The Color of Us

by Jessica Park

  It hasn’t crossed my mind to touch that money. Not until now.

  Maybe I am ready for a major change. Maybe I deserve this.

  Maybe I am ready for snowmen and leaves and creeks.

  It takes another large coffee for me to work up the nerve to leave. The texts that my mother has been sending me every half hour this morning have not exactly been enticing me to venture back to the condo, but while I’m slumped against the window as I drive back, I’m flooded with memories of my father. And I think about what he would have wanted for me.

  My mother is waiting when I amble into our condo. And she is visibly riled up. “I canceled two showings, Callie. Those insane texts? Why haven’t you called me back? And what in the hell is going on with you?” Then, she looks me up and down. “Oh. Well, I can see now—not to mention, smell—that you were drunk-texting a bunch of nonsense. Let’s forget last night.” She takes a deep breath, obviously try to relax. “There’s an open house in an hour that I can make—”

  “I want to go back to Vermont.” The unfamiliar calm that takes over me as I blurt out the truth is so foreign and also so stabilizing. I inhale and exhale hard.

  “Those were just late-night ramblings.” She brings herself to look me dead in the eye, her voice soft now as she asks, “Why would you even want to go back there?”

  “Because I do. I do, Mom,” I confess. “It was the last place I was myself. And the last place that I wasn’t miserable.”

  I follow her as she carries a load of clothes to the laundry room, and I say nothing as she unloads the dryer. Until I do.

  “You don’t need to worry about the house. I can handle it. And I’d like to help. I know how much you’ve done for me, and it’s not your fault that I’m”—my voice breaks—“a mess. That I’m a failure. That I fail at every goddamn thing.” It’s a needed release to say this out loud. To acknowledge it. “Put me in charge of our Vermont house. It will take a weight off of you, and it’ll give me something practical to do.”

  “Stop. You are none of those things.” She throws a pile of dark clothes in the washer and brushes her hands together before slamming it shut. “I know there’s a lot of work has to be done in order for that place to sell. And I haven’t been able to deal with any of it. If you want to tackle this house stuff, I’d be grateful.”

  The nod and small smile she gives me don’t exactly reek of confidence in my ability to do more than sweep a front step, but she finally leads me to her office and begins going through drawers, pulling files and printed documents, and amassing papers.

  “Look, all you have to do is connect with Paul. He’ll arrange everything.” It takes her no time to find a weirdly giant clip to secure the many papers she now has in her hand. “I’ll be in touch with him, and you can figure out the specifics. Basic renovation stuff, okay? Get in and get out. Simple.”

  It’s hard not to feel as though I’m a spy, given a short tactical assignment.

  “Sure,” I reply slowly. “Could I leave soon? Like, in the next few days? Is that okay?”

  “Of course. I’ll book your flight and rental car.”

  As I’m about to go to my room to pack, she passes by me in the hall and touches my arm. “Callie?” But she doesn’t look at me. “You’re not the failure. I am.”

  Before I can respond, she is down the hallway near her room.

  Later, when the night sky takes hold, I am alone again. Alone in my room with my robe and my vodka and my suitcase. Well, multiple suitcases. I drink and pack. And I think about the numerous video tutorials regarding packing strategies because that’s the least painful thing on which I can concentrate. It’s important to pile shirts and pants and such and roll them into weird clothing cylinders to save space. The more I drink, the more I understand how right this method is. So, I layer and roll and pack and layer and roll until I have little left in my room that I care about.

  I drunkenly Google Marie Kondo, but I clearly don’t have time to differentiate between what constitutes the shit that brings me joy and what doesn’t, but I do grab a box of trash bags and start rooting through my belongings. It’s not long before I’m careening around my room and sweeping armfuls of my belongings into piles to be tossed. Weird hairstyling devices and insanely high heels—both of which could likely lead to ER visits—stupid mirrored pillows, and needlessly high-end makeup that I never wear.

  When I’m done, I have seven bags of items to donate and four huge suitcases to take with me. For the supposed short time that I’ll be gone.

