Red Walls

Going home for the holidays always feels strange, and as a second-year college student avoiding home as much as possible, this was no exception. But turning down the street this Thanksgiving, I felt a new strangeness. It was the same house, the same curved driveway, opening to the garage to the right of a creaky front porch that barely passed as such. There was the same tree in the yard, the same missing shingles on the roof, the same fence with a broken lock… but the scene was all together oddly unfamiliar.

At first I admired the difference. Noticing the bench in the yard, under the tree, I thought to myself that it was a nice new touch to the yard. One of many additions to the home as I’d learn. 

I parked behind cars I didn’t recognize, wondering how my own family could afford so many cars, let alone what appeared to be nice ones. But what did I know about cars? My heart sped, feeling suddenly as though I was visiting a friend’s home, and not my own.

“So weird to be back,” I remarked to myself as I stepped out of the car, walking past the strange cars, contemplating between knocking or just walking in as I would have done previously.

“Hey!” 

Before I was able to decide, the door flung open to an enthusiastic voice, welcoming me in and giving me a hug. My dad, a hug - I struggled to compute what was happening as I shuffled myself in and debated taking off my shoes at the door or leaving them on.

I looked around at the home I had lived in for 10 years, taking in that it was no longer mine. The foreignness of it all hit me at once, and I felt even more of a guest, unsure where to sit or what was normal to do.

The walls of the dining room were now a strong but deep red, hung with dreamy artwork and decorated with fine china in dark wood cabinets. The red was abrasive, but deliberate. In the living room, the dull brown sofa had been replaced with an equally red couch, and a television was mounted to the wall at such an angle that invited relaxation and homey connectedness, as if shouting “This is a home and we are happy living in it!”

But no, no. This was not a happy home. This was a home of ignoring, of random fits of anger, and of my mother sleeping on the couch, angrily warning me to turn off the computer because the brightness was preventing her from sleep.

What was consistent to memory was the mess of the kitchen. Low quality hand towels over-used and strung about, the sink covered in a pinkish film, tile floors yellowed, wallpaper tearing. Yet, the untidiness had a foreign intentionality to it. My brain flashed back to being scolded for leaving a single dish in the sink after making myself Top Ramen for lunch. It dawned on me that my parents were not involved in ensuring lunch was eaten, but were there to ensure it was cleaned up.

The floors were also the same. I recall ripping out the carpet years ago, my youthful energy and sports-like strength allowing me to assist in the matter. But the rest of the home overshadowed their glory, and I felt instantly small and insignificant in the newness of it all.

In essence, the home I once had, which never felt like a home but was in the same breath my only place of comfort, was “lived-in”, in a way I had never known.

My dad offered me wine, in a cheery voice, and talked of his recent hobbies and obsessions, growing herbs in the kitchen and cooking new recipes - soups or finding use for new ingredients. How strange it was to hear him chatty, animated, moving about. Who was this man in front of me, who I had known my whole life?

My dad’s wife (for it felt strange to refer to her as step mother given she had never and would never mother me) had an infectious laugh, and carried the conversation. In a family of introverts, anxious to share what was truly on their mind for fear of triggering an offense, her excited and engaged conversation diffused and dominated the room.

Dinner was eventually served, an intense spread of the classics - turkey, gravy, stuffing, cranberry sauce, which I eyed, unsure how to eat in this form. The stuffing didn’t come from a box, so why was this from a can? 

“That’s my specialty,” my dad’s wife remarked, with a demure confidence as she spoke, a youthful charm to her voice. Truthfully, I had never eaten proper stuffing, and only knew pouring hot water over dried crumbs. But this, I loved, and wondered why we had ever used the box.

I shared details of my classes and experience with college, and she asked follow up questions and kept eye contact. At the head of the table, my dad’s eyes were low and focused on the food in front of him, and I recognized him, finally.

After dinner, we were served pie, and it shocked me to see the same pies I grew up with - strawberry rhubarb in particular. This was my mother’s favorite, and my dad’s wife now praised it, calling it her favorite. What did she know? I felt a tang of protectiveness and resentment, lined with the guilt of feeling this way.

Eventually I was exhausted, of the socializing, of the pretending like this was normal, and from the lethargy of being full. The night slowed down and I said my good-byes, making half-assed promises to join for other weekend plans, too shocked at the normalcy of the activities to think clearly about whether I wanted to be included.

As I pulled away, relieved at the night’s end and thankful I chose to sleep elsewhere for the night, I felt a deep sadness. What at the time felt like nostalgia or grief, was also anger, something I didn’t know how to recognize, harness, or move past. Anger at the unfairness of the situation, at the change, at my father for never being happy, at my father for now being happy.

This place – holding my own memories of pent up anger stuck in the air but not released by those who held it there, and of teenage depression and heartbreak – was now bright and bustling, energy pumped into it in an overinflated way that was equally as suffocating as the negativity that preceded it.

There is a grief that comes with revisiting old places, of letting go of what it once was, even if imperfect. But it takes time to develop relationships, bonds, memories, and familiarity, and this challenge makes it hard to let go.