Family Gathering

Standing in front of the house I haven’t seen in 5 years, it feels like I never left. The front door is still painted that garish red from when I was a child and the exterior is a faded baby blue with white trim that hasn’t changed since the house was first built. The garden still looks as alive as ever, with hydrangeas, hibiscus trees, roses, and all kinds of bright plants that follow the perimeter of the house. The lawn is green, freshly mowed. Mom always was a little bit anal about how the outside of our house presented to the world, so I found it odd that she let Dad paint the door red. I’ve always hated it. I haven’t talked to my family since I left. No calls, no texts, no emails, not even a letter. Until now. 

I wonder how I must look from the street, dressed in all black, standing in front of the bright red door. It seems to tower above me. I ring the doorbell and Mom answers. She eyes me from head to toe, that tight smile on her face she greets strangers with, “You look lovely tonight Ophelia, Please come in.” 

“Find a seat at the table, darling, we’re just about to begin dinner,” Mom says as she heads towards the kitchen. Inside the house it’s darker, the sconces are dim and most of the walls are painted a dark burgundy. It isn’t cozy, like I think Mom was going for, instead I kept my guard on every time I walked in, afraid that it might swallow me if I wasn’t careful. I take off my shoes in the foyer, pass the living room, and start down the dark hall that squeezes me as I walk toward the dining room. I see Dad already sitting at the table with my brother, Morris, and sister, Sara. Dad is sitting next to the head of the table, and across from him Morris and Sara are sitting next to each other. I take a seat at the head farthest from him. 

“How’ve you been, Ophelia?” Dad’s voice is a bass that slams against the walls before bouncing to my ears. His voice demands attention, so he doesn’t need to raise it. 

“I’ve been doing well, just . . . been a long time since I’ve seen you. What’s been going on?” They all stare at me as if they’re trying to bore their thoughts into my head. Was it worth it? Ophelia, was it worth it? 

“Ophelia, how’s Ryan?” Sara asks. Her eyes are wide and eager, waiting. She gets excited like this and doesn’t back down. Of course she wants to know about Ryan. Wait, Ryan?

“Ryan and I aren’t together anymore. We haven’t talked since I left.”

“Oh, well I’m sure you’ll find someone soon. Just focus on yourself for now. I mean you always do.” Sara laughs at herself, ice that falls out of her mouth and lands right at the bottom of my stomach. I force a smile. Morris is silent, only looking at me. He lifts the corner of his mouth, almost apologetic. He knows I don’t care for these family gatherings. So why am I here? Mom returns from the kitchen.

“Lovelies, you know how much I adore going over the top, so of course we have horderves.” She lays on the table skewers alternating between grilled chicken, bell peppers, tomatoes, and potatoes. “Bon appétit!" She smiles again, tight lipped, and sits down at the head on the other side of the table. “So Ophelia, you haven’t been in contact with us much for the past few years. I’d love to hear about what’s going on in your life.”

“You know, I’ve just been focusing on my painting. I’m actually getting my work shown in a gallery tomorrow.”

“How exciting Lia! Were you going to invite us, or are we not important enough to see The Great Ophelia’s work.” 

“Sara please, honestly you’re always causing trouble. Your sister is just trying to catch us up. Obviously we’re a bit behind.” Mom glares at Sara, but that doesn’t stop her from throwing one last smirk my way. I pick up one of the skewers and there’s a freezing cold leaking from it instead that wraps my fingers, as if it was just taken out of the freezer. I swallow hard. 

“Lia, your life is just so interesting, but honestly I think everyone would be much less bored hearing about my latest achievements.”

“Sara!” Mom hisses, but Sara plows on. 

“Anyways, I’m captain of the dance team at my school. We just won nationals 2 months ago. This is news to you I bet, Lia, considering you were busy doing who knows what with Ryan that day. You never came to any of my competitions. Why am I not good enough for you? Why! Why! Why!” Sara screams.  

“What are you talking about Sara? Ryan and I broke up, I haven’t seen him in 5 years.”

“Sara,” Mom’s voice is soft, but laser sharp, cutting through the room. It’s silent. “I think you’re done. Right?” Sara laughs bitter, choppy, almost sounding like a bad cough. 

“Yes Mama, may I be excused?” She laces her voice with honey and her words stick inside of my ears.

