A Nest of Nightmares

‘Yeah, you told me once when you were drunk. The sad, sad story about your father skipping out. You don’t remember telling me, huh? What are you always so – ’

‘Would you keep your eyes on the road?’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve been driving since I was twelve. I know – let’s go see your old house. What do you think of that?’

She watched the buildings as they passed them, reading the signs, noticing a new shopping centre.

‘Wouldn’t you like to see your old home again? You can say hello to the rats and roaches – let ’em know you’ve come up in the world with one husband behind you already and working on – ’

‘Okay,’ she said, to stop the growing bitterness of the argument.

‘What?’

‘I said yeah.’

The house had not changed. The oak and mimosa still stood in the front yard; the ivy and honeysuckle still battled for possession of the front flowerbed; the gutters were peeling yellow paint and the magnolia by the kitchen door was in bloom. In almost thirteen years the house and yard had managed to remain exactly as she remembered them. It didn’t seem likely, but neither did the alternative: that her memory was faulty.

Sharon walked around to the side of the house where there were four windows. The first two were masked by curtains; the last two were the ones Sharon knew best, for they belonged to the room she had shared with her sister. She went to her old window and looked in.

Everything was so familiar, so right, that she did not at first feel surprise. Everything fit, everything was in its place: the scratched wooden play table in the centre of the room; the two beds, one beneath each window; the sheets of Manila paper covered with crayoned designs and taped to the blue walls.

She was home again, and unsurprised, until she remembered that she was twenty-four years old and had not even seen this house for half that many years. Her mind must be playing tricks on her. She was seeing things and her mind was tricking her into thinking that she remembered those same things.

Déjà vu, she thought. That’s what it’s called. It’s normal, it’s natural. I’m tired, the sun is hot, I’ve been smoking too much lately, and Bill . . .

Bill. An image in her mind suddenly of a dark-haired, scowling man leaning against a bright-red Mustang. She knew then that she must have come here with Bill, to look at the old house. But where was Bill?

The answer came quickly: With the car. She set off down the street. He wouldn’t have parked far away.

‘Thisseems like a pretty nice part of town. You never told me about your childhood.’

She was still gazing out the window. So much had changed.

‘Talkative, aren’t we?’

She thought of the wine he had insisted upon with breakfast. She had said nothing then, and would say nothing now. She knew her silences infuriated him.

‘I guess your father had a good bit of money.’

Those townhouses were new, and that office building.

‘You lived pretty well until the bastard skipped out.’

She folded her arms, holding herself.

‘You can’t blame me for guessing when you never tell me anything.’

She turned the volume up on the tape-player: ‘Home, where my thoughts are strayin’ . . .’

The car was not parked on the street. Other cars beamed reflected sun into her eyes, but there were no 1972 Mustangs. All the cars seemed to be at least ten years old. She went around the block, knowing that almost anything could have happened, for she could not remember the circumstances of their arrival.