They're Playing Our Song

I smiled to myself and hopped up the white wooden porch steps of the house and dug in my pocket for the key to my house. My mom wouldn't be home from work for another half hour, keeping her old job added on to the commute time. I unlocked the door and kicked it open. The smell of fresh paint and dusty cardboard boxes filled my lungs, and I coughed. It was not a very good smell. I skipped into the almost empty kitchen, the walls plain white and the table plain brown, opened the nearly bare cabinet, and pulled out a cookie.

Giggling to myself I dropped my bag on the table and skipped over to the living room where the only furnishings in the room that had been unpacked being a small blue stereo system and a cushy black beanbag chair. I flipped it on to my mom’s favorite CD, and skipped around the room in time to the music. I was having an extremely nice time indulging my favorite neurotic behavior when I heard a knock on the door. It startled me so much I dropped my cookie. It broke into three crumbly pieces on the wooden floor. Sighing I flipped off the music and stalked over to the door, careful to avoid stepping on the cookie.

I grabbed hold of the doorknob and yanked it open. It was the mail guy. A tall, slightly graying man with, a huge nose and what my mom referred to yesterday as a “swimmer's body”. I'm pretty sure she wanted him. The nametag stitched on to his blue uniform read: “Steve.” Not an original name.

“Hullo.” I said, wiping cookie crumbs off my hands. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah. I have a package here for a Miss Louise Parker,” he said, holding up a small cardboard box with official white labels on it.

“Yeah, that’s me.” I said grumpily. I wasn't going to bother telling this man my name. He probably wouldn't remember it.

“Okay, here you go.” he said, handing me the box. “Have a nice day.” he smiled.

“Yeah. You too Steve.” I said smartly as he stepped off the porch. I closed the door and walked into the kitchen, putting the box on the table. I grabbed a knife off the counter, and had a little too much fun stabbing and ripping through the jungle of cardboard and tape. That still kind of worries me. When the box finally opened up, there was a white piece of paper on top. An envelope. It had my name on it in scratchy handwriting. I picked it up and pulled out the card that was inside. It had a dog with a rose in its mouth on the cover. I raised an eyebrow. It was kind of weird. I opened up the card and two little white slips of paper fell out. I ignored them at first, taking time to read the note.

Dear L,
I never really got the chance to apologize for the whole divorce thing. I hope this makes it up to you. Maybe we can see them together, like the old days.

Love Daddy.

I groaned. That man never understood what an apology was. What was it that made him think he could just buy me off with this? I bent down and picked up the two slips of paper. I raised them to my face in order to read the tiny print. They were Green Day tickets. Green Day wasn't exactly my favorite band, but they didn't really suck either. But tickets sure as hell weren't going to make me forget everything. I put them aside and pulled out the gray mass that was left in the box.

It was soft, and after I unfolded it, I realized it was a shirt. His shirt. I laughed. It was his favorite Iron Maiden shirt that I always used to steal and wear. It still even smelled like him. Tears stung at my eyes, threatening to fall. I hadn't cried at all. Not when my parents sat me down at the table, and told me they didn't love each other anymore. Not when the divorce papers sat on the counter, already signed. Not when I hugged my dad goodbye in the airport. But now this, a small apology, and a box of gifts, and I missed my father with an ache in my heart so heavy, all I could do was hide behind bitter anger. I tucked it gently back into the box with the tickets, grabbed the box and ran up the blue carpeted stairs. I gave a shaky deep breath, and opened my plain, white bedroom door.

My room was painted navy blue and had nothing in it but a bed, an empty closet, a couple windows, and an old wooden vanity. A couple large cardboard boxes sat in the corner, the contents spilling out onto the floor. I hadn't unpacked yet, and had been living out of the boxes for three weeks now. I sat stiffly on the edge of my bed and set the box next to me. The good mood I had been in when I came home from school was all but gone, and I realized I had ended the day with more questions then I had started with. Who exactly was Mr. Way? Who exactly was Gavin? And what exactly was going on here? Something inside me knew that I wasn't really sure if I wanted to find out.

I shook my head and stalked off to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and cranking up the hot water in the shower until the room filled with steam. When the water hit my bare skin, it burned, and I didn't care. My makeup dripped off my face and my soaking hair stuck to my head. I took deep breaths, and slowly, slowly, my world seemed to settle back down, make a small bit of sense, and my reasoning came back.
*****
“Who left this cookie here?” I heard my mom yelled, irritated. I laughed and bounded down the stairs.

That night at dinner, my mother and I were sitting at the small table and scarfing down hot plates of Chinese take-out. She was tired, I could tell. Her hair was scraggly and sticking up in places, and her makeup was half melted off her face. Once our bellies were full, we sat back in our chairs and sighed.

“So…” she said, smiling at me. “Did you make any new friends today?”

“Eh…a few.” I muttered.

“Okay. That’s good.” She nodded slowly. “Any cute boys?” she giggled.

“Mom.” I groaned. “Please don’t do this now.” She chuckled some more, sipping her coffee. I sighed. “Hey mom?”

“Yes sweetie?”

“I got a package from Dad today.” She put her coffee down carefully avoiding my critical gaze.

“Really?” she muttered.

“Yeah.” I muttered back, handing her the card. She picked it up carefully, scanning the front and reading it a couple times.

“What he give you?” she said offhandedly, eyes still directed down.

“Green Day tickets and his old Iron Maiden shirt.” I whispered.

“I see.”

“Yeah. So. What now?” I said awkwardly, the sudden tension radiating off my mother throwing me off.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t blame you if you were still angry with him. But honestly, we’ve moved on Lou.” She sighed, and took our dishes to the sink.

“Okay.” I said, nodding. I didn’t believe a word she said.