WELCOME//Crystal Gross

The For Sale sign said pending. I eased my pick-up down the long gravel driveway. Memories came at me, rushing. I cut the ignition. The split-level ranch looked small. Too small for me to have grown up within the house’s walls. I’d left with a partial scholarship and had worked two jobs to get by as an undergraduate. My girlfriend, Erin, could not understand why I drove all these hours. I was afraid she never would. 

A security light clicked above a large wooden welcome sign, illuminating my father’s handiwork. He was a hard worker and a talented carpenter. I wondered if I should have invited Erin, but I didn’t want the hassle of revising my childhood mythology - that my family were a bunch of country bumpkins. That they were just a little too into Jesus for me. 

Hopping out of my rusty Ford, I stretched tall, shaking off the long drive. The house’s shutters needed a coat of paint. I spotted a long, diagonal crack in the chimney’s wall. My father would never have let his house look this run-down. He passed away from cancer and was buried in the cemetery just outside of town. I considered stopping by on my way out, though the thought skipped like a stone smartly tossed across water and sunk before it could become a possibility.  

My feet dragged and I walked towards the front porch, kicking the rocks on the edge of the driveway. My mother’s prized rose bushes were loaded down with buds. Yellow marigolds and pink impatiens filled the overgrown flower beds alongside the house. The porch swing was gone. A Mother’s Day gift from my father, my brother Freddie and I had stained and sealed it. 

We must have been nine or ten. Mom’s big brown eyes had twinkled, she’d wiped her hands on her kitchen apron and laughed with joy when she walked out the front door and saw her gift hanging there, shiny and ready for a push. 

Standing on the bare concrete slab, tears swelled up and slid down my cheeks. I brushed them away and stepped out into the thick, green grass and walked around to the back door and found the spare key. I guessed this would be hard, talking myself up the whole drive here. I did not expect good memories to flood my mind. Lightning bugs flew up from the grass, sending flashes of light across the large, wooded back. I tried to open the door, but it was stuck. I stepped back, put my shoulder down and muscled it open. 

I could almost hear my father’s voice. “Put your back into it next time!” 

Months ago, I’d had a voicemail from my mother. She’d decided to move to Colorado Springs to be closer to my brother, his wife, and their two kids. When we’d finally chatted, she’d admitted to falling out of bed and breaking her hip. I figured something was up, something had to have triggered her decision to move all the way to Colorado. 

Recently, she had left another voicemail and after a few days, I finally listened. 

“Annie, come on and get your stuff. The house is for sale and Freddie thinks we have a buyer.” I wondered about the potential buyers. Was it a nice family? Kids and a dog? I hoped the house wouldn’t be haunted by my family’s ghosts.  

From the pictures I’d viewed on the realtor’s listing, the house looked easy, serene. Among the staged furniture and modern art on the walls, I caught glimpses of the ghosts that haunted my footsteps, followed me around, my father, my brother, and a specter I felt was me. I had squinted my eyes, catching a glimpse of my mother there, in the background, busy with hanging clothes out on the line. I had felt a need, urging me to go. I wanted something to happen; I held on to hope that something in me would change and I made my plan to travel the many miles. 

Steading myself, I stepped through the kitchen door and fumbled to find the light switch. Clicking it on, I took in the wallpaper and its striking chevron pattern. The fridge was stainless steel, so was the gleaming new stove. The cabinet knobs were bright, glass-like and cobalt blue. Too contemporary of a choice for my mother to make. I suspected they were picked out by the real estate agent. I felt like an intruder. 

I slid open the window above the kitchen sink to let in fresh air. Hearing crickets chirping, I thought back to summers and my mother’s garden. The countertops would have been piled up with cucumbers, peppers and green onions, tomatoes and pans of green beans to be trimmed. She had lived with the windows and doors wide open from Memorial Day to Labor Day and her garden kept our family, and loads of neighbors fed all summer long. 

