RETURNING by Heather Marsten

A year after the courts sent me to live with Diane, she starts talking with Mom on the phone and learns that Maria and Howard bring their kids to visit our parents.

One day, after I get home from school, Diane says, “My kids are getting cheated from visiting their grandparents because of you. Don and I decided we’re going there for Christmas and you’re coming too.”

This is the stuff of nightmares. “Can’t I stay home?”

“No, it wouldn’t look right.”

“I don’t want to go back into that house.”

“I don’t give a damn. You and your feelings make me sick. They’ve caused me no end of trouble.”

Should have chosen an orphanage.

Christmas Day we get in the car. I can’t stop shaking and it’s hard to get a full breath. I wear a turtleneck, long pants, and a sweater over that. I don’t want him to see my body. Why can’t I stay home?

We go in by the front door, more like guests than family. I have to kiss them on the cheek; but don’t hug. Dad sits on his couch as usual, king of the living room; but he has pants on. Mom sits in her chair, fiddling with her cigarettes and orange juice. Don takes the only other seat in the living room, so Diane, the kids, and I sit on the floor near the tree. The tension in the air is palpable. The whole house looks dingy and smells of cigarette smoke. I’d forgotten that aroma.

I glance at the sofa, looking for weapons. Dad said he would kill me if I told, so maybe there’s a hidden a gun under the sofa cushions. He could take us all out. There’s no knife or letter opener on the coffee table but that doesn’t mean we’re safe.

“Miserable weather,” Diane says. “Worst winter for snow.”

“Had to hire a neighborhood kid to shovel.” Dad says.

Weather talk, the universal antidote for discomfort.

Everyone looks at the two boys and Connie who are excited by the piles of presents under the tree. Kids are another safe area.

Diane grabs Keith’s arm and forces him to sit. “Settle down, now,” she says through clenched teeth.

Her hand is shaking. I don’t get why she’s putting herself through this torture. If I ever have kids, I’d never bring them anywhere near my parents. Maybe to Mom, but I wouldn’t take a chance with Dad.

Mom asks, “Would you like something to drink?”

“Yeah!” the kids shout.

Diane and I grab the kids’ hands and follow Mom to the kitchen. I glance toward my bedroom. It’s exactly the same. I shudder, remembering his visits, the hurt, fear, pain, and smothering. Even the bedspread’s the same. It’s like they think I’m coming back. I see the mark of the gunshot, near the cuckoo clock in the hallway.

The kitchen still has hideous yellow walls and a red ceiling. It’s like stepping into a time warp. I lean against the kitchen doorframe and remember telling Mom what he did. I wonder if he beat her over those notebooks.

The kids sit at the table drinking sodas and chattering.

Diane hugs Mom, “I miss you so much.”

“Miss you, too.”

Mom looks my way with accusation blazing out of her eyes. It’s as if all this is my fault.

“You guys are getting so big.” Mom smiles at the kids and they sit taller in their chairs.

Diane says, “Connie’s a great dancer, Keith plays T-ball, and Gary’s already in kindergarten.”

“My, I’m so proud of you.” Mom says. “So how’s school, Shirley? Diane says you’re getting good grades.”

“It’s fine, thank you.” I mumble, as I focus on making silly faces at Gary so he smiles and doesn’t wiggle too much and get Diane mad. If I could, I’d dig a hole and crawl inside.

After the kids drink sodas, we go to the living room and they tear into their presents: dolls, trucks, and a fire engine. They get clothes, but those are tossed aside in favor of the toys.

Dad sits on his throne and watches the havoc as the living room is buried under crumpled wrapping paper.

Mom gives me a few shirts and a skirt. I didn’t get what I really wanted – an apology.

I feel Dad’s eyes looking me over. It creeps me out. Sometimes I wonder if he would have stopped his abuse? I don’t think so, judging from how he’s looking at me now. I cross my arms to hide my chest and remember how dirty I felt with his hands on my body and the horrid things he made me do.

Daddy tickles the kids. They think Grandpa’s great. Little do they know.

After an eternity of two hours, we say our goodbyes complete with kisses and hugs.

I breathe a sigh of relief as we drive away.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Diane asks me.

“No.” I’m afraid to say the truth.

At home, I take a shower to wash that house and the smell of smoke off of me. I especially scrub my face to remove any trace of their kisses. What I can’t wash off are the memories that came from being in that house and seeing them again.