Freckled beaches

My mother had always been sad. It seemed to follow her around in a thick haze. When I was 7 I would draw her with a raincloud hovering above her, distinguishing her from everyone else I knew. I could tell she didn’t appreciate my depictions of her, but she still kept most of them stashed in a small accordion binder she stored in her desk. I remember finding it when I was cleaning out her possessions.

To this day when I see her, it’s very rarely in moments, but rather things she did. She would use any excuse she could to stay in the bathroom. She would take showers or baths that lasted hours. Then she would come out pink faced with a towel twisted into a turban concealing all of hair except for a few stray dark strands that would be stamped onto her face, almost as if they had been drawn on.

She would always pet and play with my hair. Sometimes when we were sitting next to each other at dinner or on the coach watching something, I would feel her hand lightly grazing my hair as if she had simply made contact by accident, but I knew what she was doing.

When I protested getting up in the mornings, desperate to hang onto the threads of sleep, she would lay in bed with me as I curled up and attempted to delay the inevitable trudge to primary school. She would lay there next to me, her warmth seeping into me, contaminating me. Some days it felt wonderful and others it felt like I was being suffocated.

No matter what though, there was a feeling of security surrounding my mom. Her praise came easy, we would watch TV together, TV was one of the only things she seemed to really enjoy, and I would feel her eyes roaming over me as I stared at the screen. When I did look over and we met she’d always soften and tell me how beautiful I looked.

My most vivid memory of her though, is one of her coming out of the bathroom. She’d shut herself in there for hours, my father had tried reasoning and yelling and even calling my grandmother and yet she refused to come out. It took him getting halfway through taking the door halfway off its hinges for her to finally emerge.

Her face was flushed like she’d just run through the winter cold, her eyes had a glassy film over them and were still puffy and red. She ignored my father and went straight to me. She bent down and tried to hug me and pet my hair, but my father stopped her.

The thing I remember most clearly about the whole ordeal is her smell right as she was bending down. She smelled like soap and mouthwash, but there was something beneath it, a smell I don’t think I could ever explain. I’ve only caught a whiff of it twice. Once when I was in high school and I was walking down the street, when I still lived in California. Then again while I was trudging through the aisles of a Walmart looking for something to cure a hangover induced headache.

I never figured out the source of either of these.

****

I went on a walk today. It had been weeks since I last left my apartment. Vermont is so cold, I don’t understand why anyone would choose to live here. When I first showed up it was to “house-sit” for my aunt. She claimed it would be a good thing to do before I started my freshman year of college, she made it seem like I was on track to attend some uppity New England Ivy League.

I was never planning on going to college. I had applied to UCLA, CSU, and a handful of other state schools, but I had barely tried on my admissions essays and I hadn’t even bothered to check my mail because I didn’t really expect anything.

It was now my 9th month in Vermont. The temperature had finally climbed itself out of below freezing temperatures and was now a balmy 40 degrees. I have had to buy 3 new coats since coming here. When I was back in California, winter clothes had always been an afterthought. As it turned out, the thin polyester hoodies I purchased in California to be worn during the walk to school and around the waist on the walk back, were of no use in the east coast winter.

I walked to the bookstore on the corner of main and decided to escape the cold and go in. I used to go to the bookstore all the time before it got so unbearably cold. I was never much of a reader back in California. I had a few childhood favorites but I never really sought out books. Now it felt like reading was all I did. It was like I was back in elementary school when the ability to read was still fresh and exciting.

My father had always been an avid reader, he would purchase me books and read the same ones as I did to build some sort of kinship. I think he felt like he was failing me because he was never around.

*****

The other constant in my childhood beside my mother’s sadness, was my father’s distance. He was the opposite of my mother, her love was overflowing, smothering, I was practically drowning in it. My father’s love, on the other hand, was precious. I would scratch and claw desperately for any sort of affection I could get my hands on. Whenever he would show up I would cling to him, begging him like a dog for any scraps of approval.

My parents rarely fought, but that was only because they almost never spoke to each other. It was like they structured their entire lives around avoiding each other. My father slept nights at work and my mother would suddenly lose her appetite when he did make a rare appearance at dinner.

It was clear things were going to fall apart soon. It was only a matter of time. My father desperately attempted to delay the inevitable. He signed us all up for family therapy. It felt like hospice for their dying relationship. Every week we’d drive 20 minutes to a squat office building and sit in a waiting room filled with fidget toys and outdated magazines. Then our name would be called and I would watch as my parents' love was chipped away by each other and replaced with resentment.

The family therapist would always give us homework. Things like “have a family dinner,” “Have a game night.” My father always made sure we performed some approximations of these. So when she suggested we take a family trip, “The beach would be perfect.” she said, my father packed the car with fold out chairs and spray bottle sunscreen. I’d like to say that on the car ride there I had some sort of feeling, a warning I ignored, but it was a beautiful day and I had no idea what was to come.

****

I eventually had to leave the bookstore. The wind enveloped me and I was once again freezing cold. The temperature change jarred me as I stumbled onto the sidewalk. I decided I’d been outside long enough and started heading back to my Aunt’s house.

Snow banks lined the streets. The show had gone from a luminous white to a gray slush. I could hear it crunch beneath my feet, half melted. I hastened my pace, worried I wouldn’t get home on time. The sky had gone gray and was filled with ominous clouds and I could tell rain was on the way.

It was no use and before I knew it I felt fat rain drops hitting me as I attempted irrationally to outrun the storm. I put my hood up and pulled my coat closer to my body. It was no use though as the rain began to pour down harder. My foot slipped from under me and I had to quickly catch myself as concrete raced towards me. I landed, unharmed and lied there as I saw the rain drops eating away at the snow banks, leaving little holes.

***

I don’t remember the drive to the beach but I can imagine it was more awkward than anything. I’m sure my father had flitted nervously through the radio while my mother stared blanky out the window. But that is only a speculation.

When we did finally get to the beach I slipped into a bathroom and pulled on my new swimsuit. It was yellow, and my mother had bought it for me from Target. She saw me exit the bathroom and immediately gushed over me, once again flooding me with her praise.

The beach was fun, but it never felt real. The closeness between my parents felt temporary and manufactured. My mother hung back in the shade with a book, while my father laid in the sun. I was left to wade through the waves on my own.

I raced against the tide, running from the waves as they crashed against the shore. Soon though the sun was blocked out and the sky went from sunny to overcast. One by one families picked up their towels and packed their wicker baskets and plastic buckets back into their mini vans.

My father held out that the weather would change, but as the sand became freckled with water and the waves turned choppy and white, even he had to retreat. My mother was already in the care when we had managed to gather our things. She started the engine as she saw us approach.

My father was exhausted and asked my mother to drive. I was also tired and was slowly lolled to sleep by the rhythm of the car. I don’t know what woke me, maybe it was a speed bump or maybe it was some other being, but I awoke in the moving car, the environment looked alien to what I’d seen on the way there. The trees had been twisted and changed by the cover of night and the patter of rain that steadily fell against the window.

My father’s head lolled against his seat. I could tell without even seeing his face that he was still sleeping. I could feel the car speed up. I lurched forward slightly. I looked up to see what was going on and for a second I caught my mother’s eye in the rearview mirror.

The car sped up again. My seat belt bit into me as I began to lurch forward again. She kept her eyes locked on me. Then the car went spinning out of control.

****

I sat up. My face was powdered with half crystalized snow. I quickly regained my composure and headed back to the house.

The streets were empty. I was the only one still out. The streetlights illuminated puddles as I trudged. Mud sank into my shoes and dampened my socks. I stuck out my tongue, trying to get a drink of water as I felt it surround me.