69. Jillian
SIXTY-NINE
Jillian
People talk about going back home after many years as bittersweet. And a part of me can see that. But a greater part can’t find anything sweet about it. I stand at the door of my childhood bedroom. I wish I could say it’s the same as I remember. But it’s not. My mother changed it. The walls are painted a neutral beige instead of the sky blue of my teen years. And the beautiful mural CJ painted for me as a gift for my sixteenth birthday is gone. All the hours he put into it, creating trees and flowers so vivid it felt like I could step through and escape, now covered by desert beige paint or some other similar nonsensical name instead of what it really is. Boring and lifeless.
Everything about me in this room has been erased. My childhood toys, the corkboard from my teen years that was covered in pictures, the dresser and mirror where I learned to do makeup watching YouTube videos, my bed, it’s all gone. Replaced by new furniture.
Two white framed twin beds across from each other. The bedcovers in a darker tone of the same beige. A large dresser on the opposite wall. Gone is my bookshelf and all my books. The walls are bare of any art. The white gauze curtain does a poor job of blocking the light coming through the window, making sure we don’t get to sleep past six.
A room devoid of color and life. Is this what she wants for me?
Jamie takes a few steps inside the room, looks around, and wrinkles his nose. His expression says it all.
My mother pushes through behind me and enters the room. “It’s been like this, waiting for you for over two years now. So glad you’re finally home.” She’s so proud of her work.
It hits me then. What she said. Two years? Home? She means that she had this done right after CJ died? Expecting me to come home with Jamie. The two beds are for us to share. Never mind we have two other empty bedrooms in this house. The guest room that no one is allowed in and has never had a guest. And the home office that my father uses once a week to pay bills as they come. Every Monday he’d go in there and sit for hours, working on bills and who knows what else. Probably trying to get away from my mother, too.
Me and my son, confined to the room I grew up in. What did she think would happen? I’d go back home and she could resume her position trying to order me around and control everything I do? Try to do to Jamie the same things she did to me?
I fight the urge to grab my son, turn around, and head straight to the airport. Two weeks. That’s how long I’m staying. How long the fire marshal suggested they’d need to complete the initial investigation. He said that since there were no fatalities and no one seriously hurt, and no signs of accelerants or arson so far, the investigation should go faster.
Two weeks here and we go back to the city so Jamie can start first grade right after Labor Day. Two weeks for me to figure out what I’m going to do. Even if the building is deemed structurally safe and released back to Leonora, getting insurance payouts, cleaning up, and rebuilding will take months, if not more. And her sons are pressuring her to sell it even more now. I have no idea what I’m going to do. Sheila said I can go back to her apartment. And Elliott offered his home, too. But I can’t stay with either of them. I’ve already gotten job offers from three other flower shops in the neighborhood. It won’t be a match for what I was making before, but I’m grateful for their help. And I can always put my accounting degree to use. I haven’t decided yet. Jamie and finding a stable place for us are my priority. As much as I didn’t want to be here, I think that getting away from the city will be good for Jamie. I hope. I need to plaster a smile on my face and get along with my mother. Two weeks. I can do it.
“Jillian?” My mother’s voice brings me back to the room.
“What?”
The annoyed look in her eyes tells me she must have been talking to me for a while. That and the way I responded. What, instead of, yes, Mom .
“I asked, what do you think? I made it all clean and new for you.”
It’s clear by her tone that she’s expecting praise and for me to be happy. “It’s very . . .”
“Beige,” Jamie says .
My mother gasps, then drops to her knees in front of Jamie. “You’re talking.”
Jamie looks at me, eyes wide. I can hear his silent scream for help.
I finally step inside the room and pull my mother to her feet. “Yes, Mom. He’s talking a little.” I guide her outside the room and halfway down the hall. “Remember what the therapist said. Don’t make a big deal about it.”
She opens her mouth to protest.
I put a hand up and stop her. “Mom, a lot happened the last few days. Please listen to me on this. Do not call attention to it, do not create drama?—”
“I do not create drama,” she hisses.
“Mom, Jamie has been through a very traumatic experience. We both have. Please give us space and time to decompress. It’s all I’m asking. Please.” I hold my palms together in front of me.
Something in my voice or words may have finally reached her. Or maybe it’s my father carrying our suitcase up the stairs because she doesn’t fight me on it. She’s not happy, that’s clear from her expression, but she lets it go. For now, at least.
She nods once. “Dinner will be ready at six. Don’t be late.”
“We won’t.”
She passes my father without saying a word to him.
I try to take the suitcase from him. “Thanks, Dad, I can take it from here.”
My father peers down from the top of the stairs, watching until my mother is gone. Sets the suitcase on the floor and opens his arms, and I step into them. He hugs me and I revert to the little girl I once was, crying in my father’s arms after my mother scolded me for one thing or another.
“I missed you, Dad.”
He rubs my back. “I missed you, too.”
We stay like that for another minute before I pull back, wiping at the corners of my eyes. “I’ll never understand why you stay.” I’ve often wondered why he never left her. She’s not an easy person to love.
He shrugs. “That’s how she shows love.”
I want to roll my eyes, but I don’t. My father has been saying this my entire life. My mother’s constant worry and controlling attitude is how she shows love. I cup his face. “I wish she were a little more like you.”
He takes my hand and kisses the back of it. “And I would not change a single thing about you.”
No one has ever said anything like this to me. And it’s in this moment that I understand why my father has always been the quiet and steady presence in my life. I think of all the times he stepped in between my mother and me and diverted, defused, distracted, all done in his calm and quiet way. All these years, he’s been the silent barrier that kept my mother from completely overrunning me.