Everything
Changes but
Stays the Same

The time warp of traveling from the East Coast to the West Coast always left me dazed. I stepped off the plane after a total of seven traveling hours. The Bloody Marys from the earlier flight were slept off, but I still felt the weight of exhaustion.

“Venus. Over here, honey!” My mother was waving, trying to make her way past the wall of people searching for their companions.

“Mom.” I reached out, pulling her in for a firm hug. “I’m here. I finally made it.”

“Sweetpea, what did you do to yourself? You cut off all that long pretty hair.” She was affectionately rubbing my head in public. Like a pregnant woman’s belly, my head had become open game.

“I guess I forgot to mention that.”

“It’s cute. It really is adorable on you. I guess Clint didn’t like that too much, though?”

I let out a long sigh. “Not now, Mom. Please.”

We moved through the crowd and made our way out to the car. It was a hot afternoon. The sun was focused directly on top of my head and burning like a laser as we walked through the parking lot.

“Your father is working on the floors. I told him I couldn’t let you come home to dirty carpet. He spills everything. I told him, if he’s going to continue eating in front of that TV, I’m going to sell the dining room furniture and turn it into a workout room. Gotta keep my figure.” She swanked, patting her round bottom. “Timothy will be here tomorrow. Did I tell you he was bringing somebody with him? I hope they’re not going to be trying to sleep together in my house. I can’t stand that.”

She made the long stretch to Pasadena seem like we were walking, instead of riding in a car.

“Mom, why don’t you take I-5 up from here. We can go around all this traffic.”

“No, no, that’s even worse. Traffic’s just gotten so bad these days. I remember when you could be in LA city within fifteen minutes after you left the house. Nowadays, it takes a good hour. No way around it, baby. Just got to stick it out. How’s your girlfriend? What’s her name, the one with those pretty eyes?”

“Wendy. She’s good.”

“I’m so glad you have somebody out there. So far away from home. I just knew you and Clint would make it. I just don’t understand what went wrong. Was it your hair?” She lowered her voice and turned down the squelching of Patti Labelle. “You can tell me, he doesn’t like it that short, does he? Most men don’t.”

She quieted for a moment to hear my response. “It had nothing to do with my hair. I did this after the fact.”

She pushed the volume back up. “Well, then, I just can’t figure it out. If you guys weren’t having any problems, what made everything just blow up?”

“I told you, Mom, I just didn’t want to wait anymore. I really don’t think it was meant to be. I’m almost afraid to say it, but sometimes I think he was just using me to get through school. He never had any intention of marrying me.”

“Oh no, no. I don’t believe that. Clint was a nice fellow. Are we talking about the same fellow? He was a good boy. I can tell these things. So well mannered, and honest. You can see honesty in the eyes. I don’t believe that, Venus. Not at all.”

“Mom, you’re not the one who lived with him. I am. He is a man, pure and simple. That’s half the problem right there.”

“Oh Venus, you’re going to learn. One day it’s going to be clear as a bell to you. Men and woman are puzzle pieces. No two pieces are alike, they’ve got all those different sides and shapes, jagged and smooth, but when there’s a fit, when that piece goes with the other, the search is over, it’s done. You don’t have to pull it back apart and try it again to make sure it works. It either does or it doesn’t, there’s no guessing. Now if another piece comes along, it’ll fit the other side, maybe if it’s a corner piece, or a center piece, it may have three or four different pieces it goes with to make the picture come to life. Each piece is vital to the next. Do you understand what I’m saying? Other pieces may fit, but none can take the place of the other. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, honey?”

I watched the couple in the red sports car next to us. They were staring straight ahead, not talking to one another. I wished for that kind of ride. Forty more minutes I was in for; at this pace, I would surely die of agony.

The white asters and fuschia star gazers were still growing in the front yard, banked up against the faded pink stucco. The grass was green and manicured neatly, a vast contrast to the staid winter season I’d left on the East Coast. Trees still had their green leaves here. Dad was standing inside the screen door when we pulled up, grinning ear to ear.

“There’s my girl,” he called out, pushing through the doorway. “Uoooh. Look what she did. You cut off all ’em locks. Still pretty as can be. Come here, precious.” He squeezed me tight. His large mass encompassed me like a blanket, blocking all the sunlight.

“Dad. I missed you, Daddy.” The stale smell of cigar smoke was familiar and comforting.

“Go on in. I’ll get your bags.”

“This is all I brought.”

“Well, there ain’t nothing in them little bags. Give ’em here.” He toted them inside, dropping them as soon as we stepped through the door.

“I want you to see what I did with that caboose you sent me. Uoooh, that was a real find, precious.” He led me by the hand to what used to be Timothy’s room in the back of the house. He used the whole room to set up his miniature city and trains, under the vigilant protests of my mother. There was barely enough room for one extra person in the room.

I had found a Lionel Train on one of my many scavenger hunts in the Virginia suburbs where people threw out things you only read about, eighteenth-century settees, porcelain dolls, patchwork quilts. When I sent the train to my father over six months ago I didn’t know what its value was. It just looked like an old toy that a grandmother held onto for too long, sentimental value. It turned out to be one of the first miniatures Lionel Trains ever made, and he hadn’t stopped thanking me yet.

“Look at that. Cleaned up like new.”

The lime-green original paint was dry and cakey; the wording was cracked, but you could still make out what it said.

“That’s nice, Dad. It fits in real well.” I walked around examining all the detail. Each piece was delicate. Everything was so small and distinct, the tiny trees and landscaping surrounding houses and general stores. Miniature stop signs were placed at the corners, replicating a small town. “You’ve done a lot of work since I saw it last.”

“Oh, yeah. All that time I used to be at work, I spend it right in here.”

I grabbed his arm and gave it a tug. “I’ll come back and look at it some more after I get a little rest. That trip beat me pretty bad.”

“Oh sure, precious. Sure.”

I could tell he was disappointed. He wanted to show off all his hard work, but I wasn’t sure how long I could keep standing. My knees were buckling, partly from the seven-hour trip and partly because of the drinks I’d had on the way.

I crawled my way to the top of the stairs and slipped into my old bedroom, closing the door quietly behind me. The same yellow floral bedspread was draped over the twin-sized canopy bed. I still remembered being the first person on my block with the contemporary whitewashed pine furniture set. The stuffed animals still held their place at the end of the bed. My mother came in systematically and dusted and vacuumed, but never changed anything. The academic achievement awards were still framed and positioned on the walls. Photographs of me were still hung in chronological order. The one where my hair was in two fluffy balls that erupted on the sides of my head brought back the most memories. I remembered getting into trouble when I got home in the second grade for letting my hair get into disarray before picture time.

I had seen an advertisement of a little girl wearing the Afro-puff styles a week before and thought it looked cute. So I had purposely unsnapped the little red-bird-shaped barrettes on the ends of my twisted ponytails so they would come undone. Later of course, I would claim it was no fault of my own. My mother didn’t believe me, though. For the rest of the school year I was sent to school with double barrettes on each end. Pauletta Johnston’s daughter would not be running around with unruly hair.

I pulled back the somewhat faded spread and climbed between the cool sheets. If I could sleep for a week with no interruptions, I would. I dozed slowly. Too many thoughts of uncertainty flapping through my mind. Would I have a job when I returned? Would Clint suddenly realize I was the best thing he ever had? I rolled over, pulling the spread close, covering my nose. I inhaled home, the familiar smell of simpler times. I felt my senses leaving my body as I fell into a deep calm.