The House That Waits

I watch her smile fade faintly by the minute. Carefully, I’m stealing glances whilst she’s not paying attention. Her head is in another place, somewhere she never lets any of us visit. I could recognize that look in her eyes even if I were blind. They’re staring out the window into the pouring rain like a wanderer chasing answers on the horizon.

I, myself, am fed up of searching for revelation in her longing gaze.

Bored, I place my wine glass between my fingers and swirl it on its round foot. The soda inside swirling like a tide, rising dangerously close to the rim.

After a few seconds I find it surprisingly hypnotic.

“Stop that.” She snaps. I turn my head her way, surprised she even notices I’m in the room. With her hands on her hips she has stopped pacing and now stands in the middle of the room with an accusing look on her face.

“Sorry.” I mumble with as much attitude I can summon without earning a scolding. She walks up towards the table and for a moment relief flutters in my chest.

Just when I think she will take her seat she scoots the chair further in and stretches over it. In one elegant gesture she reaches for the bottle of wine and pours herself a glass.

This precise bottle has sat in the wine cabinet now for weeks, spared for this day.

When she excitedly told dad about opening it up for tonight, her eyes had glittered. Now she swallows it with the same face I make when I’m forced to take cough syrup.

I stare up at her accusingly and she makes an effort ignoring it. Though my impatience doesn't go lost on her. The rhythm of my tapping foot still sends the message forth clearly.

This was the way we spoke, without direct words or looking into each other's eyes. Subtle signs had become our means of conversation.

Though, I remember a time falling into her gaze felt like home. The shift sneaked upon us before I could tell how or when that changed.

Only that it felt like waking up on the Sundays of my childhood. Rubbing my eyes confused in between soft and warm cotton sheets. Awake but a part of my consciousness still lost in my dreams. It was too quiet - then came all the memories and questions. Where did the guest go?

They had been laughing, hugging me, glitter in their eyes, inhaling the liquid always causing them to become so giggly.

In between smiles they would spoil me with attention and promises of staying once I beg them to play with me more. And they did, until my eyelids felt heavy and everything blurred together.

It had always felt so euphoric and then the mornings had crept upon me with their loneliness. The silence had always been too loud. Every empty room I went into only echoed my disappointment back. Had they all forgotten about me?

I make another loud sigh and this time I can feel my mother rolling her eyes. She stands with her back against me and like a loyal dog she presses her face against the window. I wonder how many times she can hold her breath waiting before suffocating.

I shift my eyes in front of me and they fall upon the half empty wine glass. Lipstick stains in the colour of wilted roses covers the rim.

I consider reaching out for it, just a taste. Not even out of curiosity but more so restlessness.

But my arms are growing heavy by my sides. I feel my body falling asleep but my mind is about to blow. I’ve been nailed to my chair since we set the table but she has too much nerve to be contained. She’s quick on her feet, always managing or adhering to something.

I suspect she might soon polish the kitchen island for the third time this evening.

“Can I go watch television?” I blurt out tired of the only entertainment being mom perfecting the kitchen.

“No, he’ll be home soon.” She answers with a strained voice. Because of what day it is, I don’t point out it’s been over an hour. The knot in my stomach grows a bit bigger and before I can think twice, I let out another sigh.

“You know what, go ahead I don’t care.” Her voice has gone up one octave and the tone is sharp. I can’t find myself to move an inch and only slump a bit further down in my seat.

She has picked up pacing now once again. Under her breath she murmurs something.

I think it was a question but meant for no one. During nights like this, she doesn't notice I never answer them and I think she prefers my silence.

She speaks for both of us. Mumbles things for herself like “traffic is terrible this time of day” or “another five minutes”.

Worned out explanations and apologies I don’t think either of us believes. They’re only empty words repeated again and again despite containing no meaning. Preaching them has become her own private ritual.

This game of ours, these habits had become way too familiar.

She can’t help looking at the clock over and over again. And even though it hurts, as if pressing a bruise, my eyes inevitably draw to observe her.

Smelling her best perfume on her, watching her fiddling hands stroke over her dress (his favorite one - a sleeveless navy designer copy.)

