Behind The Mask

Chapter 19

I have no idea who would paint their front door light pink. To be honest, I've never really liked the colour, other than the fact that I have always associated it with some form of love. That should at least be a good sign. The woman behind the door must believe in love.

On my walk over to her house I have had a million reasons for her not being in my life going through my head. Maybe she didn't even know that my mom died. Maybe they had a falling out because of my stepdad. Maybe she didn't even know where my mom was or that I was even born. There could be a thousand reasons. And sure, I can't deny the few fantasies that went through my head about how she would be this old lady who would open her door and invite me in. Maybe hug me the moment she realizes who I am. I have this fantasy of how she takes me into a room that maybe belonged to my mom, where all her clothing and bedding is still the way she left it, and how she asks me to stay. Not just for a night or two, but maybe even forever, so that we can be a real family. Just me and her.

Even in the winter old with the snow crunching beneath my feet, I need to wipe the sweat of my hands against my denim before I knock on the pink door, hoping that this door will open up to what I have been searching for, for such a long time now. Acceptance. Family. Love.

I can hear footsteps on the other side of the door, and I draw in my breath, holding it in as I hear a key turn in the door before it opens up in a small creek and I am looking into her eyes. My mother's eyes. But an older version of her eyes, one with lines forming around it, showing the hardships of a life well lived. Brown eyes that would look me in the eyes and tell me that she loved me as she tucked me in every night before the lights went out and sleep overfell me.

For a moment I swallow, hoping that I will be able to keep back the tears burning cold behind my eyes.

"What do you want?" the woman says and all memories of my mother falls away. She sounds nothing like her daughter even if her eyes tell a different story of them not being too much different.

"It's Brody grandma. I'm Brody," I say, waiting for her to open the door further and take me into her loving arms and tell me how much she has searched for me, how often she had wondered where I was sleeping at night and if I was well fed in a warm bed, bun instead the door closes in my face, making me exhale with disappointment, the tears getting closer to the surface.

A chain on the inside of the door slides and the door opens again, allowing me to take another breath, knowing that I must have misunderstood completely.

The door opens wide, revealing a lady with too many rings on her fingers, in a sweat suit, grey hair made up in a bun behind her head.

"I guess it would be better if you came before you catch a cold," she says, showing me into the house with the hand not holding the knob of the door.

I nod at her as I walk in the way she is pointing.

This is so different to what I pictured in my mind. This was all wrong. I was expecting at least a hug. Maybe some surprise in her eyes, but it's like she was expecting me to come to her door a day before Christmas. Like she knew I would be here so that she could emotionally prepare herself to not get emotional. I would have preferred her being emotional. I would have liked the hug, and the tears, and the gasp when she heard my name.

She shows me into a small but comfortable living room. All around the room are pictures of herself, many years ago, some still in black and white. Some pictures show a man I recognise from pictures my mom had. My grandfather.

I can't help myself searching each and every picture on the walls, and also the ones standing on the mantle where a fire is crackling brightly, making the room look like something out of a Christmas card. I cannot however find my mom in any of the pictures. And nothing of me. I know my mom always said she sent pictures of me to my grandmother.