Homecoming

The temperature plummeted overnight, turning rain into heavy, wet snow. Jane turned off the highway. A long, winding road led down to the shore, flanked by huge swathes of untouched snow.

She rounded the bend, saw her destination. Rows of blue and yellow trailers bit through the snow like crooked teeth. The faded peeling pastels surreal against the serene blanket of unceasing white.

She drove to the end of the road and parked by the lake. She walked down to the water across snow-covered sand. The shoreline gave way to a blanket of pale blue ice. Clouds of snow danced over the surface carried by the biting wind. The mist over the ice was thick. Thirty feet out, there was nothing but a hazy grey wall of empty space. She put up her hood against the cold and stared out into the swirling tempest.

She thought of her father. How scared she must have been. How lonely he must have felt. How much pain he must have been in to give up on the things he had. To give up on her.

Jane knew the feeling. Loneliness. Emptiness. Having no one in the world to care if you lived or died. For so long she feared being alone. Now, she found comfort in it- sometimes. Other times, the noise in her head got so loud she had to scream into her pillow to drown it out. Muffled voices from her past. TV static between her ears.

She watched the dance of the storm, an ever-shifting white void. The cold emptiness reminded her of home. Blank white walls. They should have been covered in her mother’s art, filled with her father’s laughter. A mother and father who loved her. A home that was happy until the world decided to take that away.

She often thought of her father. What life would be like if he was still here.

An impulse blossomed in the back of her mind. Intrusive. Instinctual. What was it like inside that emptiness? How did it feel to be alone? Trapped in the cold dark, waiting for the end to come? A lump caught in Jane’s throat as she gave into the impulse, and she stepped out onto the ice.

Every step echoed beneath the surface. A high-pitched, alien groan, an eldritch monster trying to break free from its prison. The sound was strangely soothing. It brought back memories of ice fishing with her father in early spring. Memories she locked away. The thought of her father, even in a happy memory, too painful to bear.

She closed her eyes and listened. The wind sweeping the trees, the strange metallic groan below the ice. The sharp cold gnawed at her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Snowflakes stung the hot flush of her skin.

She was there again. On the ice with her father. Pulling the sled over the lake. Setting up their bright red tent and starting a fire in the middle of the ice. Drilling down until the water gushed out over their boots. Her father taught her how to set the lines and reel the fish in, so they didn’t get away. They never kept the fish; they caught them then set them free.

She always wondered what the fish thought of the experience. Swimming along, going about your business when you’re snagged by a hook and hoisted towards the sky. How traumatic must it have been for the fish? Did the other fish believe them when they told the story?

Her father always told her about the biggest fish he ever caught, four feet from tip to tail- although it got bigger and bigger every time he told the story. Out on the lake pulling the fish from the frozen water was the last time she remembered seeing her father smile.

She was young when he died. Over time his face faded from her memory. Bit by bit and then all together. He’d been gone for so long, but some days she felt him next to her. She saw him in the way the wind blew the leaves. Heard him whisper when the rain danced on the rooftops. A soft presence, watching her move through life.

She wished she could talk to him. Even if it was only one more time. Ask him why he went away. Why the world was so cruel. Her father knew how cruel people could be. He saw it when he was in the army. Bodies piled in mass graves. Teenagers turned to soldiers. Guns in their hands, riddled with bullet holes in the middle of the street.

Jane was only six when her father left. He got on a plane and flew to the other side of the world.

He never came home. Someone did. He looked like her father, sounded like him, but he was someone else. Her real father got lost somewhere in the jungle eight thousand miles away.

It started with little things. Always looking over his shoulder. Getting overwhelmed when there were too many people around. The nightmares were the worst. When his screams woke the whole house. The way he cried when he thought no one could see him.

One day it all became too much. Jane found him in the garage, extension cord around his neck. His eyes bulged so far she was amazed they didn’t pop out of his head. Her father stared at her with those dark bloodshot eyes. The same eyes as her.

Her gaze rose from the ice, towards the clouds. The storm stared back with pale grey eyes. The lake waited below, patient and calm, for the storm to pass and the sun to shine.

Somewhere behind her in the labyrinth of rusted cars and mobile homes, was her mother’s house. A place she hadn’t stepped foot in for eleven years. Today- for some reason- she was going back. Back to the mother who hated her for being alive when her husband wasn’t. Back to the angry, silent stares from the hallway as she lay in her bed at night, too scared of her own mother to sleep. The feeling in the pit of her stomach that made her not want to wake in the morning.

