Going Home Again
by John Stephens
Tom slowed his pace as he approached the house that was for rent. It was a lower duplex, comprised of brick and stone. The home had a large basement with a two-car garage. But he could neither afford the rent nor did he really want to live in such a spacious dwelling. He was a confirmed bachelor and had no dependents. And he was not house-hunting for anyone.
Still, when he read the real estate ad, he knew that he had to at least try to gain access to the duplex, which was his former home.
The summer before he began grade one, his family moved to the rental that faced a park. Close to the school where he and his older brother would attend. Walking distance to stores, a bus stop at the corner.
Tom halted.
The front door stood ajar. His heartbeat quickened slightly. Had someone forgotten to close the door? Maybe the landlord was currently showing it to prospective tenants. Perhaps the house was vacant.
The door opened a bit more. But no one emerged.
Tom was transfixed by the entry that he hadn’t crossed in over forty years. He found himself mounting the stairs. The door seemed to move inward a tad, as if someone unseen was beckoning him.
Part of him wondered if he was walking into a trap. Are the tenants being robbed? The house is probably vacant, and the door has been left ajar. His senses of adventure and caution were at war.
He felt a sensation of being late. But late for what?
He had to go home.
But he was home, standing outside the open door...
He heard his mother’s voice: “Come inside, Tommy.”
Tom was standing in the small vestibule. “Ma?” he called out. “Where are you?”
Tom felt a surreal unsteadiness but nonetheless, stepped into the hallway. Sounds and images from long ago flitted through his mind; younger versions of his family; their voices, the old décor.
Then they were gone. Of course. Tom was merely having a flashback. He was not surprised to find the hallway smaller from his adult stature. The floor was uncarpeted.
“Uh, hello?” Tom called out in a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat. “Your... your front door is open.”
No one responded.
As before, two competing forces wrestled in his mind; whether to leave immediately or continue. Will I be guilty of unlawful entry? But the lower duplex is for rent.
Cautiously, he entered the kitchen. Sumptuous aromas of his mother’s meals stimulated his olfactory nerves. He recognized the old brown refrigerator/freezer and the electric stovetop. Fleetingly, he re-experienced helping his mother prepare meals.
The aromas passed. Modern appliances stood where the original ones had been. He thought he saw the same round white table where his family ate, but it was only a memory. He stepped through the swinging door that led to the dining room. More bygone images and sounds greeted him.
Tom strolled through the rest of the main floor. He beheld the living room, his parent’s old bedroom, his father’s den and the bathroom. Each room triggered an accelerated playback of events and emotions. Frustrations, triumphs, quarrels, reconciliations. He found himself crying then chuckling.
And of course, the rooms now seemed smaller — and were empty. His moments of recall were accompanied by intermittent waves of vertigo. He wanted to sit down or at least slow down. Yet, he wanted to complete his journey as quickly as possible, lest someone discover him. In the hall, he saw the door to the basement. As with the front door, it stood ajar. It was the door that led to the TV room and the bedroom he had shared with his brother, Greg.
Apprehension was seeping into him. He should leave. He had no business being here. But the house was for rent, unless someone had already rented it. And he wasn’t stealing anything or harming anyone.
He thought he heard a voice from below.
“Tommy?” Tom shivered. Greg was calling him.
Tom opened the door wider. He faced the dark stairway and automatically reached for the light switch, as if he were still living there. But the stairway remained unlit.
“Tommeeee... Come down... Don’t be scared...”
Tom took a step back.
“Greg, what... The lights won’t come on.”
“Tommeeee...”
He found himself slowly descending the gloomy stairway. On his left was the same wooden banister. He halted. His unease momentarily relenting, He straddled the banister and slid down, as he and Greg used to do.
But the slide was over as soon as it began.
Tom realized that his adult self was standing at the bottom of the stairs. Another bout of vertigo came over him. He beheld the dimly lit room where the TV and sofas used to be, but his vision was blurry.
He turned to face the bathroom door. It stood ajar.
He pulled the door open.
A horribly familiar sensation overcame him. His stomach roiled.
Tom bent over the toilet.
But nothing happened, save for a sour belch.
