Page 49 of Implode

After using the restroom, I take my phone off Airplane mode and see that Nic has sent me a series of texts.

Nic: Hope you are able to rest on your long flight.

Nic: Let me know when you land.

Nic: Did you arrive safely?

Nic: I can’t settle my mind until I know you are safe.

I quickly shoot him a text confirming that I am fine and on stable ground again. Even I am surprised I survived the flight with Tara gunning for me from just the adjacent seat. I polished up on my self-control skills, and at least that is something positive from the trip so far.

I glance around at some of the reunions happening with family members and spouses holding signs for some of the passengers on my flight. I can’t help but wonder what that feels like to be embraced and welcomed like that. It almost feels intrusive to witness these intimate moments, but I can’t keep myself from looking. Women are being spun around by their lovers and handed bouquets of flowers. Maybe they are doing long-distance relationships. Maybe a spouse is in training for the army. Regardless, it is super romantic, and I yearn for that type of love story.

I don’t even look around for anyone I might recognize. I know that no one showed up for me. Back in high school, I would get dropped off at the school dances and often had to catch rides home with friends, because no one would show up for me. It was a sobering feeling as a teenager to realize that during the chorus concerts and homecoming games that no one was in the audience to watch me perform. Granted, I was not the best by any means—especially with singing—but it felt good to be a part of something that was bigger than just me.

I wheel my bags outside and look around to get my bearings. The air has a bit of a bite to it, and I hope I have enough variety of clothes to keep myself comfortable while here. I get in line for a cab. The good thing about being at a busy airport is that there is always transportation readily available. I don’t need to hunt.

The driver helps me with my bags and opens the backseat door for me to enter. I strap in, give the address, and relax my neck against the headrest. I shoot my mom a text, letting her know I’m on my way, to which I get no response.

I thought being back would be more nostalgic. However, in a place that is heavily saturated with negative memories, it is no wonder I am struggling to see anything that brings me joy.

I lose track of time and doze off. It isn’t until I hear my door opening that I realize I have arrived at my destination. I pay the driver, drag my bags up the eight concrete steps, and come face to face with the home where I grew up. The lights are off in the house, except for the outdoor one right near the entrance. I text my mom again and after a few minutes, I give the door a try.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

When there is no response, I try the doorbell. Silence. I look back on the street and see no sign of a vehicle belonging to this house. I no longer know any of the neighbors on the street. Many moved when their kids got out of school. While this doesn’t appear to be a young family area, there are still some telltale signs that children are around. The playground that I could walk to is still in the same location, but it has gotten a facelift.

I walk over to the garage and jump up as high as I can to see if I can look inside. I remember shoveling the inclined driveway some winters when we would get a dumping of snow. The repetitive nature of the task was soothing for me as a kid. I wasn’t into nutrition and fitness then like I am now, but I still had a decent grasp on what healthy habits looked like.

To have a single family home in the city means that you are wealthy. My parents have done well for themselves with the restaurant. While the house is overall on the smaller side, what is presented outwardly to the rest of the world is really nice.

What a shame that it is getting sold.

I fish my phone out of my pocket and find my mom’s number in the contacts list. I hit the call button and wait for her to pick up. It goes to voicemail, so I try again. When I hear the sound of someone picking up on the fourth ring, I sigh in relief. I’m not even sure what I would have done if she didn’t answer. I guess look for a hotel closer to the city.

“Hey Mom, it’s me. I just arrived at the house but no one is opening the door.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to come the day of, Claire.”

“You made it seem urgent, so I—”

“Well, it is. The closing is a time sensitive matter,” she says defensively.

“Well, then I’m glad I didn’t delay.” A car drives down the street, and the headlights shine on me. I hope they don’t call the cops. I do look like an intruder.

“Okay, that’s fine. I’m staying somewhere else tonight. Just get the spare key taped to the backside of the garage light.”

“Okay…”

“I’m going back to bed, if I still can. I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

I frown into the phone as she disconnects and then stare up at the light mounted to the siding of the garage. I look around for a flowerpot and slide it over underneath the light. I climb carefully on top of it and reach up. Still too short. I wheel my luggage over and put the pot on top. I just need a few more inches, so this should do the trick. I teeter on top and detach the key that is duct taped to the metal trim, just like Mom said. Jumping down, I frown over the sad appearance of my now crushed-in luggage. I hope the dent pops out or I’ll be in the market for a new set.

Once inside the house, I notice the emptiness. It is like no one has been living here for years. It is the same feeling I had coming home from school and walking into a lifeless house. It always felt like a holding cell. I hit the light switch in the foyer and say a silent thank you that there is even power. Dust is settling on the floors, and the few pieces of furniture still arranged in the living room are covered with once-white sheets. I wonder when is the last time my mom or dad stepped foot into this house. It’s not like they tried too hard to stage it to sell, or maybe they did and I am just seeing the aftermath of everything being given back to the rental company. I really don’t have personal knowledge on the process; I’ve just watched a few of those house hunting shows.

My stomach growls with hunger and I walk over to the fridge to find it empty, except for a few bottled waters and a partially opened bottle of wine. A sticky residue is dried on the shelves. When I grab a bottle of water, I have to pull it hard to get it to unstick, ripping the label off on accident in the process.

The pantry has a few packaged soups and a box of dry pasta. From the numbers stamped in black lettering across the top, it appears to be a year past the sell-by date. I open up the cupboard and find one of the only bowls inside. I remove it, wash it heavily with some hand soap I find under the sink, then set it on the counter to dry. The can of soup has a pop top, which makes it easy to open and pour.

---