Earlier before I’d left, Erin showed me more pictures of our new place and the raised beds on the roof. She asked if I wanted to grow vegetables. I was game. She’d half-smiled at me, her brows furrowing a bit. She asked again if I really wanted to move in with her. I said yes.  

Running my hands along the counter, I paused at the refrigerator. I took out a bottle of water and checked my phone. I had a text from Erin. 

“Hey, babe. Haven’t heard from you. Doing alright?” 

I cheesed a smile, snapped a selfie and replied. 

“Just got here. Place is quiet. Creepy.”

“I’m around if you need anything,” she wrote back. 

I didn’t know what to say. If I told Erin I felt sad about my mother not being here, she might say something like, “your mother should be the sad one”. Of course she was right, though I could not help but dream of something different. I often thought about Erin and my brother playing darts. They both loved the game and were both good players and those thoughts lingered enough to make me wish things were different. 

I moved to the living room and switched on the light. The thick, floor-length drapes were gone, replaced with plastic blinds. The room stood empty except for an unfamiliar recliner and mom’s old record player. I felt a rush, a score. I ran over and knelt beside it. Purchased second hand, it was a sturdy old console type. I hugged it and laughed at my silly joy.  

A note was taped to the top.  

“If you want the record player, take it home with you.” 

My mother’s penmanship was still lovely, but with noticeably less flourishes. I snapped a pic of the record player and texted it to Erin. I lingered at the word home on my mother’s note. My mother had never visited me in the ten years since I had left. She probably had an address that was three moves old.  

I wrote back, “This will look great in our new place. Solid craftsmanship.” 

I hoped Erin liked it, I hoped she felt some excitement from me. She was into retro, anything mid-century modern. I knew she wanted me to be more excited about moving in together. I wasn’t unhappy about it, but I couldn’t match her confidence. 

“Yeah! I love it!” she texted back. I sent back a handful of hearts.

When we met, I lived in a cramped apartment above an all-night laundromat. Erin and the leasing agent were eager to show me the townhouse for rent in Federal Hill. I’d never worked with a leasing agent; I’d found all my places from craigslist. 

I imagined Erin in our new place, unpacking and drinking bourbon. I worried that she didn’t know enough about me. I’d held back. It just felt easier that way. Not her, though. Erin was an open book, from her terrible acne and failing out sophomore year to her mother’s affair and years of valium abuse – I’d heard plenty.  

I lifted the console’s heavy lid. Under a stack of gospel records I spotted the bright blue and pink box of Motown records I had cherished growing up. I pulled one out and slid the top record from its sleeve. It felt incredible in my hands. The vinyl had little scratches here and there, and the label looked somewhat faded. I placed it on the turntable and fired it up, placing the needle on the deepest groove, Dancing in the Streets by Martha and the Vandellas. The drums and horns belted out of the speakers, sounding warm and rich.  

My pulse quickened and I welcomed more good memories as the music played. I remembered when Freddie and I would get off the school bus and come tearing down the long driveway to see fresh, clean laundry hanging on the clothesline and hear music playing. Our father would still be at work and mom would push the coffee table aside and stomp and slide and giggle with us. 

I sang out and danced, twisting my feet, finding the rhythm. I bobbed my head and added twirls, improvising new footwork. I couldn’t believe I was dancing alone in my childhood living room, texting with my girlfriend. I read my mother’s note again, folded it and put it in my pocket.

When the song ended, I slid the record back into its sleeve and clicked off the record player. I lingered there, a little out of breath. For the first time since I arrived, I felt peaceful, almost comfortable. I hadn’t expected this, and I hesitated to move on to my old bedroom.  

Walking down the hallway, I noticed the faint outlines of picture frames and little nail holes that remained of our family wall.  

My stomach flipped a bit as I opened the door to my old bedroom. No furniture remained, except a mattress left on the floor. The walls were stark white, I imagined that it took many coats of paint to cover up the blue and grey walls of my teenage years. It still had the same midnight blue carpet that I had begged for. 

