But First, The Eyes

Golden

The house sat alone, silent. When I unlocked the door and pressed it, the door creaked open to a gaping maw of darkness and quiet; shadows cowering back from the light of the front porch. It was like the whole building held its breath when a person would arrive.

Ever since I was a kid visiting my father, the darkness of his home gave me pause. It could be the color of the light from outside—or maybe just the way that the house was built. There were never enough windows for me. Not enough light to cast away the shadows. But I shouldered my duffel and stepped inside anyway. It was childish to need to squash old fears, but they were there and ever-present.

My hands felt along the familiar walls, looking for the hard plastic of the light switch. When it could finally be flicked on, I sighed.

It was all exactly the same.

Even under the harsh, yellow glow of the lights, I could tell that Charlie had barely moved a chair since I'd gone away to Washington State. It had only been a year, but the nostalgia of standing in the middle of the exact room I'd said goodbye to him in was oppressively present. The heaviness of trying to not notice the hitch in his voice. How my own voice was a mangled wreck. And the tears.

I ran my finger over the worn blanket covering his recliner, almost without thinking. It was my natural reaction to being back in that room, in that house. The threads were softened from years of us both doing the same during conversations, when neither of us wanted to make eye contact.

It's wild the things you think about when you return home.

My stomach chose that exact point to rumble, long and low.

Let's hope the freezer's still the same.

Shrugging off my duffel, I made my way to the kitchen. Plates sat in the sink, half-washed, and the stove still had the ruminates of his breakfast—crusted scrambled eggs and bell peppers. The breakfast is exactly what I would have pictured him having, sitting at the small nook table for two.

With one scoop, I tossed the pan—egg bits and all—into the sink. It got to join the discarded mess of plates and forks and mugs. The clank of the metal and ceramic meeting was enough to make me jump, even though I was the one who initiated it.

There's a time and place for being a scaredy-cat, Bella, I told myself. And this sure as hell ain't it.

I rolled out my shoulders, actively forcing them to relax, before wrenching open the old freezer door. Inside, frozen dinners and vegetables and popsicles ran rampant. Every square inch of the area was covered with frosted-over packaging. I reached in indiscriminately, hoping to grab something not freezer burnt and preferably bought after my departure for college. I came away with a box of enchiladas; the box touted the dinner as being Clean! and Grass-fed! I flipped the package over. Best by two weeks ago.

I bounced the package back and forth between my hands.

My stomach moaned.

The car ride had been rather long.

Three minutes later, I was half-coughing, half-chewing some piping hot chicken enchiladas, feet propped up on the coffee table. My tongue was undeniably burnt; it felt sharp but the taste of cumin and chili powder lessened.

I wanted to sit with the food longer, but it didn't pan out that way. The plate was small, and I was overenthusiastic. Before I wanted to, I was faced with the silence again and my bags. And more dishes.

Shit. I still have to unpack the truck.

Realistically, I could've waited until Charlie came off his shift at the station. That thought floated in the back of my head, repeatedly nagging me as I tossed the remnants of my dinner into the garbage. My fork went into the sink to join the others, and I shoved my duffel towards the stairs leading to my room.