Change 3–Day 195

Mom won’t stop weeping.

“Here, Connie,” Dad says, passing his cloth hankie.

“It’s all good, Mom,” I add, carrying my duffel and books past her and down the hall to my bedroom, Snoopy watching the whole procession with a combination of excitement and annoyance.

“They’re happy tears,” Mom snuffles, blowing her nose with gale force. “I’m just so happy you’re home. And on Easter Sunday.”

“We don’t celebrate Easter, honey,” Dad quickly corrects, never one to let a chance to be a holiday Grinch slip by.

“I know, but it finally f-feels right,” Mom sputters, the crying ramping up yet again. “My baby has come home. We’re a family again.”

Yup. The band is officially back together. After my karaoke triumph and my reunion with Audrey, such as it was, I went back to HQ and told Benedict that I thought it was time for me to move along. I won’t lie, Tracy’s nudging helped, texting me daily quotes about the love between a mother and child, and e-mailing videos of baby animals and their mommies cuddling in the wild. You see enough newborn elephants curling their whiskery trunks around their mamas’ legs, and you feel like leaping back into the freaking womb.

So I leapt. I was in a better place now. With Audrey, obviously. With Nana’s passing. With Chase’s too. But also with myself. I was less depressed. The fog had lifted enough for me to see some horizon, and while Kim is probably never going to be America’s Sweetheart, I wanted to kill people a lot less, and this I counted as a good sign.

When I broke the news, at first Benedict was, per his irritating custom, judgmental in his nonjudgmentalness. “If you’re certain this is the path you need to walk, then you absolutely should go where you belong,” he said.

I just miss home, dude. I’m not joining Hitler Youth.

He added some other stuff about staying on track, and not allowing the comforts of domesticity to quash my nascent politicalization, and keeping my eyes on the RaCha prize, and I listened, but, I explained, the work I was most called to do right then was make things right with my folks.

“I’ll be at the demonstration,” I promised.

Which delighted and satisfied him enough to help me finish packing my bag while I texted Mom to come get me. She was there to pick me up before I’d even reached the curb out front. It was almost as if she’d been circling the block, waiting for the call.

As we drove home, I sensed she was laboring not to spook the exotic bird. She didn’t ask questions or gloat or make mention of my appearance or attire. She let me control the radio. When we pulled into the garage, I immediately spotted a vintage orange Vespa scooter with a matching orange bow on the handlebars. My Kim Cruz birthday present. Damn. They must’ve really missed me.

“We can get your permit now that you’re back,” Mom said.

“Cool. Thank you.”

And then the happy tears started. And they haven’t really stopped.

* * *

I’ve been back half a day, hiding in my room for much of it, and it feels like I never want to leave again. My room feels cleaner, brighter. All my stuff is where it always was. Even my alligator pencils are lined up exactly the way I’d arranged them. Nothing touched. A shrine to me.

That’s not weird or anything.

I check Skype to see whether Destiny is avail. No dice. That’s right, she and DJ were planning to take a road trip to Dollywood for the weekend. (I hope they send me a photo of them eating a giant turkey leg and a funnel cake.)

I text Kris to see if he’s around. He texts right back, and I miss his face, so I ask him to get on Skype. After much equivocation (he’s in his underwear), he finally agrees to put on a shirt and talk to me.

“Guess who’s back, back, back,” he sings the minute he clicks on my screen and sees me in the bedroom. “Back again.”

I flip him the bird.

“How goes reentry?” he asks, half-buttoning his silk polka-dot shirt and reclining on a chintz divan, like he’s living in a Tennessee Williams play. Which come to think of it, he is.

“Odd. Lotta tears.”

“Sister, there should be. That’s what family is for.”

“It feels bizarre. Like I’m the guest of honor. I want everyone to chill. Stop making so much out of it. Get a grip. Something.”

Kris leans forward and presses his nose right up to the camera. “Kimmycakes?”

“Yes?”

“You’re being a Regina George.”

“Screw you.”

“No. You need to hear me. This is your come-to-Jesus moment. Your parents love you. You rejected them. How do you think they should feel? What would be an appropriate response for you?”

I keep my mouth shut. His voice suddenly grows venomous, angry. But not at me.

“I was kicked to the curb like gay garbage. My parents don’t even want to look at me. And I still miss them every day. So maybe you could see clear to giving yours a break for whatever stupid thing they said or did months ago and realize for once in your privileged life how lucky you are.”

“Are you done?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, popping his collar up.

“I love you, Kris.”

“I love you too, dumb bunny.”

After Kris and I disconnect, I march straight to where Mom is sitting in the TV room, blotting her eyes, and throw my arms around her waist, just like the baby elephants.

I feel her body melt.

Then I feel the same happening inside my own.

* * *

Later, after dinner, I helped Dad clear the plates from the table.

“Thanks for the scooter,” I said.

“It was your mother’s idea,” he answered.

I handed him a dirty skillet. “I know you’re disappointed in me. And I’m sorry,” I said. “But I really am trying. Believe me when I tell you, you can’t hate me more than I hate myself.”

I noticed his lips start to tremble. Then his cheeks. He turned around to the sink.

“I didn’t die in that basement, Dad,” I pressed on. “I’m still here. I’m still alive. I’m still your kid.”

I wanted him to acknowledge me, to say something, to yell, anything. But he just clenched his jaw, slipped the skillet into the sudsy water, and left the room.