouldn’t be here long.

The gate opened with a harsh shriek that rushed away alongside the flakes assaulting my senses. I slipped in quickly, now alone with the crunch of my boots in the snow and the howling of the wind. For once, I didn’t hate the piercing sound, not when it seemed to echo the sounds in my heart.

I followed the white blanket to the familiar space. The graves sat side-by-side under one headstone, together in death as they had been in life. I knelt down in front of them, not sure what to say. What could I say? Words would never be enough to express the gnawing grief threatening to swallow me whole.

Would they even hear me?

Would they even care?

I sniffled, wiping my nose as I shivered from the snow soaking into my pants. Tears burned in my eyes, too cold and too hot all at once. I wanted to scream.

“Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad,” I whispered. “Uh, I just wanted to come visit you guys, I guess.”

My voice fizzled out, caught in my throat. The wind picked up, pulling it’s icy fingers through my hair and burrowing into my brain, bringing with it a cold truth. I was truly alone, wasn’t I? For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do.

I dropped my head into my hands heavily. “I don’t know why I’m here, actually. Fuck.” I took a shaky breath. “I think I’d rather be anywhere else, but I don’t know where else to go. I can’t go home. I hate it there.” A shaky laugh spilled from my lips that quickly morphed into a sob. “I wish you were here, Dad. You were supposed to be here so Mom could—” my breath hitched “—so Mom could know we were both safe together. But instead all you left me was some shitty voicemail before you overdosed!”

I slammed my fists into the snow, letting my tears flow freely now. I couldn’t help the way anger bubbled up in my chest, threatening to spill over. I hated myself for being so angry. I hated the way I couldn’t listen to Dad’s voicemail—the last thing he left me—because nothing he said would ever make it any better.

Why couldn’t I focus on the good times? Why couldn’t I remember the way Mom used to braid my hair? Why couldn’t I remember the way Dad used to laugh at my stupid jokes?

“You were supposed to see me graduate college!” I cried. “You were supposed to come to my wedding, and—and threaten the man I loved to make sure he treated me right! Fuck, you were supposed to embarrass me in front of all my friends! You were supposed to call me your little girl even though I’m eighteen years old.”

I curled into myself tightly, tucking my face into my knees. My damp jeans pressed miserably against my skin, but my limbs felt too heavy to move and relieve the uncomfortable pressure.

The next words were hard to form with my numb, chapped lips: “Why did you have to leave me? I don’t want to spend my birthday alone.”

The howling of the wind was the only thing I received in response.

I huffed out a bitter laugh as I wiped the tears from my face.

Finally, when my numb fingers began to hurt and my teeth began to chatter, I dragged myself to my feet and brushed the rest of the snow from my clothes. My eyes darted over the words, tracing over the names engraved in the grey stone. It felt strange, seeing something other than ‘Mom’ or ‘Dad’ there—like I was at a stranger’s grave.

I shifted on my feet, shoving my fists into my pockets. “I’ll see you guys later, I guess,” I mumbled. “Don’t forget about me wherever you are.”

Hastily, I turned on my heel and left the cemetery. The gate seemed quieter this time, but maybe it was drowned out by all the noise in my head. By the ringing in my ears.

I tumbled into the car, breathing heavily. I let myself slump forward as I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and sunk further into my grief.

It hit me once more that everything I’d ever known was gone forever.

There was no going back.

There was no turning back time.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out without thinking. A reminder glared back at me. My birthday. Right. I swiped it away sharply and stared at my phone’s lock screen. Mom and Dad’s wedding photo. At least like this I could see them happy.

Unbidden, the thought of the unopened voicemail popped into my head. I didn’t want to open it, but not listening to it had sat like a weight in my gut for months. It felt like a betrayal in a way.

Numbly, my fingers pulled the message up onto the screen and I hit play.

Click. “Hey, kiddo,” Dad said, and he sounded exhausted. “I knew you probably wouldn’t pick up, which is why I called. But you probably already knew that. I just wanted to tell you that I love you and none of this is your fault. Your mother’s death… it took something from me I can never get back. I know you’ll probably hate me for this, and that’s ok. I—I deserve it. I’m sorry. I know that won’t make it any better, but I am. I love you, kiddo.”

Click.

And somehow I have to learn to live with that.