For I don’t know how long, I’ve been standing motionless on the front porch of what used to be my house and now is again. The key Richard gave me is in the lock, but I haven’t turned it. Instead, I’m pinching it so hard it’s leaving dents on the ball of my thumb and the side of my finger.
I can’t let go, but at the same time I can’t turn it. Am I ready to walk back in time? A sound makes me jump. It’s my phone. I pull it from my pocket.
“Hello?”
“Exactly when were you planning on telling me you were leaving?”
My stomach does a flip. It’s Bill. My boss in Portland. I was so nervous about going to Lee Realty I forgot all about needing to call him before Chuck did.
“Sorry!” I say. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“Why in the world would you want to live in Medford? You know what they call it. Dead-ford. Meth-ford.”
Meth. Could my parents have been into drugs? “I just felt like I needed a change.”
“Then dye your hair or get your belly button pierced or something. But don’t move away and leave me shorthanded.” Bill’s always been blunt. So if he was really mad at me, he would tell me. But still, there’s some emotion under his words.
“I’m really sorry,” I say again. “I was visiting a friend down here, and I just decided I liked it. It wasn’t anything I planned.”
“There are a million other places I would pick ahead of Medford. Bunch of rednecks in a little valley with a bad economy.”
Bill begins listing all the reasons why no sane person would live in Medford, and as he does, I put my hand back on the key. Only this time I turn it, push the door open, and step through. My breath is stuck inside me, not coming in, not going out, as his litany continues. The lack of big-city culture. Smoky forest fires. Californians who have abandoned their own state for ours. Unbearable heat in the summer. Fog as thick as cotton in the winter.
As I walk into the living room, I’m prepared to be overwhelmed by memories, but the first hit I get is—nothing. Nothing about this place is familiar. There’s a gold velour couch in the living room, but no other furniture on the flat gray carpet, just dents where it used to be. The walls are painted off-white. At least they were years ago. Shadowy rectangles of various sizes show where pictures have been put up and taken back down again. Cobwebs hang in the corners. It smells faintly of fried onions and dust.
“I’m not saying it’s forever,” I tell Bill. My shirt sticks to my skin. I pluck it away from my chest and let out a puff of air, finally able to breathe. “It’s just for now. It’s kind of hard to explain.”
His voice loses some of its sarcastic humor. “Has someone on staff been giving you grief?”
Does Bill think I’ve come down here to get away from some harasser or a relationship gone wrong? “It’s nothing like that.” I turn sideways to maneuver through the small dining room, with its scarred wooden table and rickety chairs. “And who knows? I could come back.”
“And why would I want someone who might quit at any time, with no notice?” Bill’s teasing again. I think. Teasing with an edge, as he always does. “I told that Chuck guy you were a good worker but that you’re leaving me in the lurch.”
Have I just thrown away my life for nothing? Burned my bridges with Bill for a job I might not even get now?
“I’m sorry. It’s just something that feels right.” It takes only four strides to cross the narrow length of the kitchen. At the back is a tiny alcove just big enough to hold a washer and dryer, with a door to the backyard. I look through the glass pane at the yellowing lawn bordered by a fence on the far side and laurel hedges on the others.
He relents a little. “Don’t worry. I didn’t tell Chuck that last part. In fact, I pretty much talked him into hiring you.”
“Thank you.” I press my forehead against the cool glass as I try to imagine playing out there. But still I recognize nothing. “I really appreciate it.”
“Let me know if you come to your senses and want to head back here,” Bill says. “And if you ever feel like telling me why you’re there, you know how to get hold of me.”
“Thanks. That means a lot to me.” Especially now, when I’m starting to think I’ve made a big mistake.
After an awkward pause, we fumble through our good-byes.
On hollow legs, I retrace my steps and go down the hall. There’s a single bathroom and three bedrooms. The one on the left is the biggest, but all of them are small, barely big enough for the beds they hold. Two rooms each have a twin bed, and the bigger one has a queen. They all have the same gray carpet, faintly stained in places. I think the carpet wasn’t here when I was, but I can’t be sure about that.
There’s no magic. No memories. No flashbacks. I lived here the longest of any place I’ve ever lived, spent the first seven years of my life here, but it feels like a stranger’s home. Nothing leads me back to my old self, my old family, to the dead who once walked through these rooms.
As I head back down the hall, tears close my throat. I was crazy to do this. Crazy to think this would jostle loose my memories. I reach out and touch the wall, steady myself.
Then I notice marks under my fingers. Faint pencil lines. They start at about midthigh and stop at about my chest. Next to each one is a bit of spidery writing, so light I can’t really make it out.
But I know what the writing says. Each line has a date written next to it.
I close my eyes and put my heels against the wall. Stand straight and tall, lengthening my spine as if it’s an elastic cord. I can almost feel the pencil parting my hair as it pushes through to mark my height.
When I open my eyes, I see the cream-colored curtains behind the living room couch. Now I remember hiding behind them while Grandma pretended not to be able to find me. In the far corner of the living room is the spot where we always put up the Christmas tree. On that corner shelf in the dining room, there used to be a fat blue teapot.
Everything looks so much smaller and shabbier than I remember. But at least now I’m remembering, or whatever you call a feeling caught between dreaming and déjà vu.
Through the living room window, I see a guy skateboarding down the street. When he sees my car in the driveway, he stops, kicks the board up into his hands, and starts up the walk.
Duncan.