House

Every few years, I return to the town that I finished high school in. We were only there for two years, but I count it as my hometown. When I visit my friends, I stop by and look at our old house. It is a small, two story house typical of those in the Midwest - front facing the street, back the alley, and ten feet from another house on either side. It is a pleasant looking house from the outside. The last time I was there, I just parked on the street and looked at it for awhile. I sat there for a long time wondering how a house could look that nice from the outside and hold such terrible memories within.

I thought how people must have driven by this house for those two years we lived in it, not having any idea what was happening inside. I wondered how many houses were like this one across this country, the world even. Nice looking houses that kept their secrets inside, seemingly undamaged by the human horror within. I didn't hate the house, I just had no homesickness for it - it wasn't a home. It was a place I came home to, a place where I waited for my step-father to come home, praying he wasn't drunk, and if he was, praying that he would sleep. The worst time was between five and seven. At that time he could return home sober. If he wasn't home by seven, then I knew he was drunk.

I sat and thought about the memories I had of the various rooms of the house. I thought about the living room and the times he hit me there. Often, it was when I wasn't looking. Once he hit me just as I was about to take a drink from a pop can - I still wear the curved scar on my upper lip. I remembered the Christmas morning he stormed into the room and threw my little brother's toys outside in the back yard because we were making too much noise. Most of the mayhem happened in that living room, I would never think of calling it a family room.

The kitchen didn't bring back any better memories. I recalled being hit in the head from behind, full force, for not drying the dishes properly. For the first time in years, I remembered getting between my mother and my knife-wielding step-father as he raged out of control. He had the sense not to stab us, but I didn't know that at the time. I thought about the long flight of stairs up to the second story. I remembered having a date and him offering to get me a bottle of whiskey. I don't remember the date (the first and last), but I do remember getting home drunk, making it up to the second floor where he was waiting. He slapped me and knocked me down the entire flight of stairs. Oddly, my parents room was the only room that didn't engender any memories at all. I think I liked that room because if he was in it, he was asleep.

My room didn't bring any positive memories though, it was a place where I would sometimes hide when he lost control. Inevitably, I would go out and face him as I realized his fury was being directed at my mother or my sister. There just wasn't anywhere in that house that I felt good about.

I drove away slowly looking at other houses, wondering what was happening at that very moment, inside. I thought about my own house now, and hoped it meant something different to my two daughters. I hoped their memories would be good, pleasant ones, that the house was a place they loved to be in and would miss when they grew up. I wondered how they would remember me in the house, thinking I still had time to make sure it wasn't just a house, but a home.