Tonight she has made herself pretty for him. My imagination creates her in front of the mirror picking around in her jewelry box, holding earrings up to her face until she finds the perfect pair.

This time she has gone for pearls. To her dark hair they’re a beautiful contrast, lighting up her features and if it weren’t for her strain expression she would appear impossible youthful.

I can’t remember a time I didn’t think of her as beautiful.

Then the visions in my head change to paint another picture of her.

A forgotten memory of when I last saw her wearing those pearls, standing in the doorway with a playful glee in her eyes. The details of her soft touch and forehead kisses are vivid enough to make me dizzy. Not a worry was displayed in her face and the only wrinkles rested around her eyes.

If you didn’t know her it made you think she might have never stopped smiling her entire life.

She was so much younger and happier, the same could be said about me. My heart beats a little more violently at the memory and the soft rain against the roof pierces my ears sounding like a hurricane. Around flickering candle flames and cold food it feels like lifetimes ago.

The evening lays thick outside and in the badly lit room my sudden nostalgia makes me believe I’m knocked out of the timeline. Existing neither in space or time, only in a dream.

If I die tonight, I swear I’ll wake up tomorrow.

This feeling of strange nothingness almost makes my tongue dance. Almost have me spitting the truth. My body feels light as air, nothing feels real or impossible.

I’ve spent the entire day hoping he will be here on time and now voices in my head whispers to me we could do without him. Maybe I hope he'll never come home.

Then the distant sound of a car motor reaches me and the thoughts I never before dared to think, dies within me again.

Because he’s my dad and I love him, of course.

Headlights shower the room and I catch a sight of her drowned in artificial lightning. For a moment she resembles an angel.

Then the lights disappear and I hear a car door being slammed. Mom stands ready and to my dislike every detail is painfully obvious. Her relieved smile is pretty but the way her back tenses preparing to meet him makes my stomach drop.

All the possibilities of independence washes away with the sound of the front door opening and reality hits me in the face. He steps in with flowers under his arm and an apologetic look on his face.

I can barely stand to look at him.

“I’m so sorry honey. I really tried but I couldn’t get away earlier.” He explains while taking off his leather shoes and throwing the jacket on the floor. Across the room she stands poised with her hands clapped behind her back observing him. She doesn't say anything and I see him frown at the silence. Then he shoots a look at his watch.

“What time is it?” he asks, but no one answers.

I feel my heart beating anxiously. For a moment ago I had hoped he wouldn’t come home and now I’m unsure this house could even stand without him.

Is this the time she will confront him? My imagination races with images of her throwing dishes and shouting obscenities.

Anger fades into fear in a way that feels like betrayal. I know I should hate him, but can I live without him? I’m only a child. The whirlwind in my head is evidence of how small I really am.

Though, the world doesn't collapse in front of me and the fine china porcelain lays safe on the table. Instead, he opens his arms for a hug and she leans into him. I feel appalled and relieved at the same time. He presses a kiss onto her cheek and whispers happy birthday.

Without a word she takes the flowers and proceeds to look for a vase. Dad wastes no time and heads for the table.

“Sorry I kept you two waiting. How was school?” He slams down in the seat across from me and showers me with fake curiosity. His hair is slightly wet and messy. I could tell him about my receding grades or the friends I don’t make. Though, I feel like I stare into the eyes of a stranger.

“Fine.” I say, leaning onto my standard response. Our conversations never run deeper than this, but I don’t have the energy to feel guilty about it. I may shut him out but only because I can’t recognise him anymore. Even from across the table I can smell his perfume mixed up with something faintly floral.

I can see the way he grips his phone so tightly and a foul taste of sickness overcomes me. I swallow it down just in time to catch mom rounding the corner. In her arms rests a giant vase of roses and her nose is buried in them. She places them in the middle of the table with a satisfied look smeared across her face.

“I’m sorry honey but I must confess I have already opened the wine.” She laughs and takes a seat.

“What? How could you?” He jokes with a generous amount of sarcasm. She shoots him a mischievous smile, as if she knows something he doesn't. Then their conversation runs off while I’m left on the sideline, choking on every word I’m holding back. I wonder if they too understand - even though we are falling apart slowly, we are still breaking non the less.