  I finish off my glass of vodka and stumble to the bathroom, where I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. My hair is still dead straight from my usual flat-ironing, the auburn-brown color landing in a sharp edge just below my shoulder blades, and I lean in to drunkenly stare at myself. My blue eyes are drooping tonight, my face gaunt and my collarbone prominent. Even in my vodka vision, I know I look horrible.

  The following morning, my mother snags me an Uber and wraps me up in an embrace that I never would have expected. She is emotional and teary as she waves the car away.

  I’m not expecting to have fun.

  I’m only hoping I can find something more than what I have now.

  six

  It’s a grueling trip to get from Los Angeles to my rural hometown. My second plane ride lands me in Burlington, Vermont and then it’s a forty-five-minute drive in the damn brilliantly red BMW that my mother rented. A BMW. To drive over dirt roads.

  The swears that come out of my mouth as I load my bags into the car are too many to count.

  I pray that nobody notices this car.

  I try to sink into the driver’s seat as much as possible. It’s pushing midnight, and Wake isn’t known for its nightlife, as far as I can remember, so it’s fine. I hope. Fortunately, I had the foresight to wonder about Wi-Fi and to map out directions on my phone because the last time that I was here, I was a kid and didn’t exactly pay attention to routes from the airport.

  When I lose a signal and my GPS stops working, I am at least in familiar enough territory that I’m not utterly lost.

  I turn on the radio in hopes of drowning out my past, but the reception here is virtually nonexistent.

  So, it’s me and the back roads for the next twenty minutes. Then, I’m in the heart of Wake. The quaint streets with their small shops. Familiar roads hit me, familiar turns. Trees with arms that loop over each other. The sound that gravelly roads make when you drive over them. The smell of truly fresh, clean air. The quiet. It takes all that I have in me to only grip the steering wheel and not come undone because of how damn lovely it all is.

  And then I’m less than a mile from my old house. From my old life.

  From a time when I had a life.

  It’s with both acute fear and joy that I steer into my family’s driveway. Just as I set the car into park, I spot my dad’s red Pathfinder, and my heart about stops. He loved this SUV. He wanted to have this forever, to hold on to it until it was barely plugging along. Most of all, he wanted to teach me how to drive on this. My parents always ran their cars into the ground, and this Pathfinder would have been so up for some teenage-caused scuffs and dents.

  I wanted that too.

  But it’s got to be a mess of a vehicle now.

  The night that my mother made us run, she left this here too, I guess.

  What I’m stunned to find when I finally work up the nerve to approach the Nissan Pathfinder is that it looks as though it’s just gone through car wash, and when I open the driver’s door, I’m again stunned. My mother must have paid someone to clean up this vehicle because it’s pristine inside as well. She’s so logical, and it would have made sense to sell it. But she didn’t.

  Rather than hop in, I shut the door and turn to look at the house that my mom couldn’t face. The one I grew up in. The one she abandoned and the one I have returned to.

  I grab two of my bags from the rental car and lug them to the front door. I’m prepared for everything and nothing.

/>   When I swing open the door, I feel like a stranded kid. Which I guess I am. But a kid who asked to take two steps forward.

  My bags seem to drop themselves when I land in the entryway. It takes a second for the layout of our house to hit me, but when it does, I cannot help but laugh. Immediately to my left is the kitchen, a square, isolated room, totally cut off from the rest of the house. I flick on the light. Yep. It’s any realtor’s nightmare, and my mother must cringe anytime she thinks about trying to sell this place, as kitchens are key selling points. This one is horribly outdated. Shitty linoleum tiles line the floor, cheap counters and chipped cabinets don’t do much, the fridge and stove are beyond basic, and it’s hard to consider the tiny island in the center as anything but awful.

  None of this mattered to me when I was growing up though.

