The Lighthouse

“Fine. How’s work?” he asks again.

“Great. I’ll probably win top sales for the office this year. I’m the top seller.” I repeat what I just told him. I work fourteen-hour days, but to produce the way I do, I have to. Most of the time, I’m exhausted. “What have you been up to?”

“Managing to keep busy.”

“Doing what?”

He flips on his turn signal and eases into the right lane to pick up the 110. “I’ve got lots of things to do, taking care of the house, for one thing. It’s getting older by the day. So your flight was okay?”

“Fine. A little crowded, but since it’s two days before Christmas I expected that.” I drink in more air, wishing I felt as if I could open up, tell him he pissed me off when I called to tell him about my trip, but I can’t.

“Yeah, it’s crazy flying at this time,” Dad says.

“People want to be home for the holidays.”

Dad looks at me, then back to the road. “I’m glad you’re home. That you could take the time off from work.”

“Thanks. I didn’t want you to be alone.” My shoulders relax a little and I lean back. Before I became a Realtor, I used to jump from job to job—waitress, secretary, Pottery Barn sales clerk. With those jobs, I could come home every year if Mom sent me airfare. My father used to just shake his head when I’d tell him I’d changed jobs again. Then one day, a friend said I should try selling houses because I had a knack for making people happy. I didn’t know what the heck she meant by that since my life was pretty much a train wreck. I was in debt, not happy with any job and never found a relationship that worked.

When I asked her what she meant, she said I was nice. I laughed, told her I wished I wasn’t so nice. That was seven years ago, and three top sales awards later.

“Still like your job?” Dad asks.

“The job’s great. The other day, a client told me I helped her find her dream home. That really reminded me of Mom.”

An eye blink later, he turns the steering wheel sharply to change lanes and brakes squeal. I’m thrown forward toward the dashboard.

“Good God!”

A horn screeches and I glance back, thinking he’s caused a ten-car pile up on the 110, but everything’s okay.

“Dad, you cut that guy off.”

“He had plenty of room. People should learn how to drive!”

A weird feeling spirals through me. This isn’t like him at all, but neither is him hanging up on me. I look over at him. Basically, he’s the same, maybe a little thinner, grayer. I turn my attention to the window, watch as we drive through the oil fields, come all the way up Pacific Avenue and turn right on Thirty-eighth Street.

When Dad turns into the driveway of our house, my heart jumps a little. It’s the one I grew up in, the one my mother loved, decorated, the one she didn’t come back to eight months ago.

We walk on the sidewalk that cuts from the garage to our house through the night-wet grass. I’m in front pulling my suitcase, and Dad is right behind me. The night is so quiet I can hear his shoes tapping against the concrete.

I scuff my feet against the familiar flowery welcome mat on the back porch. Dad unlocks the door, flips on the light, motions me to go in, and I step into my mother’s kitchen.

“I’ll put your suitcase in your room.” Dad disappears through the swinging door that leads from the kitchen to the rest of the house.

My head is aching, I guess from the flight, the drive home, anticipation. I glance around. The same familiar yellow walls—like sunshine—was how my mother described the color years ago. My dad told her that was silly.

I was so looking forward to seeing familiar things, but now I’m not so sure. When I’m in Tucson, I can keep my grief tucked away. Nothing there reminds me of home, and I’m so busy most of the time, I don’t have time to think about anything but work.

Yet, right now, it feels like just yesterday that I sat at the oak table in the kitchen in shocked disbelief that my mother was gone. Dad has changed nothing. The white-and-yellow tile and the turquoise art deco canisters sitting by the stove are still the same. And the white curtains edge the window over the sink. Except now the room is a mess with unwashed dishes, a greasy frying pan on the stove.

The old refrigerator, squat as an old woman, hums. I place my purse on the table in the middle of the room, dig around, find the little foil packet of Aleves in my makeup bag. The door to the dining room swings wide, Dad walks in, and the refrigerator sighs.

“Need anything?” he asks.

“No.” A half lie. I’m not sure what I need. I feel numb—a little disoriented, but I don’t know how to tell him this. And he probably wouldn’t understand, anyway. I glance toward the dining room and, for a split second, I expect my mom to push through the swinging door, hug me, then sit at the table and pat the space beside her.

My headache deepens.

“I saw Sandra this morning. She’s looking forward to seeing you,” Dad says.

Sandra is three years older than I am, and she grew up in the house next door. We played together when we were young and, when she went to high school, I followed her like a puppy, entranced by the boys, makeup and dates that swirled around her. Three years ago, she moved back into her childhood home to take care of her mother. We’ve kept in touch, but over the last few years I’ve been so busy, we haven’t talked much.

“I’ll go over tomorrow. It’s too late now.”

Dad looks at the clock. “Better turn on the news.”

“Still on at nine?”

We both look toward the yellow sunflower clock over the fridge, and I laugh despite what I’m feeling. Eight-fifty-five.

“Yep, still on at nine. Are you coming?” he throws over his shoulder as he walks out of the kitchen.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

A moment later the TV blares. I walk to the refrigerator, open the door. Almost empty. This surprises me until I remind myself my mother isn’t here to fill it. At the new stainless-steel sink that Mom had installed two months before she died, I find a clean glass, fill it with water, pop the pair of puffy blue Aleves in my mouth and wash them down.

The tiny crystal bear Mom hung in the window sways a little. I wonder how many times she stood in this spot, looked at the little bear and heard these same noises—the fridge humming, the TV voices, her own breathing? I try to look out the window, but all I can see is a lot of my mother in my reflection—long dark hair, narrow face.

Familiar grief pushes in and I shove it back.

After my mother passed away, my grief came in waves, like the ocean four blocks away, crashing against the cliffs. Sadness rolled over me, at times the weight of it knocking me down, filling up my throat and chest. Then just as suddenly, it would be gone, washing back to who knows where? I wouldn’t know when the grief was going to splash over me again—a song, feeling the early morning breeze against my skin, anything might bring back the hurt.

I turn around, lean against the counter’s edge. I grew up knowing my mother loved this kitchen. We talked a lot here. She told me once that she wanted to soak up the history of this house, and family history always began in kitchens.

She told me so many things. Once at the park, when I was around six, she held a dandelion to my lips, said, “Make a wish, Christine, and believe!”

I close my eyes, wish my mother were here.

“Christine,” Dad calls from the living room.

“Yeah?” Where did she go? Crazy, I know, but it’s so strange that one moment a person is breathing, laughing, then poof, gone!

“News is on.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I look around the kitchen, wonder how much my father misses my mother. They were married for forty-three years. Does he plunge into memories and swim to where she is, tangle in her long, dark hair?