The sketches. The beaded curtain. The bulletin board, almost the exact same as mine, with the same concert tickets and duplicates of the same photographs.
Even the mural on the wall has been painted over.
It’s all gone.
My eyes burn, familiar anger swelling, and I walk out before I explode with it. But then my eyes catch on the wall of framed photos. I was trying to avoid this wall. Every school photo starting with kindergarten. Christmas mornings. Easter Sundays. The homecoming game where Bran and I were both on court. My eyes zero in on the family photo we got taken at the church when I was in middle school. Everyone is smiling and happy. A gold cross necklace is displayed proudly around my neck, and I’m holding hands with someone who is dressed similarly. Same outfit. Same necklace. Same smile.
I feel my mom come up behind me before I see her.
“I loved it when you two would let me dress you alike,” she says wistfully. “Broke my heart when you both started refusing.” She brushes her fingers across the frame, lingering on the children’s smiling faces.
“Yeah,” I rasp, then walk to the kitchen.
My father has arrived, and in way of greeting, he gives me a once-over and grunts something out about my hair. I ignore him. I help Mom set the table, and when we sit down to eat, my father folds his hands and bows his head to say grace.
Out of respect he doesn’t deserve, I follow suit.
When his gruff voice starts speaking, I can almost picture how I saw him when I was younger. A pillar of strength. A man of God. My protector. My daddy. I try to pretend that this particular prayer is like the ones of my childhood, requesting that God watch over his children as they play sports or learn to drive or study for tests. Asking for guidance and thanking Him for his unyielding love.
I tune him out. I have no interest in hearing what he’s asking or thanking God for. I doubt that it has anything to do with me. Instead, while he drones on, I mentally re-count the money in my Crisco can. I recall study guide facts for my upcoming exam. I sing to the Straylight Run song that’s been stuck in my head for a few days. When I hear his voice take on the familiar cadence that signals he’s winding down, I return focus to his prayer.
“We ask that you please watch out for her, oh Lord, and use your benevolence to lead her misguided soul back to your grace. In your name we pray, Amen.”
I roll my eyes as I mutter, “Amen.”
Seems I was wrong. I was included in his invocation, after all.
My father doesn’t meet my eyes or speak to me during the whole meal. My mother is our median, speaking to us both and pretending that all is well here. He complains about work and talks about church. My mother prattles on about the same topics, as well as everyone who is having babies or getting engaged in our little community. She asks me questions about school, and I answer as politely as I can.
And no one addresses the elephant in the room.
No one ever does.
When dinner is over, I help my mom clear the table and wash dishes. They sing Happy Birthday to me, and I blow out a blaze of pink candles. After that, Mom leads us into the living room for presents.
I’m sitting on the loveseat, my dad perched on his leather La-Z-Boy throne, and my mom brings out a large gift wrapped in pink and purple sparkly paper.
“Happy birthday, baby girl.” She hands me the box and I cast a glance at my father. He’s watching the television, and I don’t doubt for one second that he had nothing to do with whatever is in this box.
“Thanks, Ma.”
As I’m tearing through the wrapping paper, the neighbor’s dog barks, and I look toward the picture window. It’s then that I see a new set of framed photos on the wall. The word “FAMILY” is spelled out in wooden letters, and beneath them are pictures of us. Our family. My mother and father in a recent picture that must have been taken at church. My 12th grade school photo. A picture from prom. Several other scenes have been selected for the gallery wall.
But it’s not the pictures in the collage that set me off—it’s who’s left out.
“Where’s Brandon?” I blurt, and my mom stops speaking. I hear my dad sit up sharply and I bounce my glare between them. “It’s a gallery wall dedicated to family. Where are the pictures of Brandon?”
“We don’t say that name in this house,” my dad threatens, and I leap up, knocking the half-opened gift box to the floor.
“That’s bullshit,” I spit, and his eyes flare as my mom gasps.
“You watch your mouth in this house, young lady.”
“You should have photos of Brandon on that wall. He is your son.”
He erupts then with anger that I’ve seen many times in my life. Anger that I’ve inherited.
“I don’t have a son,” he yells, and I swear I sway on my feet from the force of the hatred in his words. He and I face off, neither of us willing to back down. Sometimes, I almost wish that he would hit me. I can tell he wants to. I look at my mom to find her crying silently, wringing her hands in her lap. I bring my eyes back to my dad, keeping my voice low and steady, fury and truth evident in every syllable.
“You need to reevaluate your priorities, sir, or you won’t have a daughter anymore, either.”
I break eye contact and stomp from the living room, stopping at the door so I can put on my Docs. My mom catches me off guard when she rushes up to me.
“Please, don’t leave, Bailey. Please. I’m so sorry.” My heart aches a little from her tears. A force of habit. I used to want to make her happy.
“Sorry isn’t good enough, Ma. Not anymore.”
She grabs my hands when I stand. “Please, Bailey. I’m working on him. I promise. He’ll come around.” I shake my head at her desperation.
“Too little, too late, Mom.” I turn my back on her and walk out.
My high isn’t quite wornoff yet, so I push Baby the six blocks to Brandon. He’s the only reason I came to town, anyway. The stop-off in Hell was just a guilt driven courtesy call because I’m somewhat of a masochist.
I park Baby on the street, grab my bag, and make my way up the drive, gravel pressing beneath my boots in a satisfying and familiar crunch. When I see him, I veer off into the lawn, drop my shit, and plop down next to him.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “Happy birthday.”
I turn and pull the box with the brownie out of my bag.