I opened the window, letting in more fresh air. Sliding open my old closet door, I smelled bubblegum, cardboard, and plastic. I grinned. There was so much stuff. I sat and began rummaging through boxes of concert tickets and stacks of notebooks, a plastic bin full of random school pictures. I wondered why my mother had saved all my stuff. I felt lonely, like I’d betrayed her by leaving. It was a feeling I fought against for years and hurt to feel now. 

I picked up a stack and flipping through the pictures, I spotted images of myself with long braids and big bows in my hair. Long denim skirts and frilly sweaters with embroidered kittens and butterflies. I hadn’t seen myself like this in a long time. If my mother or brother walked through the door, I wondered if they would recognize me. Freddie would probably shoot me for trespassing. I had to laugh at that.  

When I opened another box, I was struck by a picture of me and Missy Sherman at Vacation Bible School 1992. Thinking back, I can still taste Missy’s vanilla flavored ChapStick. My junior year of high school, she was the new girl in my class and when she took my hand and led me behind the bleachers one day after choir practice, everything I knew about everything changed.  

Freddie had found out about the kiss from his friend who’d left football practice early. That night after dinner he came to my room. I remember his face, red and his jaw clenched. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, working on my homework when he grabbed me by my ponytail and pushed me up against the closet doors. 

“No sister of mine is going to be a lez.” he said deeply into my ear. He was over six feet tall and wore a short buzz-cut that gave him a square head to match his jaw. We had the same hazel eyes and pug-ish nose. I knew Freddie was strong, but I had no idea how strong until he pinned me, and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I was afraid to breathe.  

“Dad finds out and you’re dead, Annie.” He left, pulling the door shut behind him. I could feel him standing on the other side of the door. I waited for him to finally walk away. I took a deep breath and fell to my bed, weepy quietly into my pillow. 

Thinking back, I knew Freddie was right. Our father would have kicked me out or worse. After our father quit drinking, he joined a church and he and Freddie went to Bible study together while mom and I made every excuse possible to stay home. “Annie has a math test tomorrow” or “Annie has to help me can these tomatoes before they rot”. The church tried to teach us that what God wanted from men was very different than what was expected from women and that left no space for me or mom. A strict and punishing God had replaced the whiskey bottles and beer cans in our house.  

My brother would barely make eye contact with me. I felt regret, wishing I’d never met Missy Sherman. I still felt that way, though I know that eventually Freddie and I would part ways. We could never be as close as we were, we saw each other as monsters. We probably still do. 

I stood back and looked around at the piles of my young life scattered across the floor. I wondered if I should just leave. What was I going to do with all this stuff? Would I show any of it to Erin or would I just shove the boxes into the back of a closet. Mom’s note came to mind, I took it out of my pocket and read it again. She must have had the same memories of us dancing when I was a kid, and I thought of the Motown records hidden under the pile of gospel albums.  

I couldn’t help but think about Erin’s parents. They had offered to buy us a new sofa and a fancy washer and dryer for the new place. They were kind people, but I suspected they thought their daughter could do better than me. And they’d probably be right. 

I cried at thinking Erin was making a mistake. I cried hard and long and deep into the mattress. My father was dead, and mom was across the country living with Freddie. She had fallen. Was she safe now? Did it ever occur to her that I could help? She would never meet Erin, the woman I was moving in with. The woman I’d fallen in love with. Thoughts kept rushing through my mind, and I felt like I was suffocating. I needed to get back to a good memory, a good feeling. 

I pushed myself up from the mattress and walked back to the living room and back to the record player and fired it up. I could barely get the needle to land, my hands were shaky, but I played one record after another, singing every word. I imagined that Erin was with me, and I pretended to introduce her to my mom. I closed my eyes, and we all danced. I danced until the dark clouds began to drift away, until my heart pounded with fresh blood, pumping through every part of my body. The song ended and I stood there, panting, almost smiling.

