Page 7 of Love Bleeds Red
I switch my phone off before I chuck the thing out the window.
Familiar buildings and sights blur past as we head into Mum’s neighborhood, toward the same home I grew up in, the home I haven’t been back to in over three years.
I can still remember the day I decided to leave like it was yesterday. I’d just gotten back from the weekend away with my father. The weekend that changed it all. I grip the strap of my carry-on so tightly my knuckles turn white before grabbing my sketchbook and pencil to give myself something to channel the rage.
The charcoal glides its familiar path—the curve of her eyes, the slope of her nose, the arch of her lips. I’m in awe every time I draw Bailey from memory. My mind remembers her features perfectly, even after all this time.
Of course I would. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
Before I know it, we’ve reached the house. I grab my belongings, tip the driver—something I’ve grown accustomed to from living in the US—and slowly make my way past parked cars and the small patch of grass where a few daffodil bulbs push their way through the moist earth. The narrow brick row house stands shoulder to shoulder with the others along the street like dominoes, all in exactly the same state of disrepair. It’s sad to see how the red brick has faded and chipped from years of rain and neglect.
My luggage wheel catches on the concrete step leading to the front door. Once I dislodge it, I stand there for a moment, staring at the tarnished brass knocker.
As I lift my hand to knock, the door swings open with a creak from the same old rusty hinge. “My baby is home!”
Mum launches herself at me, not paying any mind to the many bags in my hands. I laugh and gently drop what I can, wrapping my arms around her small frame. Her hug is warm,her scent exactly like I remember. Floral mixed with something menthol from the cream she rubs on her arthritic joints. I close my eyes and let myself get lost for a moment, forgetting the real reason why I’m home.
Mum pulls back and stands on her tiptoes to hold my face between her palms like I’m still a child. “Let me look at you! America’s been good to you—you’ve filled out. Grew a few inches?” Her honey brown eyes search my face and she tsks. “You look tired, love. The flight was terrible, wasn’t it? All the ladies at work talk about how much air travel’s changed nowadays. So expensive, so dull.”
“It’s not too bad,” I say, gently pulling myself from her embrace and picking up my bags. She’s still staring at me, her eyes filled with emotion. Guilt hits me like a sack of bricks. I’ve been a shit son. “It’s good to see you, Mum.”
I close the door and step past her into the narrow hallway. From what I can see, the house hasn’t changed. It’s still meticulously clean with mismatched furniture that belonged to my grandparents, the dusty rose carpet piling in the high traffic area, and Mum’s collection of porcelain figurines lining the mantel. The clutter somehow works, but the space seems so much smaller than I remember.
“Your room’s all ready,” she says, fussing with a spot on the staircase railing. “I’ve kept it just as you left it. Washed the linens and aired it out a bit. I did move some of my sewing things in there. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Thank you,” I say as I follow her up the narrow staircase. All our faded family photos still line the walls. Mum and me at the beach. Nana and Pops holding me as a baby. Me in my secondary school uniform. All smiles and hugs as if there wasn’t a gaping hole in our lives.
“How long will you be staying?” She can’t hide the real question from her tone.Are you finally coming home for good?
“Not sure yet,” I answer. “Got some business to sort out.”
She stops at the top of the stairs and turns to face me. “Your father’s business?”
“No,” I say firmly. “My own.”
I almost slip up and ask what she knows about my father’s business, but thankfully, I catch myself. Her face falls slightly. She’s always pushed me toward him, treated him like he deserved our love and respect. I could never figure out why. I’ve spent years resenting her for that. For accepting Alfred’s money, for the lonely childhood I had while she worked multiple jobs, for the secrets she kept about my father until I was old enough to find out myself.
“Well, you’re welcome as long as you need. I’ve missed you, son.”
And here comes the guilt again. At least she’s getting it all out of the way from the start. Despite it all, I know she did her best. And who am I to think negatively about taking his money? I’m doing the very same thing.
“I’ve missed you too,” I say, reaching to give her hand a squeeze.
My old bedroom is exactly as I left it. The twin bed in the corner covered with my navy blue quilt, my small wooden desk pushed up against the wall with the window that overlooks the street. There’s even a few of my drawings from art class hung up, the paper faded and curved at the edges. The only addition is Mum’s sewing machine and neat piles of fabric scraps and pattern pieces.
“I’ll let you get settled,” she says, hovering in the doorway. “Dinner in an hour? Unless you want to rest.”
“Dinner sounds great,” I tell her. “I need to set up some equipment first though. Work stuff.” I start to unpack my gear from the first bag.
“Still with your computers, not much has changed there. Well, I’m making your favorite, shepherd’s pie. Thought you might be missing proper English food after all that American rubbish.”
If she only knew how delicious that American rubbish is.
“Want a cuppa? Or something to eat now?” She picks up a cable and fiddles with the end.
“I’m okay. Thanks, Mum.” She puts the cable down and sighs, hopefully taking my hint.
“Call if you change your mind.”
