Chapter Three MURPHY
Chapter Three
M URPHY
I stay in bed until after eleven on Saturday. The familiarity of my old twin mattress and the room I grew up in lulls me to a state of comatose bliss I haven’t experienced since high school.
Life in LA was go, go, go. Rapid pace, never stop, keep moving.
It had been jarring at first, but I quickly adapted.
I didn’t realize just how much I would enjoy the chance to have a lazy Saturday after years of pushing myself without a break.
I crawl out of bed and mosey sleepily into the kitchen. I take out a pitcher of fresh orange juice from the refrigerator, knowing that my aunt Sarah likely made it, just like she used to when my brothers and I were little. I welcome the twinge of nostalgia as I snag a slightly stale bagel from the pantry and pop it in the toaster.
Beyond the big windows that face out to the vineyard, a few workers are scattered across the fields. If we were in harvest season, there would be dozens more to help prep the grapes for crushing. But we’re in the offseason, which means the crew is much smaller. At least, that’s what it was like growing up here. My grandparents, my father, my aunt, my brothers, and two other hands that lived in the cabins on the other end of the property, Diego and Clay.
I remember people coming and going all day long, the house feeling busy and alive no matter where I was. Diego was like another father to me, and Clay was the nicest guy. I used to love practicing my Spanish with them. Or listening to their stories when they shared our table for dinner after a long day of working the soil, or setting up netting to protect the vines from pests, or any of the dozens of other tasks it takes to keep this place up and running.
But everything feels different than it did when I was a child. That familiarity is gone now, and I don’t recognize any of the faces I see outside, roaming the property. Three gentlemen I’ve never seen before are moving slowly through the lanes, pruning the vines with their little clippers and chucking the pieces they remove into buckets at their feet.
I don’t know why I expected to see Diego and Clay after nine years away, but the fact they’re not here makes my heart sad.
The door to the fields opens, and suddenly my father is standing in the living room off the kitchen, covered in sweat, his skin still the same deep tan that decades in the sun will do.
He stamps his dirty feet on the rug a few times, but then his head rises and he spots me. He pauses for a long moment, an unnamable expression on his weathered face, before turning away and walking down the hall. The only sound is the quiet taps of his work boots against the terra-cotta tiles.
When he disappears, the sadness in my heart grows.
I hadn’t ever figured out what things would look like with my dad, coming back after all this time. But I didn’t think he’d just look at me and walk off without a word.
“He’ll come around.”
I turn toward my brother’s voice, spotting him leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “He just doesn’t know what to say when his feelings are bigger than his words.”
I cross my own arms, mirroring Memphis’s stance.
“Sounds like a condition the Hawthorne men all suffer from,” I reply.
His lips flatten into a tight grin. “That would be accurate.”
Neither of us say anything as I cross the kitchen to put cream cheese on my toasted bagel, and Memphis begins pulling supplies from the fridge to make a sandwich.
Eventually, we’re sitting together at the small kitchen table, silently eating our breakfast and lunch, respectively.
Part of me wants to apologize for leaving. Or at least for going radio silent after I did leave. But I can’t bring myself to do it when I know it was the right decision for me at the time.
I’d felt so lost here, so unimportant, so confused about what any kind of future might look like if I stayed. And going to LA to pursue my dream ... It felt like the right thing.
Nobody in my family seemed to understand my need for something ... else. Something different than what a life here would provide.
I wanted a life where I wasn’t invisible. And for that, I can’t apologize.
So instead of sharing any of that, I just stay silent.
We both do.
I spend the majority of the day unpacking my suitcase and trying to rearrange a few things in my childhood bedroom.
I don’t know why I’m shocked that everything is still here, almost untouched. I think I’d just assumed that someone would have rearranged things, made this into a guest room or set up a treadmill or something.
Instead, it just sat here, an unused memorial to my teen years.
My formal dresses are still hanging in the closet from homecoming and prom, right next to my graduation gown and choir robe. The clock radio next to my bed is still set to 101.3, the station I listened to every morning as I got ready for school. There’s even a notepad with a half-written note and pen still sitting on top of my dresser.
Apparently before I left I wanted to remember to call Quinn about Tuesday and ...