“You may.” Mom doesn’t even look at her, eyes trained on her skewer. I watch as Sara gets up carefully, then suddenly shoves the chair back under the table so hard it shakes. She looks at me again and her eyes are different. None of her playfulness is inside them, like she’s disappeared from behind the irises. Sara simply turns and leaves into the dark hallway behind me. Seconds later a scream bursts from it, and floods the dining room. I try to cover my ears to escape it, but I can feel it rattle in my head, ricocheting inside of my chest. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. My blood curdles inside my veins and my body runs cold, like everything inside me has shut down. “Ophelia, tell us more about this art gallery.” Dad, Mom, and Morris are staring, expectantly. Was she worth it? Ophelia, was she worth it? “Ophelia! So many years away and you forget your manners, and you show up dressed like that. Always so . . . tsk. I’m gonna go start the main course.” Mom shakes her head as she walks away. 

“You were always quite the attention seeker,” Dad says, and I feel his voice shaking my ribcage. 

I scoff, “You guys never took the time to get to know me or what I really wanted to do with my life. And now that finally, finally I’m happy, you all hate me for it.”

“Or maybe you just hate yourself.” Morris speaks gently, his voice sounding like it’s traveled through vents just to meet me on the other side, my ear cold from the draft. “I always wanted to be an artist, Ophelia. I taught you everything I knew because you and I shared a love for it that no one else understood. I thought that meant something to you Phe.” I hadn’t heard that name in a long time. Phe, only Morris called me that. He thought it was artistic or some pretentious bullshit. He hated when Sara called me Lia, as did I, saying that it was too ordinary a nickname for someone who was going to do extraordinary things. I liked when he called me Phe, but not enough to do what he wanted. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, Morris. I’m not your little pet project! I worked hard to get to where I am now, by myself. You give yourself too much credit. You think   we’re the same, but you know nothing about me, Morris!” The words leap their way out of my mouth and bound across the dining room table, they pounce on Morris’s face and claw their way into his ears. His face is noticeably disturbed by them, dark, sunken, and saggy from where they pinched and climbed across his it. He stares at me, lips quivering while deciding whether or not to speak. Eventually he breaks eye contact and returns to the last skewer on his plate, slowly pulling each piece of chicken, pepper, tomato and potato off the wooden stick and chewing silently. Mom comes back with a pan full of mac and cheese that seems to almost stretch to her wingspan. 

“Your favorite, Ophelia,” sure, when I was 14, “since it’s a special occasion.” Mom smiles briefly. 

“Of course,”  Morris mumbles under his breath and lets a dry chuckle escape from his lips that leaves dust hanging in the air. 

“What is it sweetheart?” Mom asks.

“I have a dress rehearsal in twenty minutes. Y’know for Schmarnie the Magical Carrot? May I be excused?” Morris preemptively gets up from his chair before Mom can even say, “Of course, dear.” Morris leaves without even looking at me. A roar explodes from the hallway and crashes into the dining room, accompanied by a heat that sticks to and eats at my skin. I can’t even hear myself scream. I just want it to stop. Underneath it all I can make out a small help. 

“Morris?” I try to get up and search for him, but the heat is debilitating, biting my flesh. I was only trying to help you see that you and I were perfect. Was it worth it? Was it worth it Ophelia? 

“Ophelia, be grateful your mother took this time to make your favorite dish. Now be polite and put some on your plate.” Mom and Dad are looking at me. Waiting. Expecting. As they always are. So I take a spoonful from the pan of Mac and Cheese that seems to stretch endlessly between Mom and I. As soon as I plop it on my Plate, it looks gray and blob-like, greatly unappetizing. 

“You know,”  I start, “Morris’s excuse was lame, like he was literally in Schmarnie the Magical Carrot the summer before I left. So I don’t know how I’m the ungrateful one.” Mom and Dad are digging into their Mac and Cheese, greedily, as if they haven’t eaten in years. Mom finishes her plate then looks up at me, daintily patting a napkin around her mouth. 

“What do you mean dear, this is his first musical? You should come see it tomorrow since you’re already here.” Dad grabs another glob of Mac and Cheese. Tomorrow, that’s impossible. I’m certain we already saw the show. I concentrate on my plate in front of me. Mom and Dad’s voices sound like a distant echo as I get lost inside of my head. Was it worth it? I keep hearing. Was what worth it? I don’t know why I came back here. This place has always been haunting, always been horrible. I just needed to escape. It wasn’t selfish, I just wanted to escape. I didn’t mean it. It wasn’t supposed to be worth anything. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

“Ophelia,” Dad says. Mom is no longer sitting at the table, my plate is gone and so is the pan of whatever that was. 

“Where’s Mom?” I ask. 

“She went to get dessert, since it didn’t seem like you were gonna finish your food.” Dad’s silent for a moment before he speaks, “I just don’t understand why. We gave you everything you needed to succeed and instead this is what you chose to do. Disobey us. Destroy us and take everything we ever did for you for granted.” An anger roars from deep inside my stomach, I want to scream at him, remind him of how terrible he was, but my words choke me, again. I glare at him, tensing my face to keep any tears from falling out. He slams his fist on the table. “Speak up, Ophelia! I can’t hear you when you talk like that.” He hits the table again and again, vehemently. 

