The Lighthouse. Mary Schramski
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kitchen to the rest of the house.
My head is aching, I guess from the flight, the drive home, anticipation. I glance around. The same familiar yellow walls—like sunshine—was how my mother described the color years ago. My dad told her that was silly.
I was so looking forward to seeing familiar things, but now I’m not so sure. When I’m in Tucson, I can keep my grief tucked away. Nothing there reminds me of home, and I’m so busy most of the time, I don’t have time to think about anything but work.
Yet, right now, it feels like just yesterday that I sat at the oak table in the kitchen in shocked disbelief that my mother was gone. Dad has changed nothing. The white-and-yellow tile and the turquoise art deco canisters sitting by the stove are still the same. And the white curtains edge the window over the sink. Except now the room is a mess with unwashed dishes, a greasy frying pan on the stove.
The old refrigerator, squat as an old woman, hums. I place my purse on the table in the middle of the room, dig around, find the little foil packet of Aleves in my makeup bag. The door to the dining room swings wide, Dad walks in, and the refrigerator sighs.
“Need anything?” he asks.
“No.” A half lie. I’m not sure what I need. I feel numb—a little disoriented, but I don’t know how to tell him this. And he probably wouldn’t understand, anyway. I glance toward the dining room and, for a split second, I expect my mom to push through the swinging door, hug me, then sit at the table and pat the space beside her.
My headache deepens.
“I saw Sandra this morning. She’s looking forward to seeing you,” Dad says.
Sandra is three years older than I am, and she grew up in the house next door. We played together when we were young and, when she went to high school, I followed her like a puppy, entranced by the boys, makeup and dates that swirled around her. Three years ago, she moved back into her childhood home to take care of her mother. We’ve kept in touch, but over the last few years I’ve been so busy, we haven’t talked much.
“I’ll go over tomorrow. It’s too late now.”
Dad looks at the clock. “Better turn on the news.”
“Still on at nine?”
We both look toward the yellow sunflower clock over the fridge, and I laugh despite what I’m feeling. Eight-fifty-five.
“Yep, still on at nine. Are you coming?” he throws over his shoulder as he walks out of the kitchen.
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
A moment later the TV blares. I walk to the refrigerator, open the door. Almost empty. This surprises me until I remind myself my mother isn’t here to fill it. At the new stainless-steel sink that Mom had installed two months before she died, I find a clean glass, fill it with water, pop the pair of puffy blue Aleves in my mouth and wash them down.
The tiny crystal bear Mom hung in the window sways a little. I wonder how many times she stood in this spot, looked at the little bear and heard these same noises—the fridge humming, the TV voices, her own breathing? I try to look out the window, but all I can see is a lot of my mother in my reflection—long dark hair, narrow face.
Familiar grief pushes in and I shove it back.
After my mother passed away, my grief came in waves, like the ocean four blocks away, crashing against the cliffs. Sadness rolled over me, at times the weight of it knocking me down, filling up my throat and chest. Then just as suddenly, it would be gone, washing back to who knows where? I wouldn’t know when the grief was going to splash over me again—a song, feeling the early morning breeze against my skin, anything might bring back the hurt.
I turn around, lean against the counter’s edge. I grew up knowing my mother loved this kitchen. We talked a lot here. She told me once that she wanted to soak up the history of this house, and family history always began in kitchens.
She told me so many things. Once at the park, when I was around six, she held a dandelion to my lips, said, “Make a wish, Christine, and believe!”
I close my eyes, wish my mother were here.
“Christine,” Dad calls from the living room.
“Yeah?” Where did she go? Crazy, I know, but it’s so strange that one moment a person is breathing, laughing, then poof, gone!
“News is on.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I look around the kitchen, wonder how much my father misses my mother. They were married for forty-three years. Does he plunge into memories and swim to where she is, tangle in her long, dark hair?
I drain the glass. I have to get control. I push my thoughts back and walk into the other room.
Blinking red lights grab my attention.
“What in the heck is that?” I ask.
CHAPTER 2
“What does it look like?” Dad asks.
I glance at the fake Christmas tree sitting on the table in front of the window. I don’t think I should tell him the tree, leaning too far to the left, resembles a drunken sailor. He might not think that’s as funny as I do. Huge red lights are looped precariously around the tree’s small, fake branches, and the Santa ornaments that Mom used to place on a big, fresh tree, look like they are hanging on for dear life.
I shake my head, study a scratch in the hardwood floor.
“Something wrong?” Dad asks.
Oh, God, now he knows I don’t like the tree.
“Did you put up the tree?” I ask then feel like an idiot because who else would have done it? “It’s really nice,” I lie.
“No it’s not. It looks like crap.”
“It’s cute. Really.”
“It’s fake.”
Like anyone couldn’t tell! I walk to where he’s sitting. He looks up, turns down the volume of the TV.
“Fake, real, it doesn’t matter. I’m flattered that you put up a tree. It’s a great tree.”
“You never could lie very well. It’s crappy. I got it at Wal-Mart, on sale. With you coming for Christmas—”
He stops, gets this weird look on his face, and the gray light from the TV accentuates his frown lines.
“What?” I turn and see my reflection in the window by the tree.
“Nothing. I thought…nothing.” His expression is pure confusion. “We’re missing the news.” Then he points to the tree. “So you like it? The decorations are too big. If you want, we can go get a real one tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t change it for the world. Really, I’m impressed. I know you don’t like Christmas.”
“True.”
“Do you still think it’s a Communist plot against democracy?” Under the tree are two badly wrapped packages. Jesus, I completely forgot to shop! “I need to go Christmas shopping.”
“What?”
“I have to go Christmas shopping tomorrow.” I point to the presents. “I was so busy before I left Tucson, I didn’t even think of gifts.”
Dad looks at me, raises an eyebrow. “How do you know they’re for you?”
“Well, I…I don’t.”
He laughs. “They are, but they aren’t much. I don’t want anything. I still think it’s a Communist plot. The tree seemed to need presents, that’s all. You can open them now, if you want.”
“No, I’ll wait till—”
A commercial