Chapter 1: Homecoming

Atlantic Evening _{(Credit: Author)}

Allison Graves

Now Playing: “Fourth of July” by Surfjan Stevens

Hometown welcomes don’t feel quite the same when pulling up in front of your childhood house in Massachusetts after four days of traveling from the house your dad bought in Seattle right after the divorce. I want to say that my mom and sister rushed out to greet me, and my old friends whisked me away to our favorite diner from when we were in high school to reminisce and reconnect before I could even pop my trunk open and start unpacking. I want to say that there’s no resentment or painful feelings at seeing the Adams’ house next door with its stately blue siding and the front door made of oak with a warm golden glow by the lantern light hanging next to the door. I want to say that this becomes the latest Thursday night I’ve had since sneaking off last minute to see The Shins play at the Crystal Ballroom in Portland and barely getting back to Seattle before sunrise.

But the Barton residence is darkened, as is the House of the Adams Clan. Maybe that’s better for me; I don’t know if I could stand to see Casey’s face right now. But not having my mom and Kat home to let me in underlines just how damn lonely I feel. How I’ve felt since leaving five years ago. And now that I’m back in Grantchester, I’m pretty sure I know about five people left in town. Two of them are blood relations who are going by my mom’s maiden name, two of them probably hate me, and the last is the father of one of the two that probably hate me. I’m on such a hot streak that I should be buying lottery tickets or making my way to Plainridge Park for a night at one of the blackjack tables. Maybe then I can pay off this college degree since I’ve had no luck getting a real job.

Mom must have moved the spare key from hiding inside the fake lantern held in the mouth of the little dog statue on the front porch. I’m not getting inside the house until she and Kat get back from whatever they’re up to. I have nothing to do but slip out of my shoes and walk around the back of the house towards the beach.

I loved the Pacific Northwest, to an extent. Seattle had fun things going on, and the people were usually interesting. Bainbridge Island was scenic and cute, and sunsets over the Puget Sound that painted Mount Rainier in a multitude of oranges and purples and shadows is a sight without compare. But my heart has always belonged to the Atlantic; the crossway to the Old World where my favorite literature comes from. The saltwater air on the ocean breeze clearing my head in both metaphorical and physical manners and letting me see clearly.

I’ve been trying to work out why people love the ocean since I was a child. At one point, my mother knocked on my door back in high school at six-thirty on a chilly October morning to find me wild-eyed with sheets of paper scattered around my bed whilst I sat amidst them like the eye of a great contemplative storm, lit up by the sunlight peeking through my imperfectly drawn curtains and the screen of a laptop and cellphone which each had different pieces of poetry, prose, or scholarly articles for me to reference in my rambling writings. That was senior year. Right before I left Grantchester to live with dad in Seattle. Right before I abandoned Casey.

Oh Casey.

The definitive image I will have of him will always be when we walked to school the day of my contemplative storm, a scant twenty minutes after mom found me, when I walked over to his front door so we could walk to school together. His door swung open with this sudden gust of warm wind that came from his smile. He had half a piece of dry toast crammed in his mouth, his shirt was on inside out, and he still hadn’t finished desperately pulling on his left sneaker. He then slung his navy backpack onto his back and wobbled down the cracking wooden steps until his shoe finally slipped on. After which, he proceeded to pull the toast out of his mouth, holding it aloft like the lead from an old movie holding a cigarette aside, flashed me the charming grin only I ever got to see, made some clever quip, and returned to crunching his toast as we meandered along the sea-battered pavement.

That was our daily ritual every day of high school. Until the weather got so cold and his mom would drive us in her purple 1970 Dodge Challenger. We were the coolest kids in school for about five minutes, and the third member of our trio, Martin Grace, was always insanely jealous. Martin dreamed of being a racecar driver as a kid and kept posters of famous drivers and cars to decorate his childhood bedroom. I wonder if he ever redecorated. His parents owned a 2001 Honda Civic, and the blue paint was chipping even then.

I’m lucky Martin isn’t here to see me. I’m lucky anyone isn’t here to see me. Being back home without reconciling old faces on new people lets me get my bearings. But damnit if I don’t want to see Casey. Bury my head in his chest for a moment and just remember what it felt like to be younger without a care in the world again.

Atlantic sand feels different. Maybe I’m just being overly poetic, but there’s thoughtfulness and mystery and contemplation cushioning my feet and sliding between my toes. The ocean doesn’t give answers, it asks questions. It has no regard for our petty lives or the concerns that weigh so heavily within our hearts. It just exists.

When we were children, Casey’s bedroom looked over the ocean with a beautiful bay window. Come to think of it, I don’t know if he moved in the years since then. I’d like to think he didn’t. That he sat by that window this morning and contemplated the ocean. That he said something so beautifully poetic about the way the clouds looked.

This morning was spent at a Hilton in Buffalo, New York. Part of me wanted to stop by Niagara Falls, the other part of me forgot which bag had my camera and I wanted to finish the fourth day of my trek back to the East Coast with some time to get food. My stomach grumbles, beating its angry hands against my insides, demanding tribute in the form of something greasy and unhealthy.

The ocean downs it out.

The perfect kiss is when sea meets shore. The first, the unstoppable force, albeit varied in its intensity. The other, the immovable object which meets its partner’s vigor with steadfastness.

Each offers something different. They can withstand each other. The sea kisses shore the way a lover kisses one whose body is present while their mind drifts far away. A comfortable constant which threatens to take everything you’ve ever known and tear it to pieces.

A comfortable constant is what I need right now.

Saltwater dances on my tongue as shattered sea spray drifts up on the gentle breeze, carrying its scent to me. The coarseness of the sand beneath my feet threatens to draw me downward as my feet sink with every step. Oh how I have missed the feeling of this sand between my toes. More than the sound of my mother and sister pulling their car up to the house behind me, and Katrina chasing my footprints in the sand for excitement, the crashing of waves upon the beach tells me that I am home.

I am home.

Chapter 2>