Smoke stung my eyes, and I’m in front of the bright red door that shook as he banged his fist against it screaming. “Let me out you little, Bitch! You ungrateful brat! Just wait 'til I get my hands on you.” I was coughing violently, and when I looked up, the roof of the house was moving, waving like the ocean. I stepped back from the door, from the house, from everything. The house was yelling at me, cursing me out for how I’d betrayed it. Piercing cries came from Sara’s room. Yells erupted from Morris’s. Their faces were in the windows on the top floor banging, begging, pleading. I layed down on my back on the neat lawn, strangled by the smoke. My throat was burning, and the smoke drew curtains in front of their faces. They were gone. 

“Ophelia, darling.” Mom is gently patting my back. The muscles in my chest ache, taking in a deep breath, as the coughing fit ends. “Are you okay, Ophelia?” I’m still catching my breath. I look and see Dad is no longer there, with his plate clear. “Oh, your father had to excuse himself. He was getting rather out of control. I brought desert though. Apple pie.” Mom places a slice in front of me and finally something looks appetizing. A perfect golden crust, with a mountain shaped dollop of whipped cream on top. Mom had made all of my favorite things, though it had been a while since she actually knew what they were. She had made an effort. I hadn’t really tried this evening at all. The guilt that gnaws on the edges of my stomach makes me nauseous. I take a bite of the apple pie. It tastes moldy, dusty and rotten. I spit it back out on the plate and it doesn’t resemble what I put in my mouth. It’s cold and congealed. The rest of my piece that I hadn’t eaten yet still looks fine. I put my fork down.

“You know Ophelia, I always knew you were going to do great things. If I could pick a favorite child, allegedly it would be you.” Mom smiles at me from her seat. This time it’s fuller, almost genuine. Mom looks past me, into the hallway and sighs. “I realize now the mistake is that I let you believe that, just a little too much.” I turn to look into the hallway as well. I can’t see the light from the foyer anymore, it’s just a dark abyss. 

“I don’t see anything particularly wrong with that. I just knew that I deserve better than whatever this shithole could offer.” I say as I face her again. There are bruises on her face now, and it’s contorted like her bones aren’t fitting right. She tries to fix them, mold her face back into place, but it’s fruitless. 

“This is what your selfishness has done to me, to us. What right do you think you have to come back here after all these years, darling?” 

“This wasn’t what I wanted to happen, I just wanted to escape, I was scared. I was a child.” It feels like my throat is closing as I speak. I watch as the walls around me burn to black. I can feel the heat of the fire on the back of my neck, emanating from the hallway. I have to leave. I have to get out. “Dad was chasing me. I just wanted it to stop.” That’s partially the truth. 

“Darling please, that’s just an excuse. I know this was what you really wanted. I could see it in your eyes as I fell. The way you watched us burn. It’s just lucky for you that you were young and had a plausible reason.” It’s getting hotter, and I can see the sweat form visible drops on my skin. They uncomfortably slide down my face, and into my eyes, stinging. Mom tries to put her face together again, but it falls apart. She forces herself out of her chair, and staggers toward me, leaning heavily on the table. Mom stops in front of me and pulls a lighter and candle out of her pocket in her dress. Lavender, with flowers, that suctioned to the shape of her body, almost matching the grayish tone her skin was taking on. She plunges the candle into my pie and hands me the lighter. “Happy Birthday, Darling” and she walks into the hallway behind me. Gone. Hands shaking, it’s deja vu, the lighter in my hand. I bring the lighter to the wick of the candle and roll the sparkwheel. The flame explodes as if latching onto gas in the air. I step back as it swallows the table and the house around me begins to fall. I run lungs aching, coughing, eyes and skin burning, until I make it to the foyer. Running until I reach the glaring red door, illuminated by the flames surrounding it. 

I burst through onto the porch and that heat is gone. The sun is setting on the horizon and I shiver in the chilly air. I turn around towards the house, which is barely standing. The walls are black, charred and the entire top floor is gone, probably collapsed. The red door, still, somehow, stands brightly only lightly covered in ash. Everything is gone here. I don’t know why I came back. The lawn is overgrown and weedy, and all the flowers are either dead or burned. Was it worth it Ophelia? Was it worth it Phe? Was it worth it Lia? Was it worth it darling? Was it? Was it? 

“I don’t know.” I say into the evening. All I know is that I’m an established artist, my work will be in a gallery, and I wouldn’t change a thing, if this is what my life will be. What I’ve always wanted. Barefoot, I make my way through the unruly lawn, walking on the stepping stones we hopped across as kids.