There is a stretch of I84 in New York, just before you hit the Taconic Parkway. At first, you catch a glimpse of the mountains through the trees on your right. Every time I pass that place, my heart skips a beat. I know what’s coming.
A few moments later, you round a slight left turn at the crest of the hill and the whole of the Hudson Valley spreads out in front of you. You can’t see the river just yet, but you see the hills and mountains in the distance, and my heart whispers home every time I see it.
I never thought much about the landscape of where I grew up. It was background to the more important things. The piano lessons and soccer games and bonfires. The boyfriends and pool parties and teenage drama.
But now it speaks to my soul. I feel the ache in my chest. I love it and I hate it, too.
*****
My parents split up for a few months when I was in first or second grade. At the time they had two kids. Maybe it seemed like easy math. They each took one.
I was the obvious choice to stay with my mom. After all, Frank wasn’t even my Dad. Well, he wasn’t my biological father, anyway. I didn’t BELONG with him.
And Dad took my little sister, Justine. They moved two hours away to stay with my Aunt outside of Albany.
I tell you this because, during their eventual divorce some 15 years later, we split up the same way. Like our bodies remembered where we BELONGED.
Justine belongs to Dad. And I belong to Mom. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.
*****
There is muscle memory that kicks in as I drive the route to my childhood home. I notice the things that are the same. I note the countless ways that things have changed. I remember my elementary school bus stops as I drive past. Marlena lived there. Missy lived there. That was Chris’ grandparent’s house. I wonder who has moved on and who is still here.
I pull into the driveway. I know to park on the grass. Dad’s pet peeve has always been people who don’t know how to park. We had a double-wide driveway and I could see the steam coming out of his ears when my teenage friends parked smack dab in the middle of it, so nobody else could get by.
The house is a different color now. The fence is gone. The pool has been replaced by a hot tub. They’re lovely changes. But they still strike me. There’s a dissonance. This place is home. This place is foreign.
*****
When I graduated from High School, my parents threw a massive party. I think there were a hundred people in our backyard. My friends were playing chicken in the pool. My family sat around in folding chairs, eating homemade meatballs and talking about how fast the children grow. Dad started a bonfire in the barrel out back, and my friends and I cheered as we threw in our notebooks and binders to be devoured by the flames. All of Dad’s family came, pinching my cheeks and handing me envelopes and congratulating me as if I were one of their own.
*****
I wander into the backyard with my cooler and my bags and my gifts. I’m greeted with hugs and “Let me carry that” and “How was the ride?” It is lovely. I head upstairs to the bathroom. Most everything about the house has changed, but the bones haven’t. It’s weird how the eight steps to the second floor remain the same but feel so different under my feet. The stairs feel smaller and the bathroom feels larger and I look at the tub and wonder how my sister and I ever fit in there together.
*****
One time, when we were small, my mom found a booger on the bathroom wall. Yeah. You read that right. Someone was in the bathtub and picked a boogie and just… wiped it there.
Mom was grossed out. She yelled at my little sister. It MUST have been her. I was too old and too smart and too clean to do something that gross. I stood in the bathroom doorway, wrapped in my towel. I listened to my mom yell and I watched my little sister’s eyes go wide as she insisted, “It wasn’t me!”
It took me far too long. My mom was still yelling. I didn’t want to get involved. But then I saw the tears welling in my sister’s eyes.
“It was me, Mom.”
“What? It was YOU?” she was shocked. Indignant. I braced myself for the tirade. She took a deep breath. She looked at my sister. She looked at me. Back at my sister. I can’t remember if she apologized. I do know that she looked at me, still seething a little, and said, “Thank you for telling me. Thank you for being honest. Now go clean it up.”
She never yelled at me.
*****
Today is my sister’s baby shower. I brought some appetizers and a salad. I worked for hours yesterday threading tomatoes and olives and cheese and salami on skewers. They were pretty and I was proud.
I made sure that everything was prepped in my cooler so I wouldn’t take up too much space in the kitchen. I prefer to stay out of the way, to stay in the background. I’m unsure of my footing and I don’t want to stumble in front of everyone. My sister set out my fancy antipasto appetizer kebabs on my new serving tray while I placed the curved shrimp along the edge of a fancy glass dish. We worked side by side at the dining room table.
