Memories That You Call Home
They say “home is where the heart is”. My heart was born and raised at the Hampton's, and when my family lost everything and were forced to move out half way across the state, it didn't come with me. If home is where the heart is, then my home is the three-story house at the end of Arcadia drive.
With most of our belongings moved into the Brooklyn flat, Arcadia is quiet and empty. Mom tells us we’re only staying downtown temporarily until dad finds his bearings again, but I know better than to keep my hopes up. They’ve already listed the house for sale; it’s only a matter of time before someone else falls in love with the place and moves in. I wouldn't blame them if they did, it’s beautiful. I keep telling myself I just need time to adjust, but even the simplest details of living in that place - like not being able to hear the ice-cream truck drive by every Sunday afternoon - breaks my heart.
Looking out the window of the train, I zoom past landscapes at 80 miles per hour on my way back to Arcadia - the rising sun casting an orange glow on the forest and open space. I told myself before leaving today that if I could just see the house again, really take it all in; I’d be able to tuck it in my pocket and bring it back with me.
The driveway leading to the house is long. I wanted to savor every step I took walking up the hill, but the sound of gravel crunching beneath my feet ends all too soon as I happen upon the grand entrance to the Sinclair estate. My heart is roaring. The heavy mahogany door lets me in with much ease, a mutual understanding that this visit will be our little secret.
Echoes of my footsteps fill the empty space as I walk through the grand reception, trying to take in every delicate. I remember sitting in my favorite recliner in front of the faux fireplace in the separate glass dome overlooking the beach. The snow globe was a sanctuary, granting me privacy from the music and not-so-quiet murmurs coming from the parties my parents use to throw for every possible occasion. The smell of brewed coffee and champagne linger in the air. My lips quirk as I recall the time I burned the turkey last Thanksgiving evening, the fire alarm going off, drenching all of us in our dinner seats. Ditching the formalities, the whole family sat cross-legged and spent the holiday getting pizza stains on the monopoly board.
The paintings and pictures lean against the couch not yet packed up. I flick through the framed artwork one by one until I find a portrait of the whole family. Dad stands in the back, an immobile pillar of strength, his eyes gleaming with pride. Strands of silver peak through his mass of brown hair. His hand squeezes the shoulder of my eldest sibling Greyson, handsome as ever in his black suit and tie, looking into the camera with that infamous grin. “At least you don’t need money to be a pain in my ass, big bro.” I roll my eyes. Mom stands on dad’s other side, her blond curls full and silky, resting one hand on his chest - the diamond on her ring finger a technicolor prism. I stare at the doe-eyed girl sitting in front of father. I was once that girl, but she’s been left behind in this empty shell of a house. Two identical twins sit on either side of portrait me, their legs dangle in mid-air crossed at the ankle, not long enough to touch the floor yet. That was the Sinclairs; a perfect family with a perfect life living in their perfect house.
Moving into the library, I walk over to my undisturbed bookshelves proudly displaying the abundance of books I have collected over the years. There isn’t enough room in the flat back in Brooklyn to hold all my collection, so they stay here for now. As I brush my fingers gently over the spine of each book, I can’t help but smile at the memories of this room. The hours I spent arranging and rearranging books - in chromatic order, then alphabetical, then back to chromatic... It’s heartbreaking knowing they will be plucked off their shelves and stuffed into cardboard boxes sooner or later.Â
My bedroom is on the third floor facing the vast ocean just a few yards away. It’s the smallest and most intimate out of all the bedrooms in the house - just big enough to fit a bed, closet, bureau, and of course more book shelves. Now with everything moved out the walls feel distant - light patches on the plush carpet and nails sticking out from the beige wall the only indication I was ever here.
I open the French doors and step onto the balcony to get some fresh air. Clasping my hands together, I lean my arms on the railing and look down. The pool is now empty, but I remember how it use to glow at night like a turquoise gem. The deck chairs that were spread out evenly along the edge of the pool now lay stacked in a pile against the wall of the garage, providing shelter for spiders and dust bunnies. Lush green hedges line the garden separating the green lawn from the asphalt road that leads to the city. The fountain planted in the middle of the flower beds remains broken just as it has been for the past ten years ago. Rainwater collected in the tiers keep afloat the red and yellow leaves falling from the trees, each landing leaf causing a light ripple of water which drips off the edge. Â
The little ones, Jamie and Jezalia, always used to hide behind the trimmed bushes and spy to see if the birds and squirrels bathing in the fountain would do anything miraculous to prove that everything in those princess movies I watched with them were real. They were perfect little angels, always up to mischief and always getting away with it. Arcadia is going to miss the sight of their bouncing blond pigtails and simultaneous clicks of their shoes as they descended the stairs with as much grace seven-year-olds could possess.
Back in my room I sling my purse across my shoulder and climb out the window, making my way down the fire escape a foot at a time until I land on the wood that lines the perimeter of the house. I slip my feet one at a time out of my wedges and stumble the last few steps before my bare feet sinks into the liquid sand. I keep walking towards the shore until I’m met with the cold of the water, the cuts from my shoes on my heel sting as the waves lap against my ankle. The wind caresses my arms, blowing wisps of brown hair across my lips, wrapping me in the scent of the ocean. I stand there as time stops, squinting at the blinding sun, shoes dangling from one hand.
The waves crash and time hurls me forward.
I twist around and look at the magnificent house. A memory box full of good and bad recollections, a reminder of what we once were.
The whole way home, as I watched the buildings blur, I couldn’t help but feel like every mile farther away from Arcadia was one more mile I am separated from my heart - the heavy thumping of it this morning now no more than a faint pitter-patter.
Back in Brooklyn, I climb breathlessly to the 6th floor only to be greeted by a dimly lit hallway. Walking straight down to the end, I let out a defeated sigh as I face the door. My keys jingle as I stick it into the key hole. Turning the lock, I give the door two kicks and a hard tug before it finally gives way. Tears well in my eyes. I notice the smell of coffee and champagne at the entry and something flutters inside me as the twin’s laughter and dad’s grumble vertebrates throughout the entire flat. I pad barefoot down the corridor to the living room and rub my tears away at the sight of my family sitting on the carpet, the same grease stained monopoly board laid out in front of them.
Mom beckons with one hand, and with the other pats the empty space next to her. “Honey, we've missed you! We’ve only just started, and Jezalia insisted we save you the dog token since it’s your favourite. Come join us now that you’re finally home.”
Indeed. With my family sitting all together – Greyson sandwiched between mom and dad, Jamie on dad’s lap and Jezalia making her way onto mine – I am surprised to find it suddenly hard to believe home is anywhere, but here.
written in 2015. Revised.
