House of Memories

The old, wooden floor creaks as I set foot in the bedroom that once belonged to my parents. For many years I entered this room with a feeling of delight, knowing that as soon as I opened the door my mom would ask me if I’d had a nightmare and needed a hug. I long for that feeling once again. I wish that as soon as I opened this door she would be there to comfort me.

My parents are gone now, and so is the heart that kept this house alive. It is time for me to pack up all the things my dad left behind when he passed away, which is a lot. After my mom died, he kept everything that reminded him of her. All their belongings are in boxes in the car, and I’m taking one more stroll through the house before leaving it forever.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I’m five years old again. In front of me I see the king-sized bed, my mom lying in it. Her eyes are squinting and sweat is dripping down her forehead. Her big belly looks as if it’s going to explode any time now.

“He’s coming! He’s coming right now!” She lets out a scream and tightly clenches the bed sheets she’s lying on. The once white sheets are covered with blood and the temperature in the room is too high for my liking.

“I know honey, I already called the—” My dad is trying to calm her, but gets interrupted by another one of my mom’s screams.

“I don’t care, William. I said he’s coming right now!”

I’m staring at the scene, stuffed toy in my hand and bare feet on the cold, wooden floor.

“Is mommy going to be okay?” I ask my dad, and suddenly he seems to realize that I’m still in the room. He softly curses under his breath and ushers me out, mumbling words I cannot clearly understand, but ones I dare not ask him about.

The doorbell rings and my father takes me down the stairs with him. He opens the door and a lady enters our house. She looks slightly familiar, but I don’t remember her name. She tells me that she will help my mom before running up the stairs. My dad tells her he will be up in a second.

“Hello?” a clear voice rings from the patio. “I’m here. How is she?” My grandmother grabs the door before my dad can close it and eyes both of us. “Why aren’t you in there, Will?” she scolds him when both my dad and I don’t say a thing.

“I was waiting for you to take her away,” my dad says, dragging the word her as if I’m some kind of disease. I know he doesn’t mean it that way, but it still stings a little. Now he goes upstairs too, joining my mom and the strange lady. My grandmother takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen. There, she makes me a sandwich and plays games with me. For a moment I forget the horrors happening upstairs.

After many snacks, three drawings and our fifteenth game of tic-tac-toe, my dad calls my name from upstairs. I look up, delighted to finally hear something other than curses and screams. My grandmother tells me it’s time to go upstairs with a wide smile. I cannot tell the time yet, but it feels like hours have passed since I left my mom. My grandmother takes my hand, like she did a couple of hours ago, and leads me to my parents’ bedroom. My legs are wobbly and I feel a little scared because I don’t know what to expect.

My dad opens the door with the same wide smile my grandmother was wearing just a few moments ago. “Are you ready to meet your new brother, Bethany?” he asks me. I look past him and see the most beautiful scene: my mom—exhausted and completely drenched in sweat, but with the happiest smile on her face—is holding a pink little baby. The bedroom looks like a crime scene, with blood on the sheets and floor. I’m a little bit grossed out, but all of the gruesomeness seems to fade to the background. After months of waiting, he finally came: my new baby brother. I smile at the little bundle in my mom’s arms and crawl onto the bed, my fingers lightly touching the soft skin of his chubby cheeks. My dad, grandma, mom and the helping lady all look at me with a smile, but I only have eyes for him. The room is filled with warmth and new hope.

I open my eyes and suddenly I’m standing in the empty bedroom again. The walls are not as embracing as they seemed only moments ago. Now they seem cold and bare. The room feels like such an ordinary space right now, and not like a place where miracles took place. I exit and close the door behind me, feeling like I just closed another chapter in my life.

“There’s still some stuff in the kitchen. Do you want me to put it in the car?” my boyfriend Nick calls from downstairs. While I was wasting my time upstairs, he was actually putting the boxes in the car. In my defence, he’s not the one who has lived here throughout his entire childhood.