But the note to my childhood friend was left unfinished, so who knows what I wanted to talk to her about.
I don’t like knowing that this room sat untouched while I was in LA. It means they always knew I’d be coming home. That I’d need somewhere to go at some point. That I wouldn’t be able to make it on my own.
And that hurts in a way I wasn’t expecting.
Once my clothes are in my dresser and closet, I begin unpacking the few boxes I brought home. I never really had excess money, so stuff wasn’t a luxury I could afford to accumulate. But I did have a few cheap picture frames, candles, and movies. Basically anything I could snag at discount stores for a few bucks that served my needs.
My movies slide onto the shelf next to the DVD player and computer monitor I used as a TV, and my candles and photos get spread around the room in various spots. I look at the last photo I set out for a long moment before finally placing it on my dresser.
It’s a photo of me and Vivian out to dinner the weekend before everything fell apart. She’d told me my world was going to change soon, and she wanted to make sure the two of us got to enjoy a dinner out without the paparazzi hounding us all night. I rolled my eyes so hard at that idea they nearly fell right out of my head.
The frame is crafted from Popsicle sticks and those little white letters from friendship bracelets. At the top it reads B EFORE S HE W AS F AMOUS .
A streak of pain lances through me, and I set the frame down on my dresser, wishing I had the nerve to chuck it in the trash.
But it was a gift from my best friend, so it stays.
I break down my cardboard boxes and take them out to the garage to shove them in the recycling bin, then grab the very last item still waiting for me in the entryway.
My mother’s guitar is a vintage 1987 Guild acoustic guitar. It’s not anything crazy special or worth more than probably a few hundred dollars. It’s still my most priceless possession. When I moved to LA, I had the original case too, covered in stickers from shows my mom went to when she was in her teens and twenties. But about two years in, it got stolen while I was playing at an open mic night.
Which is wild because who steals a guitar case?
Thankfully, I was able to find a similar one at a thrift store for way cheaper than it should have been priced. But I’ve always regretted that I hadn’t been more vigilant about my belongings. Especially something that belonged to my mother.
I lean the case against the wall in the corner at the foot of my bed, then take a seat on the carpet and stare at it.
I found it in the attic when I was ten, along with a bunch of my mom’s other things. From the first strum of my fingers over the strings, I was hooked.
I took weekly lessons for years, learned to read music as fast as I could, and constantly downloaded free sheet music online. I was insatiable. I wanted to know how to play anything and everything, by sight and off the top of my head. All kinds of genres and moods.
And when I was about fifteen years old, I finally realized I wanted to sing professionally. I wanted that Hollywood break, the chance to perform and make music and wow the world with my talent.
Now that will never happen.
So part of my brain wonders if it’s worth it to ever pick up that guitar again.
It’s remained untouched for the past two months, which is so unlike me. Even growing up, I was always lugging that thing everywhere, whipping it out whenever something came to mind, trying to figure out the right chords or melody or lyrics to a song I was sure would be a hit if only someone could hear it.
Who knew my chance would get ripped away from me before I was able to get anyone to listen?
“Murph, you comin’, honey?”
I glance over at my aunt Sarah, who stands in the doorway of my bedroom with a sweet smile on her face.
As much as she looks like my father with her heart-shaped face and thick head of chestnut curls falling wildly down her back, she looks far more like my grandmother when she smiles.
Though that’s where the similarities end.
My grandmother was petite in all ways. My father and Aunt Sarah take after my grandfather with their long, athletic physiques and broad shoulders, two traits that passed down to my brothers and me.
But I love seeing that bit of my grandma in her when she smiles, which is far more often than anyone else in the family.
“I made your favorite.”
My lips tilt up at the sides.
“Sloppy joes?”
She nods. “You know it. I couldn’t have my girl moving home and put out something stupid for dinner, like lasagna.”
I giggle, taking in the sight of her and all the warm memories that come with having her back in my world now.
I was particularly picky as a kid, and I often sat at the dinner table, stone faced, glaring at the dish in front of me, refusing to eat. Unlike my father, who would glare at me with his own stone face and demand I eat or go hungry, Aunt Sarah was always concocting new things to see if she could get me to try something.
