by Jana David
Allie
I went home to my parents the next weekend. Despite everything, I loved my parents, and I missed them. I left early Friday morning, skipping a few classes so that I would have more time to spend with my family.
When I stepped off the train, my father was already waiting for me on the platform. He scooped me up into a tight hug when I approached him.
“Light as a feather”, he commented. “And I thought you were supposed to put on a few pounds once you started living on your own.”
I wriggled in his grasp, trying to free myself. “Well, I haven't”, I told him once I was back on my own two feet. “But you certainly put on a bit since I left.” I playfully pinched the soft flesh of his belly.
My father smiled. “You were always a better cook than me”, he said. “I'm mainly living on canned and frozen food now. I'm convinced these companies lie about the nutritional information they print on their labels.”
I laughed. “Sure they do.”
My father gave me a guilty grin as we reached the car.
The drive was short. Ten minutes later, we reached the house.
It was strange to be back. This house, which had been my home for so many years, and technically still was, suddenly felt nothing like it had just a few month ago.
My mother was in the kitchen, decorating a cake. It looked like today was a good day for her.
“Hey, mum.” She turned around at the sound of my voice. A huge smile spread over her face. “Sweetheart, come here. Oh how I've missed you.” She spread her arms, inviting me in for a hug, and I readily went to her.
That was the big contradiction with my mother. The thing I'd never quite been able to wrap my head around.
There were times when she was so loving and caring, like the best mother on earth, and then there were the times when she would scream at me and tell me everything would have been better had I never been born.
And maybe—just maybe—she was right. Before I was born, things had been different for my mother. Definitely not perfectly normal, but different. I often wondered if, would I not have been in the picture, my parents would have had a better life. It would have been easier. I was convinced of that.
When I was younger, I still believed in a cure. I still believed my mother would one day wake up and simply be normal. I now knew that would never be the case, and I had learned to accept that as a fact.
We sat in the living room, ate the cake and watched the football game on TV. It was a good day.
On days like this I felt guilty for desperately wanting to get away from this place. I felt guilty for always hiding what was going on at home from most people, and I felt guilty for not helping as much as I should and instead leaving my dad to deal with it all. He was always the one who had to organise everything. He'd been both father and mother to me growing up.
From the first time I got my period, to the time I asked him to make an appointment at the gynaecologist for me, my father had always had to deal with the things a daughter would usually talk to her mother about. And he'd never complained.
I remembered the talk he'd given me on sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll (which was supposed to be a talk about sex and always staying safe and not doing drugs, but ended up mainly being my father telling me about the glory days of his favourite rock band, CCR). He tried, and I was very proud of him for that. Many fathers would just awkwardly talk about the birds and the bees and hope the school would provide a sufficient enough education where sex was concerned. Of course the topic was always awkward to talk about with your parents, but my dad did a fine job, nonetheless.
I scooted closer to him on the couch. “I love you, dad”, I said. I never said it enough.
My father looked at me, a little surprised. “I love you, too, little one.”
As I lay in my own bed that night, in the room that felt just as foreign to me as the rest of the house, even though I'd spent almost four years here and it still held all my personal things, I felt lost more than ever before. Only eleven weeks had passed since I left, but I was a different person. This house truly wasn't my home any more. On the other hand, I also didn't quite feel at home in Liverpool yet. My thoughts drifted to the conversation I'd had with Darcy a couple of weeks ago, where we'd talked about our messed up lives. He understood. At least in part. It was nice to have someone to talk to who wasn't constantly trying to tell me everything would be fine.
He was back in my life, and he'd invaded every corner of it, quietly and without me noticing at first.
I had been afraid of that happening, which had been one of the reasons I hadn't gotten in contact with him sooner.
Deep down I'd known that once I let Darcy back into my life, he was going to be tough to let go of again.
Now I lay there, in the dark, thinking about his dark hair, which stood in such stark contrast to his grey eyes. I thought about the light stubble that sometimes showed around his jawline when he hadn't shaved for a day or two. I could still remember the days when I'd make fun of the two boys for talking about shaving and what a hustle it was, when neither of them were clearly even close to growing proper facial hair yet. That had definitely changed.
I thought about his smile, and his cute little dimples. I thought about his lips, and an entirely different memory came to mind, making me stop breathing for a second. I hadn't thought about this in such a long time.
There had been many, many times when I'd wished it had never happened.
That kiss.
It had been my first. I didn't know about him, but it had been my first one. The one I would never forget. With every kiss that came after, I found myself comparing it to that moment when Darcy's lips had touched mine. None of them ever measured up.
When it came to Ian, though, I tried to keep my thoughts about Darcy at bay. It just seemed impossible to compare these two. Despite being friends, they were so fundamentally different people. And both their personalities appealed to me in certain ways. I'd always loved being their friend, because while they might have each had their own faults, together they made the perfect team. What one person lacked, the other made up for.
Darcy was the more outgoing, reckless type, but with Ian's calm, rational demeanour, they cancelled each other's faults out.
If I wanted comfort, I went to Ian. If I wanted adventure, Darcy was my first choice.
The question was: what if I had to choose? What if I had to pick one over the other? What would my choice be?
A week later, my mum was back in the hospital. I stayed at school. Even though I felt guilty for it. I just didn't have the strength to deal with her problems on top of mine.
Chapter 5