*****
My mom had been dreaming of that table for years. When it finally appeared in our dining room, her face lit up as if she had finally ARRIVED. It wasn’t a hand-me down. It wasn’t disposable particleboard furniture. It was a solid, oak dining set, with leaves and a chair to match. It seats 12 with lots of room and maybe 16 when we squished. She was so proud to host holidays at that table. For the first few years, she covered it with a clear, plastic tablecloth, so we could protect the surface but still see the beautiful wood finish. She loved that stupid table. He got it in the divorce.
*****
We sit and chat, the women talking motherhood around one table, the men talking sports around another. The kids play on the swingset and run around the yard. My sister is glowing. She’s beautiful and nervous and gorgeous, in that way that only very pregnant women can be. She doesn’t realize yet what a miracle she is because she’s a first time mom and she only feels bloated and sweaty. But I know better now. I’m in awe of her.
The weather is beautiful. I packed sunscreen but I don’t need it because we sit in the shade of an oak tree that covers half of the yard now. The kids climb that tree and sit on the lowest branches, swinging their legs and eating snacks.
*****
We planted that tree together. I don’t remember who was there, and I’m not sure how old I was. But I know that the tree was small enough (and I was small enough) that I could sit on my Dad’s shoulders and reach the top of it. When we put it in the ground, we imagined the day that it would be big enough for our children to climb in the branches.
*****
The afternoon is lovely. The food is delicious, and the conversation flows easily. Stories get told and repeated. I’m listening to one about my aunt. Elizabeth pipes in. “Is this the hair dye story?” She smiles and laughs. “We’ve heard that one before.” I haven’t. I laugh anyway, as if I’m in on the joke.
Elizabeth opens her gifts, and we all ooh and aah over tiny baby clothes and blankets. It is a celebration. A joyful one.
I overhear snippets of a conversation. Someone says that Dad must be excited for his first grandson, after all these girls. I have four boys. I don’t speak up, and I feel as if I’m betraying my children. I feel as if I have been betrayed. I smile anyway.
*****
Growing up, my dad washed the dinner dishes, and I dried. I’m not sure how that came to be the rule. It was a sort of unspoken agreement. The little kids cleared the table and swept the floor. They finished pretty quickly, and then it was just me and my Dad. Doing the dishes. Sometimes we talked. Mostly we didn’t. We just worked there, side by side, every night. We were a good team. I remember the day that I noticed that I wasn’t looking up to him anymore. We were eye to eye. It felt like a milestone.
*****
As we clean up, I end up drying dishes next to my Dad. Right back in my old spot. I say something. “Wow. We haven’t done this in a while.” He smiled and nodded. “I was just thinking the same thing.” And mostly, we keep working in silence. It is a weird, ordinary, beautiful moment.
My dad pulls out cardboard takeout containers and insists that I pack up some leftovers. He knows how teenage boys eat, and this is good stuff. Over the years, I’ve come to understand that Dad has two concrete ways of loving. He will fix your stuff and he will feed you. For two decades, I’ve been too far away for him to love me in the ways he knows best. We’re only just starting to figure out alternatives. But for today, I am happy to accept his love and his penne a la vodka.
*****
The baby shower is wrapping up. A few people have already left. Normally, as the sister of the guest of honor, I’d stay until the bitter end, cleaning up and making small talk. But because I’m home so infrequently, I decide to bow out a little on the early side. I have something important to do.
I leave the baby shower and head toward Sarah’s mom’s house. I haven’t been there in 20 years. I asked for the address, but later realized that I didn’t need it. My body remembered the way.
*****
It was July of 2020. A friend from high school text-shared an article from my hometown newspaper. At first I was confused. It was about a house fire. Heartbreaking. Tragic. The daughter survived, but a little boy and his dad lost their lives. I didn’t make the connection. I didn’t recognize the last name. I texted a question mark. She replied, “That’s Sarah’s family. Sarah’s ex. Sarah’s son.” I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t see through the tears.
I didn’t know if they’d let us in to the funeral. COVID and all. The rules were unfamiliar. Family only. Masks. Six feet apart. I drove there anyway. I’d stand outside if we weren’t allowed in. I just needed to be there. I didn’t know what else to do.
