Fire and the Flood

I’d always imagined coming home to be different than it played out.

In my head, I’d be going through airport security, hauling my carry on over my shoulder as I made my way to the baggage carousel. It would be there that I’d see my friends and family, anxious and happy to see me, waiting with open arms. I’d drop my bag and run to them, flinging myself into the first pair of open arms I saw, engulfing my mother or father in a group hug, my brother silently debating whether or not to join in on the family love-fest before wrapping his arms around the three of us.

In my head, we’d all pile in the car, making our way through the streets of downtown Phoenix, back to Scottsdale where we’d all gather around the table at home, sitting down for dinner. Mom would tell me about everything I missed while I was gone, while Dad would pester me about making sure my suitcase would be unpacked - he needed it for an upcoming business trip, and mine was the only one that could carry all of his documents. My brother would slide into the seat next to my own, nudging me in the side as I laughed myself to tears over a joke he’d be telling me.

In my head, everything was going according to plan. Everything was perfect.

But instead, reality hit me like a train on a track. Instead, I was greeted by a Southwest Airlines desk attendant as I stepped off the plane, a security guard smiled at me at baggage claim, welcoming me back to Phoenix and that was it. My feet dragged heavily along the carpeted airport floor, moving my body slowly along. When there was no one to pick me up, I grabbed the first taxicab I saw outside the terminal.

I leaned my head against the cool window of the air-conditioned car, mumbling my parent’s address to the driver. He gave a grunt, and jolted the car away from the curb. Phoenix was dark, the night sky splattered with brightly lit stars just barely visible under the highway lights. I was going through the motions in my head. Who would be home? I didn’t even let anyone know I was coming back, everything in the past 24 hours had happened so fast after the phone call from my mom.

The city passed by in a blur, and before I could process it, I was standing in front of my childhood home with my bags in hand. It’d been almost two years since I’d last been home, two years since I’d uprooted myself to New York. I shook myself off, taking a deep breath as I prepared myself for the inevitable storm that was to come. I pressed my finger to the doorbell, feeling like a stranger even if it was the house I grew up in. I don’t know who I was expecting to answer the door, but it definitely wasn’t Jenny.

“Oh, Cadence,” she cooed as she pulled me into an embrace. “Welcome home.”

I gave a weak smile as she pulled herself away, not sure if I should thank her or push past her to get into my house. “Thanks, I guess,” I managed to croak out. My throat was as dry as the desert after sitting in nearly complete silence on the cross-country flight. Jenny motioned for me to come inside, pulling one of my bags along with her.

The house was dimly lit, save for the light that was on in the kitchen. It wasn’t what I expected. I thought that there would be screaming, people absolutely beside themselves at what happened, but instead I was greeted with near silence as I stood in the foyer. I heard hushed voices talking, a weak cry from my mother. I almost didn’t want to face them, but I had to eventually. Sitting around the table, their heads were all bowed, not looking up until I cleared my throat meekly. I couldn’t help but notice that there was one person missing.

“Cadence?” my mom’s voice sounded, another sob threatening to break through her lips. I stared at them, unblinking. Not because of my mother’s tears, but who was sitting at the table with her, staring right back at me.

“Hi, mom,” I barely whispered, our eyes locked together, neither of us wanting to be the first to look away from the other. He licked his lips before standing up, pushing his chair backwards as he made his way toward me, a fire burning behind his eyes. For a moment, I thought he was going to pull me into an embrace much like his mother did, but instead he breezed right past me, through the living room and out the front door as if I didn’t exist.

“He’s taking this pretty hard,” Jenny sighed, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah, he’s not the only one though,” I swallowed the lump in my throat, turning away from the group gathered in the kitchen. As I ascended the stairs to my old room, I couldn’t help but have the sinking feeling in my stomach that John O’Callaghan was back in my life, and he was here to stay.