I open the door to my house and my mom and dad are in the family room watching some sort of home improvements program. Again. I just don’t get the whole reality Self Help shows thing. I shake my head in disbelief at how engrossed they both seem watching some guy with orange overalls tell them how to glue tiles on the floor.

I groan as I heave my suitcase and my large bag of laundry, ritually brought home each month, onto the linoleum floor. The noise startles my parents and they turn from their prospective kiddy corner couch squares and glare in my direction. My dad is in his nasty, old grey t-shirt that is stained with I don’t even know what.  Mom is dressed in a loose fitting taupe dress.  Always ready if people come over. 

“Hey, I’m home,” I wave.

Dad raises his hand and does a half wave.  He’s slumped in exactly the same position he was in when I left for school a few months ago.  There must be grooves worn into the multi-coloured tweed cushion.  I’d be able to confirm it if he was ever off of the couch. He always wears the same pair of silver-blue slippers.  The material is thinning and individual fibers are pushing through the holes on the soles of his shoes. Hey, isn’t there a song by Jewel with something like that in it. My mind drifts off momentarily.  Dad quickly returns to his original position watching the television. Mom motions for me to come closer.

She stands up and grabs a hold of my face and looks me up and down.  Satisfied she lays a soft kiss on my forehead.

“Hi, Honey. Was the trip okay?” she says and Dad hushes us. Mom rolls her eyes and we start to move towards the kitchen. We’ll be able to talk in there without at dad shushing us. As we walk through the doorway, the familiar smell of freshly baked cookies wafts toward me.  It makes me instantly hungry.

One thing can be said about my mom, she really knows how to make you feel better. She has already made me a big batch of “Kitchen Sink” cookies. She always makes them for me. The delightful scent of the chocolate and cookie dough makes me salivate like a hungry dog. As I grab my first cookie, Mom is already at the fridge and has pulled out a carton of milk. She gets me a glass. Moms really are the best! By the time I reach for my next cookie, she hands me the milk and I chug it. I wipe my milk moustache on the sleeve of my green and grey striped rugby shirt. It feels so comfortable and pleasant.  Sometimes I forget that I hated living here and that I was so happy to go to another city for school.

Dad bellows from the sofa that he needs another beer, and Mom hands me one. She motions for me to give it to my dad. I can’t believe that she just doesn’t care anymore and isn’t trying to stop him.  We both know where this is headed. Familiar! Right, the whole thing definitely is familiar.

I make my way towards the couch. I have a dozen snide comments in my pocket should I need them.  But I don’t want to be confrontational today. My dad and I aren’t exactly close. I don’t like the fact that he treats my mom like a piece of dirt and that he drinks way too much. My sister and I have always resented the way Mom gives in to him. Even when he’s pissed drunk and rambling on about how disappointed he is with how his life turned out. What about us? We have to put up with him!

Anger wells up in my chest. I’m not going to let him affect me like this.  I’m in control.  Then I get images of when we were little kids, Mom used to fight with him and tell him he’s not going to treat us the way he was treated. She would scream, yell and tell him he was an ignorant bastard for pushing us all around. I remember it! But my sister Grace was too young. I used to take her from her crib, and we would hide in the closet until Dad fell asleep.

I always knew when he was asleep because the yelling would stop.  Then, there would be quiet sobbing as my mom cleared whatever was broken and left in pieces. But she never picked up the pieces of her heart, her shattered dreams of a wonderful life.  With nothing ever left behind as evidence, we woke each morning with a renewed hope and a somewhat deliberate memory lapse. It always leaves you vulnerable. You’re always wishing for a change for the better, but are left waiting for “the other shoe to drop.” Grandma used to say that. I always wondered what she meant, but now I think it means you’re waiting for something worse to happen. So we walk on eggs shells constantly trying to avoid the inevitable.

Grace has a completely different perspective on things. I think that’s why she is so much more trusting of men, in general. Actually, she is very sociable.  It’s like she learned from a young age to be accepting of others faults and try to cheer everyone up.  For me, it’s more about being independent, and not having to deal with all the crap of trying to make relationship work.  I don’t want to ever feel like I have to give up a piece of myself in order to keep someone else happy. Actually, love scares me more than anything because I know I’d be able to take just about anything and get up the next morning glued together in the hopes I wouldn’t be broken again. Stupid!

 As I hand my dad his beer I feign interest in his show, asking some stupid questions. He points out that if I were a son like he should have had, I wouldn’t be so dumb. It hurts when he says things like that, but I bury it, and just get up and leave him to his cursing.
     I use to fight back and get angry, like Mom did when she was younger. It wears on you, and in the end you’ll get crushed under the immense emotions, if you let yourself acknowledge how cruel life can be to you. I get why Mom stopped fighting now. She just couldn’t take it. Accepting it was just her way to cope. I get it. She doesn’t have an education or work experience, and she’s afraid. Not only is she unaware how great she is but also that she can do anything. She doesn’t need Dad - he needs her. She should have left him years ago.

Mom has always told us to get an education and never rely on any man. I can’t keep a boyfriend past two weeks. I’m so love-a-phobic I don’t let anyone get too close. I don’t want to depend on them and it’s easier to tell them to get lost than get invested into a relationship that might go somewhere on its way to nowhere.

As I careen back to the kitchen, Mom is on the phone with her sister. God, it’s like I never left.  I saunter to my room deflated and trapped in this glass house. I think about all the times I’ve had to clean up messes and just a lot of shit because one of us disturbed Dad’s buzz. I’m hit with a flood of desperation as I try to break through my memories, glass bubbles I’m afraid to pop. I fling myself backwards onto my childhood bed.

Any sudden movements could bring everything crashing down around me. It leaves you wishing for something big to happen to relieve the pent up tension.   Unpredictability and sheer explosiveness of everyday life here makes me covet the monotony of my life at school.

Pink princesses and ponies adorn my walls and dresser. I sigh, and let my feet hang loose over the edge of the bed. I shut my eyes and attempt to forget. Forget about everything; Dad’s drinking, Mom’s hushed complaints to her sister over the phone, and school. I breathe and the scent of my new body spray is relaxing. I focus inward, and I’m surrounded by a pure and loving light. Sleep creeps up beside me and I can feel my eyes squeeze tight. 

I remember those nights when I couldn’t get to sleep because of the fighting.  I’d sing to Grace in my hoarse voice trying to help drown out the yelling.  Late at night, when everything calmed, it was the crickets that I had as my lullaby. I’d pull at my upper eyelid and there would be a slight pluck sensation as the lid was suctioned off the lens. I’d let it go as soon as I could feel the tiny hairs along my lower lid.  In a way, I always felt like I was sort of sewing my eyelids shut, forcing myself to let go and try to get some sleep.

 Funny how being at home, the smells, the sounds, the familiar rhythm can cause a person to fly through their memories.  Most of the time I’m not even aware of the process but today every little thought seems so focal.

With my eyes still shut, I focus on a small white circle that naturally lingers in the darkness.  It’s so far away, but I know that if I stare at it intently, I will be able to break the bubble and reveal its secret.  And so I gape like I’m trying to decipher one of those damn optical illusions from psych class.

At first there’s nothing. But, then I can feel the white light wash over me. Images emerge blurred and obscure.