Can't Go Home

Coming Home

'We're off to the hills,' Rose's mother says, turning the knob of the car radio to drown out the sound of her brother begging for fries. Rose catches a glimpse of a woman filling her car with petrol, she's wearing white pants that seem too clean. Cleanliness reminds Rose of the Good Mother. The Good Mother doesn't smoke, or drink, or appear to want to fuck her husband in the slightest. The Good Mother has a pantry stocked to the nines, with meticulously labelled spices and five types of flour decanted into several three litre jars (also labelled). The Good Mother's cleavage is never on display, even in the warmer months, her torso seldom sees a beam of sunlight. The Good Mother makes organic, vegan, gluten free rum balls that are kept atop her marble kitchen bench, ready to deliver an anticlimax to the ignorant chocoholic guest. The Good Mother brews her own kombucha and fosters gut-cleansing fungi in airtight jars that line the highest shelf in the Butler's kitchen, (if one is not familiar with the practices of edible eukaryotic organisms, they'll at first glance see a succession of swamp foetuses floating in murky water). The Good Mother never posts her political opinions on Facebook, or even participates in advocacy for minorities when Instagram decides to make global issues viral for the fun of it. The Good Mother cannot cook, but she doesn't need to, she has a two and a half thousand-dollar Thermomix utilised to make dessert once a month, and a caterer on speed dial. For these good reasons, among others, Rose appointed the Good Mother as a prototype for her future self in the third grade. Sometimes she sees women who remind her of the Good Mother, women with crisp white linen trousers. She saw a film critiquing the domestication of women last semester, one that made housewives seem like suffocated puppets, or abused circus acts. All Rose saw was perfectly preened ladies sipping martini's with little to worry about other than what recipe to opt for the next day. Rose would rather bake banana bread than sit in an office from morning til noon.
'You alright, muppet?'
'Don't call me that,' Rose says.
'Oh shush you, I've called you that since you were a baby.'
Rose rolls her eyes, still thinking about the petrol station woman, her spotless clothes and feline bone structure.
'How far are the hills?'
'Not far.'
Rose readjusts her headphones. A notification comes across her screen. It isn't him. She feels an awkward wash of shame veil over her, it seems stupid to even expect a message from him.
'Louis will be there.'
'Oh, I didn't know.'
'Do you still have a thing for him?'
Rose despises her mother broaching the subject of her love life, or personal life altogether. She contemplates whether carpooling with her mother and brother was a wise decision. University seems to have placed them in alternate realms. Rose's mother doesn't understand why she chose to study literature when she could've been a doctor, or a lawyer. Even commerce was a better option than English.
'Why would you say that?' Rose hears her own defensive tone, but can't withdraw the words.
'God, I was only asking, Rose.'
'Well, don't.'
The car goes silent for a moment, audible only is the theme song of her brother's video games. It irritates the air, reminding Rose of the tinnitus she used to get as a kid. The high pitched hum of her niggling brain, the way it never switched off, never let her sleep in peace. Sometimes she still felt that her brain lacked an off switch, like the fibres were constantly alight and flickering.
'His mother says he never got over you.'
'Oh god, stop.' Rose can't deny how that makes her feel. It makes her happy. Happy to know that her power over him has persevered into adulthood. She's always known about him liking her. At times she even used it to her advantage.
The house still looks the same as it did when they were in high school. Overgrown with greenery and blindingly white. Rose thinks Louis' mother must have an endless supply of pearl white paint in the garage. 'White is pure,' his mother would always say. 'Who doesn't love a blank canvas?' Louis loved Rose when she was exactly that - an unpainted picture. He wanted to write his first love from scratch, and he did.
The old Jack Russell dawdles on the front lawn, with white whiskers and a limp. 'Doc looks rough,' she says.
'That's not Doc.'
'What? What happened to Doc?'
'He died a couple of years ago. They replaced him with a dog nearly as old so that Lola had more time to grieve.'
Rose scrunches her face up at the concept. 'Girl has to learn about death sooner or later.'
'She loved that dog more than her own parents, Rose.'
'Kids shouldn't be protected from death. We weren't.'
'That's different.'
'Her Dad could die too,' Rose says, pinching the material of her leggings.
'Watch your mouth Rose, not everyone is accustomed to your way of speaking.'
The warmth shocks Rose as she opens the car door, the air is wet and the frangipani flowers disperse an unpleasant floral scent. She hears the splash of pool water and boys yelling, muffled by the distance between them. Her mother rings the bell while her brother remains cemented to the Nintendo. 'Here they are! Come in, guys,' the Good Mother says. She smells expensive. Rose notes that some fragrances are enigmatic. A scent so unique people wouldn't dare ask the origin. 'Still as beautiful as ever, Rose. You don't seem a day older than you were at graduation.'
Rose smiles, raising the corners of her down-turned mouth a little, feeling the natural warmth radiating from the home. Louis' mother hugs, really hugs. She holds people with purpose. When Rose's mother hugs her it feels like she's transferring the weight of every burden known to man, or like a million bacteria have infiltrated Rose's flesh. Nauseous is the word that comes to mind with her mother's embrace.
'Louis is out the back with his mate, Cree. Go through and see them, he'll be happy to see you, I'm sure.'
Rose walks at a slow pace through the corridor. The oak floors are herringbone, woven together like the skeleton of a fish. The Good Mother built her house with a conscientious eye. Rose pictures her and Louis' Dad sampling the oak together, leaving the cuts of wood splayed on a table, picking them up at random intervals. Asking visitors which swatch they prefer. She feels the door for a lock. An anxious pang strikes through her fingers as it slides open. Louis turns in the water, pushing hair back from his forehead. 'Rose,' he nods, raising the side of his lip, suppressing a grin. She nods back, smiling in a way that makes the apples of her cheeks round into golfballs. Cree's back emerges from the water, his shoulders are brown and dotted with freckles. 'Cree, this is Rose,' Louis says.
His height steps onto the brick, walking nearer to her. He looks at her, lingering somewhere between shock and confidence. 'Cree,' he places his hand out, dripping wet.
'Rose.'
They look at each other for a moment too long, before she senses Louis' irritation.
'You'll be here for summer?' Cree asks.
Rose lowers her chin, smiling at him, as though she's unaware of her affect on the both of them.
'I suppose I'll be coming over more then, Louis.' Cree winks at his mate, before facing Rose again. 'You getting in?'