And cheated.
This was supposed to be where I ticked the “profoundly deep and meaningful foray into the past” box and walked away triumphant. That is, right after I smashed the Virgin Mary altar to pieces and destroyed my father’s sports memorabilia.
Just kidding—I think. I guess I had some issues about my childhood, but Caroline was the only Benton psycho and I told myself it would stay that way. I also told myself it didn’t matter if the house felt cheerful, but it was no use. There were memories I had wanted to see, touch and smell. Masochistic, I know, but I had wanted to all the same.
And then there was James. Hadn’t I stood in this very spot, confused and exhilarated by my reaction to him? I couldn’t see him on the expensive, pristine sofa. Or in the new, expensive kitchen. The kitchen had been extended and was now ultra-modern, with granite countertops and a beautifully tiled (cream!) floor.#p#分页标题#e#
Had I really drawn pictures, studied and baked my first biscuit in this room? And had my parents raged at me for being pregnant standing right over there? I’d been back-handed by my father in front of the sink, but it wasn’t there anymore.
In its place stood an expensive American-style refrigerator. Nobody had emptied it and I zoomed in immediately on the Heineken. One, two...eight small green bottles but I’d be happy with one, wouldn’t I? Just one to take the edge off my bad day.
I shut the fridge door. Opened it. Shut it with a bang that made it shake. I was so drained I wanted to drop onto the glass top table and lay there like Snow White, eyes shut. An image of James looking down at me flashed across my mind. I heard the echo of his insults, saw him walk to a Formica countertop and kiss Caroline on the cheek.
I dragged myself out of the kitchen and stood at the bottom of the stairs, undecided. I headed up, framed pictures of spring flowers accompanying my every other step. After a look inside my parents’ pristine room I went to Caroline’s. Unsurprisingly, more delicate florals dominated the décor—roses in red and pink on the walls, a faux-antique bed, and a pale pink duvet set.
Had James and I really made love in this room? I caught a whiff of rose-scented perfume and shut my eyes. Soft sighs, hoarse moans and firm, hot flesh in pitch-black delight. This was not a memory I wanted to see, touch or feel.
Liar, my mind whispered.
I shut the room away, sealing in my memories. The shiny white door at the end of the corridor was closed. I took a deep breath, steeled myself for more Laura Ashley, and walked in.
My old bedroom was a time warp.
The dingy blue carpet was as frayed as I remembered and the faded wood chip on the wall just as dull. The same metal bed frame with a wonky right foot stood against the wall, and although the duvet smelled clean it was threadbare. My second-hand books were in the bookcase and the Apostle’s calendar, marking big red X’s up to Caroline’s wedding day, still hung on the wall.
Most people can’t remember as far back as when they were one or two but I’m not most people. There was my mother, kissing my cheek and telling me a story and there was my father, picking me up and showing me the world outside my window. Anger and sorrow made me want to bring them back, force them to see me and ask them why they had abandoned me. In spite of everything a part of me still loved them.
I dropped onto the bed, struggling to control the wave of sorrow. I would not cry, I told myself grimly, not for them and not for myself. They didn’t deserve it and I sure as hell didn’t either.
I heard a car pull up and looked out of my window. Only one person I knew would casually park a bright red Porsche in this neighbourhood as if he were nipping into a deli in Kensington. And yes, there was James, stepping out and walking to the front door with a measured, confident stride. He looked ruggedly casual in jeans and a black T-shirt, dark shades over his eyes even though evening was fast approaching.