*****
In our friend group, Sarah was the solid one. She was strong and spirited; just a little more mature, just a little more aware than the rest of us. She had a wild streak, but I never saw her lose control. She had an easy smile and an infectious laugh. So, in eighth grade, when she asked me if I wanted to skip gym class and walk to the high school with her, I jumped on the chance. The high schoolers had a half-day and she had a chance to kiss her boyfriend before he got on his bus. We thought it was a quick walk, in that way of children who can’t accurately estimate time and distance. Surely, we’d be back before lunch. We had old-school Swatch watches, and as we began to realize the walk was longer than we thought, we picked up the pace. We ran, full-tilt, through the nearby backyards. One old lady shouted at us from her porch, baffled. We arrived, out of breath, and just in time. I hid beneath the bleachers while she found the guy and kissed him goodbye. But he was just a side note to this story. I don’t even remember his name.
When we finally made it back to the middle school, three class periods later, we were sure we’d be caught. We braced for the punishment. But miraculously, we arrived between classes. We snuck in through the gym door. Nobody ever knew we were gone. The first time we told that story, we were 13. Through the decades that followed, we retold it countless times, always to an audience who found it far less amusing than we did. That memory brought us belly laughs well into our adulthood.
*****
Of course, the funeral was heartbreaking. I sat there, unable to hold back the tears for a child I barely knew. I cried for that spirited, optimistic, thirteen year old girl; the one I could still see so vividly running through strangers’ backyards; the one who could never have known that her path would be interrupted by such a tragic turn. I watched her and I continued to be in awe of her. She was still standing. She was still full of grace and gratitude, with grief settling in to the empty spaces. I realized that when people say they couldn’t go on without their kids, they’re full of hubris and ignorance. Of course you think you can’t. But you do. It is your only option. My friend stood there, supporting her daughter and holding on to her family and mourning her loss in the arms of the people who love her. Is it heartless to say it was beautiful?
*****
Maybe my body remembered the way to the house, but my brain blocked out the route. I forgot that I would drive right by. Right by the spot where we stood, nearly two years ago, staring at the charred remains of a house, placing down flowers and saying futile prayers. Crying in each others’ arms.
My breath hitched as I took the turn. I couldn’t hold back the tears. It’s not even my tragedy. It’s not my pain. And still, I hope that by holding it a little, I can lighten it for her.
*****
I pull in right behind her; she waves a polite wave, as you do in this part of the world. I’m halfway down the driveway before she realizes it is me. Her eyes light up, and that familiar, infectious smile spreads across her face. “What are you DOING here?” she asks.
“Surprise?” I say, a little meekly, because I’m not sure this is my place and I have shown up anyway. “Kate said she was coming to meet the baby. I hope you don’t mind that I crashed.” She wraps me in a hug and I am humbled and honored to be part of this moment with her.
In the two years since I last witnessed her grief and grace, she has become even more beautiful. Her baby is only two weeks old, and she has the glow of a new mom. But there is something more. There is a calm, a peace, a gratitude… she exudes something that I can’t quite explain. Her pain has given her a depth that I can only admire, because I don’t have the words to describe it.
*****
Of course, the baby is beautiful. Her older daughter plays the piano and presses me for embarrassing stories about her mom in middle school. I politely decline. There are laughs and baby cries and exasperated teenaged eye-rolls and it is all so incredibly, mundanely beautiful.
*****
As I climb back into the driver’s seat, I check my phone to see how long my return trip will take. The service that far out in the country is unreliable. When Google asks for my destination, I push the button for ‘home.’ After a long wait, my phone declares, “Can’t find a way there.”
How appropriate.
*****
Visiting my childhood home is hard. I don’t know if it’s hard like this for everyone. It’s not bad. It’s just exhausting. It brings up so many memories, so many feelings, so many long-forgotten moments.
It’s a three-hour drive home, and I need it. I need the time to think and process and unwind and regroup.
Maybe I don’t have a horrible memory, like I’ve always told myself. Maybe I’ve just spent most of my adult life away from the people and things that will spark recollection.
What is it about this place? Home. Can I still call it that? It rips my heart out and then, in an instant, fills it with joy. This place is beautiful. It is brutal. Brutiful, as Glennon Doyle would say.
But maybe I’m thinking about it all wrong. Maybe it isn’t this place. Maybe it isn’t the ‘going home’ that is brutiful.
I think… maybe it is just LIFE that is brutiful.
Beautiful things happen. Horrible things happen. And we continue to put one foot in front of the other. We visit friends and go to work and hug our kids and celebrate all of the joys that we can.
Fully living means showing up for the hard things and the easy things and all the things in between. It is beautiful. It is brutal.
And I am grateful for it.