I hated lasagna. The idea of food stacked in multiple layers was something I detested. But I was willing to eat sloppy joes, which is basically just the same insides of a beef lasagna but with bread instead. And then, one time, she made a sloppy joe lasagna.
“I’m trying to break your brain,” she told me then, grinning at me as I stared with wide eyes at my favorite meal wrapped in noodles instead of bread.
Thankfully, I’ve grown out of whatever weird food idiosyncrasies I used to have. But it makes me smile to think that after all these years, my aunt thought of something like this for my first night home.
“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I tell her.
She nods and leaves me alone again.
I sigh, turning my head to stare up at the ceiling. I’ve been lying on my bed for the past hour or so, studying the plastic stars I put up there when I was in junior high. I never thought to take them down as I got older. But instead of reminiscing about my childhood or thinking back to the night Quinn and I put those stars up, I’ve been trying to decide how to talk to my father.
He looked through me this morning, like he didn’t even see me.
Didn’t say a word. Didn’t make a face.
After nine years?
I mean, I know I’ve always been his least favorite child, but come on. He could have said something . Anything, really.
He could have yelled at me to get out of his house.
He could have given me an angry face or thrown something across the room.
But no, he just gave me a half-hearted glance and ignored me completely.
The worst part about it is that it reminds me so much of how invisible I felt growing up.
I sigh again, my hand coming up to wipe at the tear trailing toward my ear.
It’s really easy to promise yourself something like I won’t let the man make me cry again when you’re living four-hundred-plus miles away and have nearly a decade of time to compartmentalize your anger.
It’s a lot harder when you’re staring your father in the face, still curious whether or not he loves you at all.
I puff out another long breath and roll off the bed, then tug my hair up into a messy bun and head out to the kitchen. I can hear the clanking of plates and cutlery, the scraping of wooden chairs along the tiled floor.
When I round the corner, I scan the group of people moving through the kitchen, piling their plates high.
There are two faces I don’t recognize. These must be the year-round workers who I haven’t met before, the ones who seem to have replaced Diego and Clay.
Other than the unfamiliar faces, there’s Micah and my aunt Sarah.
I cross the room and wrap my arms around my baby brother.
“Missed you,” he grumbles into my ear.
I grip him tighter. “You, too. I didn’t think it was possible for you to get any taller.”
A small smile creeps onto Micah’s face, but it’s only there for a brief moment. “Yeah, well. I got Dad’s genes,” he replies, matter-of-factly, before turning and grabbing a plate off the counter.
Memphis and my father are nowhere to be seen, and my shoulders begin to relax just slightly at the idea that maybe the two of them are off doing something work-related and might not make it to dinner.
But when I hear the front door close, I poke my head into the hallway. My eyes widen slightly as I spot my father in the entryway, not with my brother, but with Wes. The two of them are laughing over something, and my father reaches out and pats Wes on the back a few times. They chat for another moment before their feet begin moving in my direction, so I dart into the kitchen before they see me, realizing instantly that the move did absolutely nothing as the two of them are right there, in the kitchen, just a few seconds later.
I don’t know how I should feel when I watch both of their smiles fall away at the sight of me.
Wes gives me a neutral look, the easy smile from the gas station hidden away somewhere, so I cross my arms and pin him with my own unfriendly look. I don’t know what the hell his problem is, but I sure as shit can give some attitude right back to him.
But then my eyes stray to my father, and I’m a little unnerved by the fact he looks like he could shatter the dinner plate he just picked up from the end of the island.
“We’ve got sloppy joes, a fresh garden salad, and corn bread,” Sarah announces to the room, though it seems a little redundant since most everyone has their plates or are moving through the kitchen collecting food already.
“Sorry we’re late,” my father murmurs. “Memphis told me to tell you he’d be stuck working tonight. I’m just gonna go change.”
Aunt Sarah just smiles and shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it.” She waves him off, and my father exits the kitchen in the direction of his bedroom. Then my aunt plops herself into a seat near the head of the long table that’s been a centerpiece in this kitchen for as long as I can remember.
Without looking at Wes, who is perusing the drink options in the fridge, I grab a plate and move quickly through the trays of food, then take a seat between my aunt and a woman I don’t know.