I could almost hear my mother’s voice, “You’ve got some moves, girls!” Of course she would say that, of course she would like Erin, she could even love her given the time. I wanted to believe this and not feel scared. 

With grunts and sweat pouring from my brow I scooted the record player out of the house, step by step. I was determined to get it to my new home. With it secured in the truck bed, I next carried out the Motown records and left the others in a pile on the recliner. Finally, I carried out boxes of pictures, yearbooks, and other treasures from my childhood.  

Out of breath, I texted my mother. Mom never said as much, but I imagine that me leaving home scared and excited her. I thanked her for the record player and for keeping my things all these years. And before I hit send, I promised myself that I’d call her this week. 

The day I’d left home almost fifteen years ago, I’d pulled up my father’s church and parked in the spot my family usually used on Sundays. I could see dad’s car parked in the handicap spot, he’d recently received his tag, double bypass surgery will get you one, “finally,” he said, hanging on his review mirror with a snap. I was packed up, my car was stuffed, couldn’t see out the rear-view mirror, too bent on leaving to care. Life was ahead of me, on the long road stretching out to the highway I’d take to Baltimore. I locked the car door, feeling a little silly, but my life was in that car, my books, my sheets, my clothes, some cds and snack box mom had packed sat in the front seat.  

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” my father said. He wore brown slacks and an ocean blue polo. His mustache was freshly trimmed. He wore a gold cross that hung from a gold chain around his neck, same one as Freddie. I tried not to fidget or giggle, I was so uncomfortable, but I had to say goodbye. 

I sat down on the threadbare loveseat he used for talks with people from the church, said getting eye to eye with a man was the only way to get to the truth. He had new glasses, coke bottle thick lenses that gave him a goofy look, his bright blue eyes magnified and distorted, the frames from the seventies. I knew why I was doing but the details of what I was doing, but the details of what escaped my mind. I paused and thought of what to say.  

“It’s a big decision to move. Leave your family, your mother.” he said. 

I thought of the snack box mom had packed and knew it was her way of loving me and accepting my decision.  

“I got a scholarship, a full ride.” 

“You could stay and commute. Nothing wrong with commuting.” 

I had worried for years that Freddie had told my father about Missy Sherman, but in that moment I knew he had kept it secret. 

“The art program isn’t offered anywhere around here. It’s a good program.” “What do you do with an art program degree?” 

I almost said that I’d be an artist, but I stopped myself and said, “Teach. I’ll teach art.” He couldn’t argue that teaching was a respectable job. 

The church office phone rang, and he stood. “Better get that,” he said. He pulled out his wallet and handed me what he had, thirty-four dollars and said it was for gas. He patted me on the shoulder, a little too hard and I winced. His face dropped and he turned towards the office, the phone still ringing.  

He turned and said, “Call your mother sometime, Annie. She’ll worry, you know.” 

He walked to the office, answered the phone and shut the door. I fumbled with my keys and walked out the large glass doors with crosses etched, tall as me, and I got in my car and cried all the way to the gas station. 

I said goodbye to my old room, closed the windows and locked the door behind me. Before getting behind the wheel, I stopped and looked at the little pile of my life that I was bringing back with me. I felt a connection to the life I left and wondered about Freddie’s kids and wife. I wondered if I would ever visit mom and get to meet them. For the first time I wanted answers and thought that Erin could help. I grabbed my phone and texted Erin that I was on my way. Before I backed out of the driveway, I stopped and called mom.  

“Annie, that you, girl?” 

“Yes, mom. It’s me. I came home.”

Crystal is a writing coach and lives in New Orleans with her partner and two kids. Crystal is a Fiction Reader for Mud Season Review. Her work has appeared in Isele Magazine, was shortlisted for an Isele Prize and nominated for a Pushcart Prize.