  There is a bottle of vodka in one of my bags, and after I bring in the rest of my stuff from the car, I manage to locate it. The ice cubes from the freezer are likely terrifyingly old, but I gamble anyway. A drink is a drink. Ancient ice probably won’t kill me. I mean, I assume it won’t. My drink doesn’t taste deadly, so I risk fatality and sip, slumping against the sad kitchen island until I’m solidly buzzed, prepared to face the rest of the house. And my past.

  Like my dad’s old Pathfinder outside, this kitchen is too clean, and I don’t know why, so I scramble about, looking for clues.

  Finally, I see a note on the counter.

  WELCOME BACK, CALLIE. WE’VE ALL MISSED YOU.

  I can’t move for a minute. It’s embarrassing and shameful that I don’t know who we is.

  I continue to explore the kitchen, and I find our old dishes and glassware in the cupboards. Ladles and spatulas and such in drawers. Beat-up pots and pans and a few sad cast-iron skillets.

  Instinctively, I reach next to the fridge and find a step stool, and when I open it to reach a cabinet above the fridge, I scream out, “I knew it! Roasting pans and weird serving platters that nobody used! And ancient bourbon!”

  It’s a good thing that my laughter doesn’t send me tumbling to the floor because I don’t know whom I’d call to take me to the ER.

  When the last of the vodka leaves my glass, I again reach for the bottle. Another drink couldn’t hurt.

  This kitchen feels safe and comfortable, but I realize that I can’t stay here forever. Sleeping on the counter probably wouldn’t be, like, super cozy or whatnot.

  Fine. I’ll casually amble to my old bedroom. It’s all cool and shit.

  So, I pour another drink and force my legs to move, and I enter the giant foyer that leads into the house. I glance to my right through an open door to a truly ugly bathroom and laundry area with rather grotesque yellow tiles that remind me of dying sunflowers. Or, well, urine. One shouldn’t decorate any bathroom in urine yellow. I back out and shut that door and walk into the main room.

  There’s no true dining area here, only a long table thrown between the staircase on my left and the living room on my right. This is open-concept design at its strangest, and while my mother surely sees this as another realty flaw, I kind of dig it.

  The living room is large with a high ceiling that is stupendous and a fireplace that is sizable but framed by hideous red brick that traces up to the ceiling. Truthfully, I can see that this room is maybe boring. And outdated. And so, so depressing with dark wood walls and the dark floor and nearly no light.

  And, oh God, I want to cry. My childhood is in every nook of this space. Family Monopoly nights on the table, my dad teaching me how to start a fire in the fireplace …

  I look away.

  The curved staircase to the second floor is on my left, and I stumble up the stairs until I nearly fall into the hallway, grabbing on to a doorknob to stop myself. The closet is full of linens, I know. I open it and smile.

  Ohmigod.

  There are stacks of comforters, blankets, and quilts. And I remember.

  Bwankies wiff wibbons what work.

  Blankets with ribbons that worked.

  When I was a little kid, I had a thing about blankets. Bwankies. Requirements, I remember. With wide ribbon edges that, when rubbed between my fingers, made a right sound or feel. That somehow worked for my childhood self.

  My mother made sure that I always had what I liked, and she’d sit beside my bed while I rubbed a blanket’s silky border between my fingers, assessing how it felt.

  “Does it work?” she’d ask.

  I cannot slam that closet door hard enough.

  Tentatively, I go to my old room. The one that I haven’t seen since I was eleven years old.

  Same furniture, same layout. Someone emptied my closet and drawers, thankfully, but there are still items from my past. A teddy bear, a framed picture of my family that I can’t look at, tattered posters on the walls. While it’s tempting to collapse into my bed and drown, I don’t.

  Farther down the hall, my sister, Erica’s, room doesn’t shake me—at first. But then I remember giggling together here. Her dressing me up in her clothes. Me idolizing my older sister. We used to be close. We used to love each other.

  I retrace my steps to the landing by the stairs. The bathroom has a claw-foot tub that I have always loved. It’s so utterly white in here. White tiles, white vanity, white walls. It’s astoundingly nostalgic and charming in its vintage design. Not so sure that I could demolish any of this.

  I have to finish my necessary tour.