“Hi, I’m Murphy,” I say, giving her a friendly smile.
“Naomi,” she says, smiling back. “We’ve actually met before, but it was a long time ago, so I don’t expect you to remember.”
“Really?” I feel a little embarrassed. Normally, I’m so good with names and faces.
Naomi pierces a cucumber in her salad with her fork. “It was right before you left. I was helping out that summer.”
A vague image of a slightly younger Naomi claws its way out of my memory. “Oh yeah ... You were part of the harvest crew.”
She nods again and then chomps into her cucumber.
“It’s good to see you again.”
Naomi swallows her bite and then gives me a grin. “You as well.”
Before I can turn and introduce myself to the guy across from Naomi, Wes drops into the seat across from me, and it feels like my words dry up. He’s intensely focused on his plate of food.
An entire five minutes goes by—I know because there’s a clock on the wall behind him—and he doesn’t look at me once.
When my father takes his seat at the head of the table, though, it distracts me from Wes. My father is no different. He seems to be intentionally ignoring me as well.
“I’d like to propose a toast.”
My body goes rigid when I hear my aunt say those words as she lifts up her glass of water.
“I’m beyond thrilled that Murphy is back home. It’s been quite a while since you left, sweetheart, and this house hasn’t felt the same without you.”
My lips turn up at the kind sentiment, but before I can say anything in response, my father breaks his silence.
“You shouldn’t be toasting her return, Sarah.” His voice slices through the room as his eyes laser in on me. “Because she never should’ve left in the first place.”
You could hear a pin drop it’s so dang quiet. Nobody at the table is moving their cutlery or glasses. They’re all just sitting in complete silence, waiting for what happens next.
“You might not want to hear it, Dad, but deciding to leave was the right choice for me, and I don’t regret it.” Then I turn to my aunt. “Thank you, Aunt Sarah, for the toast.”
My voice might sound confident to those at the table who don’t know me, but it’s forced, and I know my dad can tell.
“If it was such an important thing for you to leave, I guess there was no real reason for you to come back, then.”
I blink a few times, my jaw clenched tightly. “Trust me, if I’d had anywhere else to go, I would have gone there instead.”
My father stands suddenly, his chair screeching loudly on the floor as it shoots out from behind him, the noise echoing through the kitchen.
“Thank you, Sarah, for the delicious dinner. I’m sorry it was soured by poor company.”
My nostrils flare at his insult, but I don’t say anything else, just letting my father leave the table. A few seconds later, I hear the front door slam, and I know he’s probably going to eat his dinner on the front porch.
I stare down at my plate of food, my vision blurred by the water beginning to pool in my eyes. Then I feel a hand pressed against my back.
“He’ll come around,” my aunt tells me, her voice quiet and kind, as it’s always been for as long as I can remember. “He’s just a proud old fart, you know that.”
I take a deep breath and let it out long and slow, trying to cool the anger inside of me as much as I can.
“I don’t need him to come around.” I shove back from the table, my plate of food still mostly untouched. “I won’t be here long enough to need it.”
Without another word, I storm from the room, needing to be alone.
I know I’m being immature, leaving the kitchen in a huff and not even taking a moment to clear away my plate and extras from the table. But god, he just makes me so damn mad.
Between my arguments with Memphis last night and my father today, the part of me that feels like I made a mistake trying to come home continues to grow. Continues to point out all the reasons why I was an absolute idiot for coming here.
Realistically, I could have stayed in Venice Beach. I could have continued my stupid waitressing job at the Italian place I still struggle to pronounce. I could have used that money to pay the exorbitant amount of rent I paid for a shared bedroom in a shitty neighborhood. I could have continued living the little life I created for myself far away from here.
But the realist inside of me knew it would be pointless after what happened.
My dreams of becoming a singer, of making it big, of seeing my name in lights, were officially and very dramatically dashed to hell.
So all the work I did, all the sacrifices I made, all the crappy jobs and side hustles and tiny gigs that were nothing more than glorified karaoke nights, were for nothing. They resulted in nothing .
Because that’s what I am.
And even though my return home was supposed to be my way of escaping from that reality, it only seems to reaffirm it.
I’m nothing.
And now I know, my father thinks so, too.