“Sure, I’ll go through it when we’re back home,” I tell him, then I add, “thank you!”

I descend the stairs and walk through the hallway, into the small living room. The windows are still a bit dirty, but I cannot find the will to clean them before leaving. The past few weeks and the funeral have completely drained me. Besides, I think the new owners are perfectly able to clean it themselves. Luckily, my dad was quite a neat person, so only a small layer of dust has settled in the corners and on the windowsills.

“Oh dad, I’m going to miss you,” I whisper into the gloomy light that fills the empty space through the small windows. He always used to sit there, in the corner. His old, patchy, but very comfortable chair never left its place. ‘It is the perfect place to read or take a nap,’ he would always say. ‘There’s just enough light to see the pages, but it’s dark enough to fall asleep.’ He often combined those two activities: first he would grab a book and start reading, then after ten minutes or so, he would fall asleep.

My mom would always look at him admiringly, when he was sleeping in his corner. She’d first shake her head at us disapprovingly, but then we would giggle about it together. My dad would open his eyes slightly, glance at us and close them again.

This reminds me of a particular evening; my brother and I were seven and twelve at the time, and it was Christmas Eve. We always had the tradition of opening some presents together on the night before Christmas. I don’t remember why, because it had always just been that way. The tree in the corner was beautifully decorated and the lights were turned on. We were sitting by the fireplace, enjoying the warmth the fire spread into the atmosphere.

My dad had just opened his last present: a novel about Rome. I don’t remember what it was called.

“Thank you! I needed that!” he said as he admired the beautiful cover of his new treasure. He never actually needed new books—his bookcases were filled with books that he had yet to read. However, now I understand this never-ending need for new books, because I experience it quite often.

About two minutes after examining the front, back and spine of the novel, he opened it and started reading. After ten minutes or so, he had fallen asleep. Not because the book was boring, but because it was his ritual: first he would read and then he would fall asleep in his comfortable chair in the corner.

My mom glanced at us, knowingly. We chuckled and decided to just move on with the gifts. My dad woke up an hour later and pretended he’d been awake the whole time, even though we all knew better than that. It was only a matter of seconds later that he erupted into a burst of laughter about some stupid joke my little brother made, and spilled his cup of coffee all over the floor. That little accident left a dark, brown stain that my mom never managed to get out of the carpet.

The stain is still there now, and I stare at it with the warm feeling of nostalgia burning inside of me. It has decolored into a dull brown, but I can still clearly see it. The stain will never have this same effect on the new inhabitants. They will probably just look at it in disgust, and immediately call a carpet cleaner. They might even remove this carpet and cover the floor with something else.

Suddenly it doesn’t feel right to leave this place and let another family live in it. This house has all of our memories, both good and bad ones. Letting others live in here feels like giving your diploma to somebody else: you worked for it, but somebody else gets the reward. I know I cannot stay here. The house is too far from where Nick and I are currently living, and we already settled down in our own home. Letting go of your childhood home is another price that comes with the loss of your parents, I guess. I sigh before leaving the living room behind me as well, imprinting the image of the space in my mind, so I will never forget it.

The kitchen, the last place I will enter before leaving the house forever. Although a lot of good things happened here, the room gives me a feeling of despair. I should think of all the great things that took place in this space, but they don’t seem good enough. I walk to the counter, the only piece of furniture still in this room besides the stove. I touch the wooden surface and immediately it hits me again; this was where I was standing about fifteen years ago. I was cutting the cake that was left over from my seventeenth birthday. My mother was standing at the sink, preparing a bouquet of flowers we’d gotten from our neighbours that day, before putting them in a vase. We were talking about the most basic things, such as school and the volleyball team I was in at the time. Everything had been fine that day, I’d just gotten back the results of my maths test—which were great—and my mother had just been cleaning the house.