If she closed her eyes forever, would she see her father again? Would he be back to his old smiling self? The person he was before he was shipped off to have his soul destroyed. Before the bad spirits swam through his thoughts, convinced him there was no other way out.

An old swing set lurked in the storm, rusted, and bent. A metal grimace that sneered behind the curtain of snow. The house was smaller than Jane remembered, separated from its neighbors by a waist-high chain link fence. The gate cried in protest as she pushed it open. The five steps to the front door were like a marathon.

Her knock was answered immediately. Her mother must have been waiting at the door for her to arrive. To Jane’s shock, her mother reached in for a hug. Jane returned it halfheartedly. Her mother smelled like hand soap and lemon cleaner. An artificial chemical stench clung to the back of Jane’s throat.

“Merry Christmas,” said her mother.

Jane pulled away and looked around. The kitchen was cramped but tidy. The sink emptied of dishes and the counters clear of clutter and dust.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” said her mother.

“Neither was I.”

“Well, come on now have a seat.” Her mother gave a weary smile and pulled out a chair. They sat together at the table, while her mother unleashed a tirade of questions. “How have you been? How’s work? Are you seeing anybody?”  Her mother tried to ignore the tension. Ignore the years that had passed, and the reasons Jane had for leaving.

She ignored the masquerade of babble. Her eyes darted around the room. Not much had changed. The walls were painted the same off-white. Blue and white patterned linoleum lined the floor, peeling up at the corners. A water stain the shape of Florida clung to the ceiling over the sink.

Her gaze rested on a picture hung over the TV in the living room. A picture of her father. The knot in her stomach tightened. Fire burned behind her eyes. “Mom? Why did you ask me to come?”

The question seemed to stall her mother. She looked abashed as if to say ‘Well you’re my daughter. It’s Christmas. Why wouldn’t you visit?’

Her mother’s smile dropped, replaced by a glossy-eyed, thin-lipped frown. “I saw the story in the paper. The girl in Clareborne. The one they found in the water.”

Jane’s father watched her over her mother’s shoulder. Cold, haunted eyes. Eyes that had seen the evil of the world. The same eyes as her.

“I think about that little girl every night,” said her mother. “About her parents. How hard it must have been for them. When their daughter left home, did they know they were never gonna see her again? I just thought, what if I never see Jane again? What if I never get to tell her how sorry I am?”

“Is that what this is?” Jane shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “You saying you’re sorry? You finally decided to care about me. Is that it?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair? Since when has this been about what’s fair? You were too busy hating me-”

“I never hated you. It was never about you.”

“You made that very clear.”

“I lost my husband.” Hurt burned behind her mother’s eyes.

“And I lost my father.” Jane’s demeanor broke. There were too many unsaid things for a calm reunion. Jane’s eyes flooded with hot, stinging tears. “I was a little girl. A little girl who needed you. Needed somebody to tell her she was loved and cared about. That her daddy-” The words caught in Jane’s throat. “That what happened to her dad wasn’t her fault.”

“Jane. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t good enough. It’s been eleven years, Mom. Eleven years without a word and you call me- beg me to come and visit so- what? You can clear your conscience?”

“Please-”

“No. You don’t get to beg me. After Dad died, you didn’t once try to comfort me. Didn’t ask what it was like to find him like that. Didn’t ask me about the nightmares. About how I tried to shake him awake. How I prayed he was only sleeping. How I wished every day I could die so I could be with him again.”

“You survived, Jane. Not many people can say that after what you went through. After what I put you through. But you did. That kind of trauma. That kind of abuse.” Her mother treated the word like poison, like she was sickened just by letting it slither passed her lips. “Those things can make you sick. They turn people into drug addicts and maniacs. But not you. You made it out and despite everything somehow managed to be a good person.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I do. I know how you feel. I know the pain tears you apart every day. And as much as you hate me, it is nothing compared to how much I hate myself. I never called you, never bothered you, because I knew you didn’t want to hear from me. I knew you could never forgive me because I haven’t forgiven myself. I never deserved your forgiveness.”

“You’re right.” Jane’s eyes burned as she looked at her mother. “You don’t.”

Jane put up her hood and walked back out into the storm. Her mother didn’t chase her, but she heard her sobs over the howl of the wind.