Unaware

The Long Way Home

So this is it, I mused.

This is the place my destiny has been leading me--blindly, obviously-- for the past sixteen years. A sightless usher is this destiny of mine, having directed me here to this filthy, haphazard, and altogether unpardonable excuse for a city.

We had just moved to Houston from the northeastern part of Texas, we being myself and Aunt Jill. I wish that I could say that the vexed disposition my expressions seemed to unwittingly portray as I gazed upon the three-story apartment complex was due to this move. What I wouldn't give for it to have been my loyal childhood friends, the community I grew up in and the only home I have ever known left in a cloud of red dust, that same earthy red dirt that was still fiercely clinging to the tires and undercarriage of Jill's midnight blue Prius. Yes, how nice it would be to present a more reasonable explanation for my wallowing. The truth is, this is me. This is who I am. Now, whether or not blatant unhappiness can be encoded in a person's DNA, I have no idea. And I have no theories or well thought out explanations for how I've turned out. For as long as I can remember, I have been the bane of my own existence, the product of my own lack of ambition, and my own worst critic.

Unlike most teenagers, I couldn't blame my being miserable on dutifully involved and annoyingly intrusive parents. I only wish I had that luxury. My mom died in childbirth; I don't know very much about her, just the stories Jill tells me. I can tell that it pains her to talk about the past so I don't press the subject. Its better this way, I suppose. The less I know about my mom, the less attached I would be to those borrowed memories. You can't miss what you've never had.

Dad tried to keep what was left of our family together. I think it was just too much for him having lost his wife and being a single father. He turned custody over to Jill just after my third birthday. He travels a lot with his job and we communicate mostly through postcards, random texts and an occasional phone call. I don't know any specifics about his profession, just that he is a business representative of sorts. He sends birthday and Christmas presents every year, and he calls me on Valentine's Day to make sure, more than anything else I think, that I don't have one. The last I saw him was two Christmases ago. He looked exactly the way he had when he had visited me as a little girl. His dark hair hadn't even the subtlest hint of grey and his eyes were still soft and smooth around the corners, as if he were untouched by the time that bridged our reunions. It was comforting to have him around, but I understood why he couldn't stay. I had heard harsh voices in the other room and I could feel their anger radiating throughout the apartment. He bid his farewell late at night when he thought I was asleep. He had no idea how his kiss on my forehead had burned all the way to my heart. Instead of breaking, it was set ablaze until all that remained were ashes and dimly glowing cinders. Just thinking about it now, my eyes welling up with the sting of tears, I can feel the scorching heat in my chest as the memory of that night fans the still flickering embers. Jill cast a concerned glance in my direction but knew from experience that it was best to leave me to my thoughts.

Jill likes to call herself a designer by trade and a gypsy by heart. In all truthfulness, she works odd jobs to support the two of us as well as her thriving jewelry business until she tires of the monotony and aches for a change in scenery--about once every year or so. If it weren't for the lease agreements on apartments, our escapes might have been more frequent. I rarely complete a school year in the same school I start out in. It has been this way for as far back as I can recall.

We started our journey together on the west coast in L.A. When Jill broke up with her long-time boyfriend, Mike, we escaped to the other side of the country, Portland, Maine. Jill worked full time at Chugger's Seafood Restaurant on the waterfront as a waitress. I can still smell the crisp salty air and hear the sound of seagulls and crashing waves as we walked toward the pier supported Chugger's.