  Across from the closet full of blankets and my old bedroom is my parents’ bedroom. It’s then that I let my heart break. Their room, so small but so full of love. Wood planks line the walls and sharp-angled ceiling. It feels nearly impossible to stand up in here, but I laugh, remembering how both my parents would navigate the room with giggles and ease. The hand-painted light-green dressers, soft white rug, the cozy corner chair, the hand-painted tiles around the small fireplace. I used to crawl into bed with my mom and dad, fall between them and the puffy duvet that’s still here now, and be enveloped in their love. Waking up to curl up in the small arched window with a view of the front lawn, the light subtle and perfect, was everything.

  After I crush what’s left of my drink, I stumble into their bed. And then I sob. Because it doesn’t smell like them at all. It doesn’t smell like my childhood. But of course, it shouldn’t. That would be insane.

  It smells like freshly laundered sheets.

  Someone—or someones—has cleaned this house. And my dad’s car. And the kitchen. And probably more than I’ve noticed.

  I tear off my pants and shirt and snuggle a pillow.

  Maybe I’m not alone here.

  seven

  Vodka and I have to end our evil relationship.

  My headache and disorientation upon waking could easily be blamed on jet lag and sleep deprivation, but the spins that threaten to topple me upon standing are undeniably courtesy of booze. I groan loudly when I sit up and reach for my clothes, unsure of why I’m even bothering to get out of bed because I didn’t bring coffee with me, nor do I imagine there’s even a coffeemaker in this house that’s less than a zillion years old.

  After I flail down the stairs and into the kitchen, I fling open the fridge in hopes of something. Anything. My heart jumps a bit.

  There’s milk and orange juice, so evidently, my fairy-godmother posse has struck again. The orange juice is at the back of the fridge and almost frozen—exactly as I’ve always liked it—and I chug back half the bottle, relishing the icy bits that slide down my throat. Then, I check the freezer, nearly crying when I see a package of ground Starbucks Sumatra. That means that there’s a coffeemaker here; there has to be. I don’t know who to thank, but I’ll find out.

  I dig through cabinets and fling aside an egg cooker, a waffle iron, a weird little metal case with notecards, and a flat-top grill. And a coffeepot! Within minutes, I have four cups brewing, and in a canister, I find sugar that is not solidified.

  So, there’s fresh sugar too.

  I’ll have to go into town today and b
uy some basics. It sort of sucks though that I’m at a loss as to what basics are. I’ve literally never cooked for myself—at least, not successfully—and I’m pretty sure that I cannot pull up an app on my phone that will deliver here.

  Wait. Those notecards that I found.

  Once I’ve retrieved the box, I see it is full of recipes, all handwritten on index cards by my father’s mother. Her distinctive script takes me back. My God, I somehow forgot that this house was originally my grandparents’ house. I start laughing as I remember.

  My grandfather built it, and halfway through construction, my grandmother realized that he’d forgotten to include a damn kitchen in the design. She did all the cooking, so he hadn’t thought about this rather essential room. There was a fight, and so my grandfather just tacked on this silly kitchen underneath the stairs, in the spot that was going to be a spare room. Still, this space ended up having charm. Cramped charm maybe but charm with a stupendous view of the lake.

  When I have a delicious cup of coffee in my hand, I venture outside to see what my grandmother wrote down. Last night, there was no way that I could bring myself to even glance at the creek behind the house or the lake out front, but this morning, I ache for these views.

  I start by walking out the front door and stepping to my right and onto the porch that wraps around the house, in search of the rhythmic and soothing sound of the water and the otherwise quiet. My hangover gives me countless reasons to ignore all of the interior problems, and the dock that stretches into the lake beckons me.

  The rough wood digs into my feet, but I walk until I reach the edge. And then I sit and hold on tightly to the box of recipes.

  This lake is too damn pretty. It’s not too small, not too large. It’s all sorts of storybook perfect. Most kids probably don’t appreciate what they have, and I can see now that I certainly didn’t appreciate what I had at all. Not this view, not my family.