1/1/17

MY SKIN PRICKS with the awareness of being somewhere so familiar. The small suburb in Illinois I grew up to be exact. My car slows to a complete stop outside my childhood home. The home I've been avoiding for years now. The house with the same tan siding, worn black shutters, and tall bare trees with hanging branches from the heavy snow. It's all so similar yet different all at once.

My eyes rake over the window where my room was, the room where my whole world fell to pieces.

I swallow a shaky breath not sure if I should do this. I didn't tell my mother I was coming. I didn't want to let her down if I wasn't able to show up. I didn't want to lie to her and make her feel like me not being able to come was her fault. Everything within me from what happened with Chase and Clayton still sits dense like cement in my chest, unmoving, and hardening everything in its wake.

My heart wants to break even more then it already has. My eyes are still puffy from all the tears I've cried in the last few days. After falling apart in Grayson's car she helped me pick up the pieces. She decided we needed to up the road trip, and we left that day to hit the open road. To air everything out, to sing loudly, to heal, and ultimately to grow.  

As soon as we arrived back in Illinois we ventured home to the city, and I spent the days in my room trying to slowly piece together my life. After all the lies, the hate, and the inevitable heartbreak that feels as if it was written in the stars.

Because as much as I hurt and ache from what went down, it has also taught me to much. It shed a light on the side of me that lived in the shadows forever lost. Because in the light I can see so much more for myself. I want to be happy. I want to be whole. I want more for my life then what I was living before. So I decided in a split second decision to drive home. It's less then a two-hour drive, but a drive I haven't made in a long time. Too long. 

Memories assault me as I sit in my car and stare out upon the home that shapes me. When I was younger my mother used to wake up early every new years day to make this big breakfast for us. Even with just the three of us she would make enough food to feed an army. We would have fresh fruit and casseroles and croissants for days. I can still remember how delicious it all tasted. Remember how waking up to the smell of her homemade pastries and her off key singing made me smile.

I wonder if she still does that? Cook all that food for just her? Sing old hymns her parent's taught her?

My car door clicks at the sound of me opening it as I pull my purse onto my shoulder. I slowly make my way to the front door. My blood rushes so loudly as it pounds in my ears. My feet feel heavy like weights as they move towards my past. A place I promised myself I would never go back to, but here I am coming back. Trying to grow, trying to understand.

I raise my shaking hand and press the doorbell. The memorable bells sing to a simple tune. My heart races as I hear a voice, a few footsteps, and then the soft creaking as the front door opens.

A loud gasp falls from my mother's lips as her dark eyes widen in absolute shock to see me. My heart warms a bit to see the woman who raised me hasn't changed much. She's still the petite, dark haired woman I remember. A smile blooms across her face, her smile always being my father's favorite feature about my mother. It's filled with such elation, as tears fill her eyes that are still locked on me almost in fear. Like she's afraid I'm not real, or that I may disappear in a blink of an eye.

But I'm here to stay.

"Hi," I breathe weakly still unsure of how I ended up here in this moment, and yet I don't regret anything. Because to see my mother, on this day especially, means everything. 

She rushes up to me and wraps her arms around my shoulders pulling me into her tightly. "Miss na kita," she whispers thickly as if emotions are clogging her throat.

I blink back the tears that want to fall and hold her even closer in this moment. I forgot how much I missed her voice. I've spoken to her on the phone a few times. But it isn't the same. Hearing her speak, and in her native tongue especially, has me at the brink.

"I missed you too," I respond quietly clinging to her a second longer not wanting this to end so soon.

She pulls away, and I can see her attempts at trying to hold in the bubbling emotions that want to overtake. But she was never good at hiding her true feelings, and today is no exception. "Come inside," she urges as her smile continues to grow and bloom across her face.

I pause slightly at her invitation. "I don't want to intrude...." I trail cautiously suddenly realizing how my spontaneous visit could intrude on her plans. On her day.

"Nonsense," she objects with a dismissive wave to my uncertainty. She reaches out and gently grabs onto my arm to pull me into my childhood home along side her.

As soon as I cross the threshold memories come crashing over me. I see the dining room to my left where we ate every holiday meal. My eyes then flicker over to the right to see the living room where I would watch nineties rom-coms with my mother, and cheesy horror movies with my father. The same room where we would spend hours reading in silence, or have my father's deep voice narrate us into a calm slumber.

