Chaos and Control(21)

“We should get you outside this summer, Bennie. You need some color.”

She seems to relax a little and nudges my shoulder. “My color is fine. Just dreading this visit.”

“Then why come? Why do this to yourself?”

“Because one day it’ll be too late to visit. Besides, I’m only here for you,” she answers.

“You know I can handle them.”

Bennie nods and looks out at the field to our right. Crops of gold as far as we can see. It would be beautiful if I weren’t so jaded. “I know you can. You were always better at dealing with them than I was.”

“Which is so strange to me. You grew up with them, no guidance from anyone else, no one telling you it was okay to be yourself. Yet, somehow, you found the strength to do that.”

“It was different then. I fit into their mold. I did what I was told,” she answers, her eyes on the street. “I knew I had to make it until I was eighteen, and then I’d be free to be me.”

“You’re so strong.”

Bennie shakes her head and gives me a glance. “I did what I had to do to keep my sanity.”

“Well, if you hadn’t been there for me, telling me that I could be whatever I wanted, I may have lost my mind long ago.”

She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Who says you’re sane now?”

“Shut up, nerd.” I sweep my foot against hers trying to trip her, but she kicks me away. “Anything I should know before we get there?” I ask.

She shakes her head and stares at our shadows on the road in front of us. The shorter, distorted versions remind me of our younger selves, walking this same path between the park and home.

“Nope. Nothing has changed. Same old Bob and Carol. Why the sudden interest in a visit?”

“I don’t really know. I almost feel obligated. Like there is some lingering daughterly guilt that I should let them know I’m alive and safe.”

“Oh. They know that. Daddy asked every time I saw him. I kept them updated when I got a new postcard from you.”

“And Mom?”

Bennie shakes her head.

“It’s funny how everyone in this town connects them to us and us to them, and we couldn’t be more disconnected. Don’t you get tired of it, Ben? Tired of being Reverend Hart’s kids?”

“I suppose I’ve grown used to it in my old age.”

I laugh. “You’re not that old. And I don’t think I would get used to it in three lifetimes.”

My anxiety pushes to the surface when we turn onto my parents’ street. It multiplies with every step toward that seemingly innocent house wearing green shutters. By the time I reach the mailbox with pristine new letters spelling Hart, I am a nervous wreck. Bennie grabs my hand as we step onto the porch and ring the bell.

Through the open window, just beyond frilly homemade curtains that shift in the breeze, I recognize Red Foley’s voice crooning from their old record player. It’s a song I know by heart. And though I love his voice, and the wholesome sound of music from the fifties, it stirs something inside me that is made of hate and resentment.

I hear voices inside and the soft footsteps approaching. Memories flood my head along with a sick feeling that I can’t hold down. Bennie squeezes my hand, and it grounds me in the moment, calming my vibrating insides. The door cracks open, and two eyes stare at us through the screen door. They look old and tired and a little more fragile than the last time I saw them. But they don’t look surprised.

“Well, come on in.”

My father props open the door and stands aside. He’s wearing what I call the “Reverend Hart Uniform”—light blue, short-sleeve oxford shirt, gray slacks held up with suspenders, and cowboy boots. I follow Bennie in as he calls out behind us. “Carol, the girls are here.”

“In the kitchen,” she yells.

Bennie and I enter the kitchen, and absolutely nothing has changed. Same gaudy wallpaper, same decor, and the same weathered Bible on the kitchen table. The maroon cover and gold foil letters are worn from decades of use. My mother is sitting in her favorite chair, shucking corn. She places the silk and husk in one bowl and the clean ears of corn in another. She barely looks up when we sit across from her.

“Hi, Mom,” Bennie says.

Her stare holds Bennie for a few seconds before it slides over to me.

“Good to see you again, Bennetta,” she answers. “Wren.”

Bennie scrunches her face up at the use of her given name. My dad comes in, pours himself a glass of water, and sits next to Mom. It doesn’t go unnoticed that he doesn’t offer us a drink. Thanks for the visit, but don’t stay long.

The silence here is awkward. The air is stifling and stagnant and everything I remember it being. The people who sit across from me are strangers. The only things they ever gave me were strict lessons, Bible verses, and DNA. They know nothing about the girl I was or the woman I’ve become. My parents were never physically abusive, but religion and the law of God ruled our home. They always reminded me of what a sinner I was and how, if I didn’t give my life over to the Lord, I’d never amount to anything. They threw words at me instead of love, threats instead of encouragement. They were even worse to Bennie.

“How was your trip, Wren?” Dad asks.

“It was great,” I answer, cautious.