I took my piece of cake and sat down at the dining table, while my mother was telling me about the holiday she was planning with my dad. It would be the first time that my brother and I wouldn’t tag along, so it would just be the two of them.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked her with my mouth full of cake. She first looked at me disapprovingly, but continued her story flawlessly.

“Rome, since your father has been wanting to go there forever.”

I happily nodded, because my dad’s dream would finally come true. I genuinely felt excited for them, even though my brother and I weren’t going. My brother would go to my grandparents’ house, since he was only twelve years old at the time. I was allowed to stay home alone, because my parents thought I was old enough. I felt great when my parents told me this, because it felt like I was an adult already.

“That’s really nice! Howlong are you going to­­—” I immediately stopped talking when my mother dropped the flower she was holding. At first I wanted to laugh, because my mom was clumsy like that, but then I looked at her. My mom was hunched over, not facing me or the flowers anymore.

“Mom? Are you okay?” Worry found its way into my voice and my mother must have noticed it too, because she held up her hand, as if to tell me she was fine. Then, as if she was being punched in the chest, she held her arms in front of her.

“It’s nothing… My chest,” she croaked, as if she couldn’t breathe properly. Her eyes were squinting and she looked like she was in an excruciating pain. I’d never seen anyone’s face like this and it felt completely unreal. It immediately became clear to me that it wasn’t nothing. I ran to her side, but arrived too late; she was already on the floor.

“Mom! What is happening?!” Worry had turned into sheer panic and for a couple of seconds I had no idea what to do next. I was overwhelmed by everything that was happening. When I had found my senses again, I grabbed my phone and dialled the emergency number. “Mom, please wake up,” I whispered, but nothing happened. She just lay there.

It felt like forever before the emergency room answered the call, but when they finally did and I explained what was going on, they immediately sent an ambulance. The woman asked me to stay on the line, so she could check up on us every few moments. She guided me through some CPR, so I wouldn’t feel completely useless.

I was locked in some sort of trance and became oblivious to everything happening around me. I held my mom’s hand, even though she probably wasn’t able to feel my touch. I tried to give her CPR the best I could. I whispered to her, saying that everything was going to be okay, and that help would be there soon. I forgot to phone my dad, or brother, or anyone who I should’ve informed. All that mattered to me at that moment was that my mother would be saved. Now I know I couldn’t have called anyone, because I was on the phone with the emergency room the entire time. Though, it still feels like I should have.

After what seemed like hours, I heard the sirens of an ambulance nearing my house, and soon two men and a woman were standing in our kitchen. They asked me what had happened and how long it had been since she stopped breathing. They immediately took over CPR from me. The woman asked me if I had called my dad yet and I shook my head, not able to say anything anymore. She did this as the two men kept trying to revive my mom’s limp body.

I buried my head in my hands. I didn’t want to see it anymore. I was in denial: this couldn’t be happening.  This is what happened to people who’d lived an entire lifetime and had done all the things they wanted to do, not to healthy, young people who had so many years in sight.

After what seemed like hours once again, they lifted my mother onto a stretcher. They had a heartbeat, they said. They would bring her to hospital and there the doctors would check for brain activity. Her brain had been without oxygen for quite a long time and therefore they could not say if she would wake up again. They suspected that it had been a cardiac arrest.

My mom, who would always read and sing to us when we were young. My mom, who would always knit us scarves and hats, so we would never get cold. The person who I could always talk to and the person who would always listen to me. She was the one who taught me how to be myself and how to make sure others wouldn’t take advantage of my shyness. She will always be the greatest and smartest woman I’ve ever met, no matter how great or smart women I will still meet are. She was the best—she was my mom.

She died a week later, in hospital. We pulled the plug when it became clear she would never wake up again. Her brain had been without oxygen for too long and she was declared braindead. I was the last one to see my mom alive, to have a conversation with her. My brother envied me for a while, because he didn’t understand the impact this traumatic experience would have in my life. He was young, I don’t blame him. I asked him to come help me today, but he has ignored my calls and texts. I guess he’s having a really hard time dealing with my dad’s passing, so I decided not to blame him once again. Though it still stings a little not to have him here with me.