“You’ll be OK, Tommy,” his mother had said reassuringly. “It’s just nerves. Once you’re in class, you’ll feel better.”
Invariably, his mother was right. But from grade one until grade four, many autumn mornings before school had been an ordeal for Tom. He had long ago realized that, like some school-aged kids, he had been plagued by separation anxiety. Terror at being removed from the security of his home. Mortal fear at what awaited him at school: not understanding the teacher and not knowing what was expected of him. There had also been recurring issues with bullies.
The voices of his teachers echoed in his mind. “Tom must pay attention; he could do better; he should participate more...”
He heard the encouraging words from his father: “Tommy, I know school can be tough now and then, but you learn a lot of useful things. And it can also be fun.”
Tom recognized the sink, shower stall and window. He flipped the light switch but the gloom was not dispelled. His adult self surmised that the power had been shut off since the house was presently vacant.
When he glanced at the mirror over the sink, he gasped at the reflection. Staring back at Tom was the image of a boy with a mop of brown hair.
Instinctively, he whirled around, but all he saw was the glass door of the shower stall. He hastily surveyed the bathroom. He was alone.
Of course. He realized that he had been seeing — or recalling — his own childhood reflection. Facing the mirror once more, he beheld his present-day visage, which included short, graying hair. The layout of the lavatory was the same, but the fixtures now seemed more modern.
He exited the loo and turned left to enter the bedroom that he and Greg had shared.
A deluge of sensations greeted him; a composite of emotions, visions and sounds. He and Greg playing their version of tennis; hitting a tennis ball against the far concrete wall. Doing homework at their desks, having fun while tossing rubber toys to each other in the dark from their beds.
A wave of frustration suddenly came over him. His eyes welled with tears. “I can’t do this,” his childlike voice protested.
“Yes, you can, Tommy,” his mother replied. “It just takes practice.”
In grade three, he had been learning — with difficulty — how to write in cursive.
His father added, “Your mother’s right, son; it’s just like practicing reading.”
Sighing, Tom stepped out of the empty bedroom and strode to what used to be the TV room. More flashbacks.
He heard a noise upstairs. Dread seeped into his soul. Was someone arriving? He considered fleeing via the garage — the only part of the house that he had not entered — but that might prove to be difficult, if he wanted to leave undetected.
Tentatively, he opened the door that led to the garage. When the image of his father’s old Chevrolet Impala and the sedan of the former landlord passed, Tom saw that the garage was empty.
He heard footsteps and muffled voices from above. His dread escalated to panic.
He knew that he had to go upstairs and explain himself. Once more, he felt that old acute fear of going to school. But with his present fear, there was an even worse feeling: guilt. He felt like a trespasser.
Tom mounted the basement stairs like a man condemned. At the third last step, he halted. The door to the basement was still open.
Don’t run. Tell the truth. Just say that you responded to the newspaper ad and that the front door was open.
Steeling himself, Tom stepped up to the threshold. As he trod upon the hall floor, it creaked. His heart sank. He smiled sheepishly and was about to announce his presence but abruptly halted.
Perhaps the footsteps and muffled voices he had heard were just more memories. Just leave. The sooner you’re out the door, the better.
Turning to his right, he saw the opened door to the vestibule. Resisting the urge to hurry, he nevertheless entered the vestibule stealthily. The front door was still ajar. He pulled it open wider and stepped outside. He shut the door quietly and descended the stairs. On the sidewalk, he sighed with some relief, but felt as though he were being watched. He halted.
Tom’s unease returned yet again. Perhaps he had been under surveillance inside the house via security cameras. Was his trip down memory lane now available for viewing by the owners and the police? But you didn’t do anything illegal.
The words “unlawful entry” came back to his mind. But the house was for rent and empty. Furthermore, the door had been opened. Assuaged, Tom went home.
* * *
The next day, unbeknownst to Tom, the front door to his former home stood ajar once more. A middle-aged woman halted in front of the house. Her heartbeat quickened. She found herself mounting the stairs; the stairs to her old home. The door seemed to move inward a tad, as if someone unseen was beckoning her...
Copyright © 2021 by John Stephens
