Coming Home

"Yep. I'm here. Don't worry about it. I'll deal with the realtor tomorrow. Tell dad - well, never mind about dad. "

I hadn't wanted to come back here.

Oh, it looked lovely enough, the snow lightly crusting the landscape like an artful dusting of icing, trees twisting their bare trunks towards the sky, their silhouettes reflected in the icy surface of the lake by the house. But I hadn't wanted to see it. Not in the best of weather, and certainly not in the chill of deep winter.

Object permanence. That's what they call the understanding a child gains that, just because something has disappeared from sight, that doesn't mean it doesn't exist anymore.

Peekaboo, I see you.

But even if I don't, I still know you're there.

Babies reach the stage by about the age of two. Sometimes, I wished I could go back there - and further. To a time when it was so easy to remove something from existence. All I'd have to do is close my eyes.

As if it was possible to ever really leave these things behind.

It hadn't all been bad.

When I was very young, my mother would sing. My father would joke that she made cats jealous. She would laugh, with good humour, as she'd bake his favourite: warm apple pie.

I'd steal an extra slice, and she'd pretend not to notice as I wrapped it in a paper napkin before sneaking out to share it with my best friend.

Abigail lived down the road, but her family didn't have a lake on their property. So we'd share the lake, and the piece of apple pie.

We'd sit on the pier, legs swinging, letting the crumbs fall into the water, and she'd squeal with delight when a passing fish or penny turtle emerged to pluck a speck from the surface.

We used to talk of our childhood dreams. She wanted to be a vet. I wanted to fly planes. Or maybe I just wanted to fly. I can't really remember now.

But I knew all her secrets, and she knew all of mine.

Well, except one.

I still remember the day she came around, face wet with tears, upset because some dull-faced schoolboy had teased her. But I knew why he'd teased her. And I realised, as I watched her beautiful face, animated with remembered anger, that I loved her.

I couldn't tell her. Instead, I awkwardly picked a marigold from amongst the grass, watching her eyes still and her tears fade as I tucked it behind her ear.

I don't know if she understood. But it didn't matter.

On the days it really didn't matter, I would find myself drawn to the lake, pretending that I was only there for the water. If it was warm, I would jump from the pier, surrendering to it. I'd empty the air from my lungs so that I could sink lower, the viscous depths turning the summer rays into foggy beams of green light above me. I would float there a moment, letting time stand still.

But time doesn't stand still.

Seasons came and went. My mother stopped singing. My father, she said, preferred the pie that the local waitress served.

Voices became louder. Plates broke more often than they used to.

As did other things.

I still saw Abigail sometimes, but she would look at me sadly, as the pile of secrets I kept from her grew larger, unmanageable. I didn't think to share them. Not then.

They say divorce is always ugly, but I expect marriage can be uglier.

Neither of my parents would leave the other. Old-fashioned values, shame, or a cycle of addictive trauma - I didn't know. But neither would go.

So I did.

I went to college, swapped my swimsuit for business wear and became a banker. The girl I knew, with dark eyes and a marigold in her hair - like this place, like this town, I left her behind.

I never saw her again.

If only I hadn't mastered object permanence.

My phone began to vibrate, interrupting my reverie. The growing green display announced Jenny as the caller.

"Benjamin?"

"No, ma," I pre-empted, "I haven't checked the house yet. Hold on".

On reaching the squat building, it took a little effort to swing the door open, but it was just as cold inside as it was out. No photographs hanging on the wall, the floors bare and rooms bereft of furniture, it's possible it was even colder.

"It looks fine. Nothing to worry about," I reported.

"He's changed, you know," came the disembodied voice on the end of the line.

"For you sake, ma, I hope so," I muttered.

"Benjamin, why don't you come home to visit?" As I looked around my empty childhood home, the request seemed vaguely ironic.

"I'll think about it, ma," I promised, as I disconnected the line.

Pulling the door shut seemed harder than opening it had been, and I sighed heavily as I struggled with the lock.

Maybe that's why I didn't hear her at first. But when she spoke, it was with a voice I'd have recognised anywhere.

"Benji? Is that really you?"

I turned to confirm it, and Abigail looked at me, cheeks plump and pink with cold - with more creases at the corners than I remembered, but a warmth I'd forgotten existed.

"So it's true". She smiled wider. "You came home."

And you know what?

Maybe I had.