Our relationship hasn’t been great over the past fifteen years. We fought a lot—more than most siblings do—and after I moved out, we’ve only been seeing each other at my dad’s birthdays. Now that those won’t be happening anymore, I doubt I will ever see him again. It hurts, but we’re both too damaged to fix what was broken so many years ago.

A tear trickles down my cheek as I eye the empty, lifeless kitchen. The hole in my heart feels like it was tugged on once again. I have many great memories of this house, but this sad one makes all the other ones fade to the background.

I became a different person after losing my mom; I got quiet, didn’t go out anymore and neglected my friends. I’ve visited multiple therapists and it took me a very long time to become ‘the old me’ again. However, everyone knows that’s impossible. I could never be the same person again, because I’d lost the person who made me who I was.

My dad was never able to live his normal life again after she died. He held on to everything that reminded him of her and he kept her in his heart throughout his illness that began a little over a year ago. He was diagnosed with lung cancer fourteen years after my mom passed away. The doctors tried chemotherapy, but the cancer had already spread throughout his entire body. The doctors always told us it was a miracle that he even lived for all those months after he was diagnosed.

Never did my mom leave dad’s mind through those horrible months, and I think that’s also what kept him fighting until the bitter end. He believed that she was still with us. He said her spirit still lived in the house and perhaps that’s the worst thing about leaving it now: she will really be gone.

“Hey, you okay?” I hear behind me, and I jump up in shock.

“Yeah. No. I don’t know,” I sigh.

Nick knows what happened, and also that it happened right here. He doesn’t have to ask what’s going on. He wraps his arms around me and I force the tears brimming in my eyes to go back. I don’t want to cry anymore. I’ve cried enough over the past fifteen years.

Nick asks me if I need more time, but I shake my head. It is time for me to say goodbye. I thought one last tour of the house would make me feel better. Reviving all those great memories was supposed to help me through this difficult time. However, it has only made me feel worse. This house doesn’t give me the feeling it used to give me anymore, and it’s a good thing that I’m leaving it behind now. Maybe it’s easier for me to remember all the good times when I’m not confronted by this kitchen anymore.

“Let’s head out now,” I sigh before letting go of Nick. “It’s getting late and we still need to get dinner for tonight.” Nick seems surprised by the sudden change of topic, but realizes it’s not the time to ask any questions.

We check to see if we left anything, but the house is scarily empty. The bare walls and wide rooms filled with silence look nothing like before. The house is just a shadow of what it used to be, as if suddenly deprived of the sun that brought it to life. Dark clouds are gathering in my mind and I know that now’s the time to say goodbye.

After I lock the front door behind me, I put the key in the mailbox. I’ve lived a great life in this house until my mother passed away. Now that my father has too, it’s time for me to move on and create new memories with my own family, in our own house. I grab Nick’s hand and we get to the car. I take one more look at the place I used to call home, before we drive away and leave this place forever.

“Bye mom, say hi to dad from me,” I whisper as the car takes a sharp turn and the image of the house leaves my sight.

“Did you also pack the crib?” Nick asks me warily, eyes still trained on the road before him. He’s scared to hurt my feelings by asking me something this casual, but it’s okay.

“Of course I did,” I smile at my belly, which has turned into a bump over the past two months. It’s sad that my children will never get to know their grandparents; I’m sure they would’ve been great. My mom would’ve been the grandmother who would teach them how to knit and my father would’ve indulged them with made-up stories whenever they would visit. Now it’s up to us to do that, so I’m going to try my best. We might’ve left a life behind, but to know that a new one is growing inside of me makes it all a little better. I adjust my gaze with a bittersweet feeling and focus on what’s ahead of me: the future. That’s all that matters right now.