As she continues to lead me through the house my eyes cast over the walls still filled with pictures of us as a family. Pictures of me in old dance recital costumes. Pictures of me with my father as he teaches me how to play basketball. Pictures of the three of us camping in our backyard so I can stay up and watch the stars. Pictures of simpler times.

My mother continues to leads us until we reach the kitchen. The place I would watch my parents cook and laugh with each other. The place where my mother taught me how to cook her signature dishes. We come to a stop and I take in the counter that is covered in her signature breakfast feast. A wave of nostalgia hits me and washes through me all at once filling me with love.

"You still make all of this?" I question taking in all the dishes I haven't had in years. My stomach growls gently already begging for the food laid out in front of me. "Just for you?"

"Well," my mother drawls awkwardly. She drops her eyes and I can sense the hesitation falling off her. "I'm not exactly alone," she admits as her gaze falls somewhere behind me. "Come over here," she waves at someone in the distance.

I can hear footsteps, but a part of me is too scared to turn around. So I don't. "Who else is here?" I ask more to myself as I wet my suddenly dry lips.

A man rounds the corner from behind me and comes to my mother's side, his arm immediately finding its place around her hip. "This is Gavin," she tells me gently. I can see how scared she is introducing me to this man in her life. I can see the past flash through her eyes painting pictures of me yelling at her and calling her names. "Gavin this is Hayley, my daughter," she says as her arm pulls him in close. Almost as if she's using him to steady her, to keep her in place in case everything comes crashing down around her.

I rake my eyes over the tall man. He has fair skin and light eyes with salt and peppered hair, and something about him reminds me of my father. I don't know what it is since I know nothing about this man, but he just feels familiar. Maybe it's the way he's grounding my mother in a tense moment, or even the little way his thumb caresses her hips to let her know he has her. He's there for her.

A part of me wants to fall back to the old me and hate my mother for moving on, but the larger part of me. The part of me I'm no longer hiding from can see how much they care for each other.

A moment passes as silence wraps around us thinning the air slightly. "Nice to meet you," Gavin's deep voice speaks finally breaking the silence. "I've heard a lot of wonderful things," he tells me with a kind smile. A smile that doesn't deserve the old me. The me who would push him away, and call my mother terrible accusatory names.

My eyebrows rise. "Really?" I ask with a wry tone and smile.

"Of course," he tells me easily. As if my mother talks about me frequently. Something about that thought, the thought of my mother for years speaking highly about me when I wouldn't even answer her calls has my chest pulse with a deep resounding ache.

An earnest smile grows across my lips. "Nice to meet you too," I tell him.

He leans down and places a tender kiss on the top of my mother's head. "I'll let you both catch up," he says addressing my mother who looks at him as if he is her everything. As if he healed her, and because of him she grew. I want to hate the fact that she's with someone beside my father. But I also want to cry tears of joy for her being able to find someone else to live life with. To grow old with. To read with. To laugh with.

Her hand squeezes his, as if silently thanking him. "Thanks hon," she murmurs affectionately before he steps away and heads back towards the living room giving my mother and I space to talk freely.

We both wait a few beats before either of us speaks. Almost as if we are trying to process what just happened, and how momentous this whole instant has been for both of us. "He seems nice," I tell my mother truthfully after a beat.

An innocent blush coats my mother's cheeks, and suddenly she's a young woman again. Not my mother. But someone who's found beautiful love again. "Gavin's amazing," she answers with a small tilt of her head.

"How long have you two been...." I trail not knowing what to call them I realize.

My mother's teeth graze her bottom lip. "Almost three years," she replies worry coating her tone. Like she's afraid she will offend me.

"Wow," I breathe in response not knowing what else to say. So many different thoughts are running through my head and I need a second to sort through all of them.

"Honey—" my mother begins tentatively.

But I cut her off as my thoughts comes to a calm standstill. "No," I state. Tears pull at my eyes as words that I'm so late in saying spill out. "I'm so sorry mom."

She shakes her head. "Hayley, you don't have to apologize," she tells me fiercely as if I didn't hurt her. As if I didn't push her away for years. As if I didn't spit horrible words at her and blame my father's death on her. "I know I went about things in the wrong way," she expresses taking a small step towards me.

