Where You and I Began

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

I entered the house, setting my bag down by the door and edging towards the kitchen. "Mom? Are you home?" Her car was here, but that had never really meant much. She often carpooled to meetings or took taxis to the airport. The house appeared untouched, everything as clean and sterile as always. I had gone through the kitchen and dining room with little success in finding her and was beginning to think she wasn't home when I saw them.

My mother is laying on the couch, wearing dark wash jeans and a sleeveless blouse (my mother never wore jeans- it went against her beliefs). And the man on top of her is wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. They bolt upright when I walk in, looking every bit the guilty teenagers, my mother's hands fluttering around her head in a sad attempt to smooth her mused hair. I find myself unable to do much of anything but stare, open-mouthed. Mom's blouse is wrinkled, her lipstick worn off and a faint rash covers her jaw, mystery guy is sporting some stubble and I put two and two together. He looks a bit perplexed, but oddly calm. His lack of guilt irks me.

"I'm sorry to have intruded." Mom has finally smoothed her face back into its usual look of cool indifference, any hint of guilt or surprise long gone. 

"Althea, I had no idea you were coming home." Her words sting and I swallow the lump in my throat that's beginning to form, the words becoming sticky and I cough several times in an attempt to speak.  This was an entirely new low, even for her.  I could hardly comprehend the scene in front of me, my brain rejecting the new information.  

"I called a few days ago to tell you. I'm on winter break." My voice is hoarse with unshed tears. She stands up slowly, collecting the wine glasses from the coffee table along with the obviously empty bottle, sashaying into the kitchen.

"Well, welcome home. There's dinner in the kitchen if you like. Liam and I will leave you to it." I nod mutely, words escaping me completely, the hurt solidifying into a heavy weight in my chest. I feel like the cartoon characters when an anvil is dropped on their head. 

Unsurprisingly she doesn't introduce us, choosing instead to act as though nothing is wrong. This is my mother's speciality, her superpower if you will.  She has an uncanny ability to act as if nothing is amiss when everything is obviously a mess.   

I wait until they've disappeared upstairs, grabbing a second bottle of merlot on their way, before I slump down on the couch and hug one of the pillows to my chest. This isn't what home is supposed to feel like. I deserve a warm welcome at the train station, a sign printed with my name, an abundance of hugs. Not this, some strange frat boy playing tonsil hockey with my mom in my living room, who has neglected to remember that I exist. I was supposed to be bringing boys home, acting like the child in this relationship.

I grew up in this house; I know every inch of it and yet it feels foreign and contaminated as though other people have been here. 

He's been here I realize with a start. 

Tears slowly leak out through my lashes and drip silently down my cheeks, nausea rising up my throat.

My appetite now long gone, I go upstairs to bed.

                                                                                          * * * * * *

The next morning Liam is suspiciously absent, but I notice that mom closes her bedroom door quickly behind her and seems in an awful hurry to brew the coffee. She's wearing her silk dressing gown, looking like Martha May in the Grinch. My brain continues to have trouble understanding it all.