"No, you didn't," I fight back not going to let her excuse my actions. "You went on a date after a year mom, you moved on. That's a normal reaction after losing someone is to try and fill that void. But I made you feel like you were betraying dad by meeting someone new," I say as my voice breaks hating the way my chest heats with shame at my actions.

"It wasn't easy," my mother confesses as a few tears escape. "I compared everyone I met to him," she tells me sniffling. I can still see the love she has for my father. It's a love that even after she passes will never die because their love was that pure and wonderful. But that doesn't mean she can't have an amazing love with someone else. She deserves to be loved and cherished.

"I know," I sigh shifting my body against the counter till I accidently hit the chair I had set my purse on earlier. My wallet and the book inside slide out, but I quickly grab them and push them back in their place.

"What's that?" my mother's words come out strong as she steps forward pausing my actions for a second.

I straighten and place my bag back in its proper position. "What?" I ask completely caught off guard by her question.

She points at my bag, her eyes wide, and her face more pale than usual. "That book," she clarifies as her eyes stay locked on my bag.

"Oh," I puff not understanding her reaction to an old book. "I found it in a used bookstore," I tell her as I pull it back out from its confines and lift the book to show it to her. "A friend recommended it," I add as the familiar pang of sadness hits me at the thought of Clayton and how he will never be just a friend to me.

"Can I see it?" she asks almost breathlessly.

"Of course," I shrug still a bit confused as my mother's reaction to a tattered book.  "It has some writing in it, it was definitely loved," I tell her with a faint smile pulling at my lips. My father used to go out of his way to find loved books. He liked to think they held more to them. More history, more meaning, more of everything. That their words meant more because they obviously were read and read again, and underlined, and dog-eared.

"Oh my," her voice trembles out as she rotates the book slowly, almost carefully, like she's nervous she might damage the pages just by her touch alone.

"Mom?" I question faintly. "What is it?" I continue on as anxiety strikes through me. My mother's actions are throwing me off and I hate the nervous ball my stomach has become.

Her eyes lift to meet mine, and all I can see it joy. Pure unadulterated joy. "This...this was mine," she tells me as she breathes out a shocked laugh as if she still can't believe she's holding this book.

My eyebrows knit together. "Yours?" I ask not completely believing I found my mother's book miles and miles away from our town.

She nods rapidly, her body almost shaking from the excitement racing through her. "Your father gave it to me," she says with a broken smile and wet eyes.

My mouth falls agape. "Wait?" I pause raising a hand as it I can actually pause this conversation. "Really?" I ask after a moment of pure disbelief.

Her fingers caress over the pages delicately as if every page and word hold a memory. "I gave away some of your father's books years ago," she begins. "Not meaning to this one slipped in with them," she explains her eyes locked on the worn pages in front of her. "I tried for years to locate it," she adds in almost a whisper.

"The ruins...." I trail remembering the dedication written in the front of the book that I felt so unnaturally connected to now makes sense. It's as if I was meant to find this book, and this book alone, to not only bring me closer to a beautifully broken man but also to my warm hearted mother.

"It was one of the few books that made him cry," she chuckles as her eyes become distant almost as if she's remembering a singular moment in time with my father. As if this book brought back a piece of her she thought she had lost.

My mother sets the book down and places it near me before taking a deep breath as if the emotions that hit her are too overwhelming. "Keep it safe," she tells me.

"No," I speak before I can stop the word. Her eyes snap up to meet mine in a mess of shock at my refusal. "This belongs to you," I state as I push the book gently across the counter towards her.

"Hayley," she breathes. "You found it, it made it's way to you for a reason," she says simply.

I nod. "You're right it did find its way to me," I agree. "But it just found its way back to you mom, this belongs to you."

A book that already meant a lot to me became something else all together in this moment. It became the piece of my father I didn't know I was missing. It became the solidifying force behind the mending connection with my mother.

It stopped the cement from flooding and completely hardening everything inside me.

Because in this moment as my mother points out parts of the book and tells me stories about my father, my heart begins to heal.

As my mother's boyfriend joins us and together we attempt to eat our way through the mass of food presented in front of us, my heart begins to heal.

Slowly I begin to mend through not only love, but from facing the past I was once so scared of.

And I suddenly don't feel as lost as I once did.