Unanswered

“It's mauve.”

“No mom! It’s a pink house! Everybody is gonna laugh at me…”

Sighing, I remembered mom defending her color choice thirty years ago on this very spot.

I stared apathetically at my new purchase. Apparently, I was going to “find myself” by revisiting my childhood. For me, that apparently looked like buying the house I grew up in.

“We’ve a history, you and I. Why does everything keep leading back here? You’re going to talk.”

Unimpressed, the aging structure stood resolute, unmoved by human inquisition. Perhaps it always knew what was coming tonight, as if gatekeeper to time itself. After all, I grew old out here, but would be young again while inside.

“Well, let’s get on with it.”

I felt angry. If I’m being honest, I was angry a lot. Angry this place was worth no more than what my parents paid for it a generation ago. Angry seeing this home abandoned and not taken care of. Angry at my second divorce. Imagine leaving your wife – your second wife – for another woman, only to be dumped later that year. Now I was alone, almost broke, and hoping I didn’t just make another bad decision.

The year had been hard for everyone. The divorce decree came five months prior. That same day, I got laid off. They just love letting people go on Fridays! A surprise, for sure. I drank an embarrassing amount that weekend. Par for the course, Evan.

I eventually got back on my feet. The real blessing was that I didn’t have to touch my severance package. I knew what I had to do. I took that twenty thousand dollars and made my down payment.

It was mine now. No family to share it with. Actually, dad was gone by the time I was born. He lived here for two years. Then mom got pregnant with me. That was when he left us for another woman. The apple doesn’t fall far, right? Mom was bitter afterwards. I get it. He was a poor father. He didn’t come to my wedding and I hadn’t seen him in years.

That was, until an old friend approached me three months ago.

“You need to find your dad, Evan. Ask all the questions. Leave nothing unanswered. You never had one authentic conversation with your father.”

My friend was right. All in all, I spent maybe forty hours with dad. I proceeded to track him down.

It was an hour drive. Not bad. Upon arriving, I went through the motions. Time had taken its toll on the man, but I didn’t hold back.

“Did you love me?”

“Why weren’t you a father to me?”

“Are you proud of me?”

I left unsure if I’d accomplished anything. It was a silent trip. His answers were as drab as the damp sky on the long drive home.

It had looked just like today. Surreal. Pale. Sad. I sighed again, rubbing my thumb slowly across the teeth of my own new house key.

The old property had gone through all the primary colors: green when I was born, then robin egg blue, followed by the dreaded “mauve.”

Much had changed on Eighteenth Street. The house itself was a neutral tone now… greige? Either way, it matched the overcast October sky. Wet leaves, bare trees branches, and this dull color seemed to paint a perfect picture of my present state.

A car passed by behind me, the rattling of the license plate from the giant subwoofers in its trunk jarred me from my stupor.

“No wonder we moved away,” I sneered, looking back in disapproval. See? Angry a lot.

Warmth was the first thing I noticed upon stepping inside. While not terribly cold out, the transition from the outside world was sudden and eerie. I was presently aware of how the house made me afraid as a child, settling and creaking often. A familiar fireplace stood immediately at my left.

Trepidation faded as I recalled the first memory: a crude blockade of cardboard and bedsheets surrounded the fireplace. The plan was to usher it out the open front door. I stood with my sister, broom tight in hand, unprepared for the ensuing madness. Twenty minutes had passed since the squirrel had fallen down our chimney.

My first thought as the glass opened was, “I didn’t know squirrels were black!” It was already too late. The soot covered rodent launched forth. Our makeshift barricade offered no safety. It leapt right over, bounding off into the hallway. We were both shrieking.

Charcoal paw prints littered the scene as mom charged, unfettered, waving her broom. Seconds later, the squirrel pinballed back into the room, pausing. A standoff. It would have been more dramatic without our screaming. Freedom in sight, it bounded away through the open door.

Daydream complete, I smiled. The present beckoned me back with encroaching dark and the patter of rain. I turned to the door, its knob and weight foreign to my touch as it closed. Yes… much had changed.

No… everything had changed. What was I hoping to find here, decades later? My old wallpaper I use to color on? Wood paneled walls that dad installed? Definitely not the Lionel train set downstairs: a town complete with tunnel, trestle bridge, and even a Howard Johnson’s restaurant. Back then, that train set was probably the only thing that enticed me to brave those steps into the deep.

I stood now in my kitchen, staring at that basement door. Trim and paint had changed, but so had I.

Old basements were nightmare fuel for kids: cold, damp, poorly lit, spiders. Years after moving out, however, I experienced sleep paralysis once and it involved this basement. I was asleep at my girlfriend’s. I recalled it with clarity:

It’s night. Dark. I enter the kitchen. The basement door is open, twelve feet ahead. Just enough moonlight betrays its presence looming in the doorway. The silhouette. A figure, a shadow, motionless and silent.

A moment passes. An eternity? I’m gripped with absolute terror. Run, Evan! I charge directly at it, covering the distance in a second. I’m screaming, arms outstretched.

I’m screaming… no, really. My girlfriend is shaking me. As I overtook the figure, I awoke... mostly. My eyes could see, but it took twenty seconds before my body responded.

To this day, it remained one of my most disturbing experiences. I still had no idea what the figure represented or why this house was the setting.

“Well, let’s get on with it,” I proclaimed to whatever malevolent spirits lingered.

My path down was familiar. The basement was spacious and remarkably empty. The furnace roared to life nearby, startling me.

“Touché,” I laughed.

Clearly, the electricity was disconnected for a time after foreclosure. No sump pump led to a flooding. Not surprising. Not as much as finding the wood paneling still up! Someone had started demolition of these ruined boards, eventually giving up. Nearby, a pry bar sat atop some bowed, swollen panels.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I said, picking up the tool. Nothing like destruction to make you feel better. It would all have to go before mold set in.

The first panel pried up easily, giving a satisfying snap as I yanked it. The activity then entranced me for a good while. Eventually reaching the last wall, I observed that the concrete went up five feet, leaving a shallow crawlspace for ductwork. I popped the next nail loose.

That’s when it hit me. Landed on my foot, actually. A plastic bag had fallen down behind the panel. Intrigued and tired, I sank down onto the dusty floor to examine my hidden treasure.

Picking it up, it instantly felt like a book. Definitely old, double bagged with yellowed, cracked tape that had given up some time ago. Who hides books in a crawlspace? Probably a stack of magazines that dad didn’t want mom to find. Par for the course, dad.

Mild surprise came over me as I unwrapped a simple black rectangle, its outer corners rounded. An attached elastic band held shut what appeared to be an oilcloth binding. A notebook... Ledger? Journal? I had no idea what to expect.

A date graced the first page: The year before I was born. The pages were in decent condition, considering their age. The first page detailed the purchase of the house. The handwriting… unmistakably male.

Dad.

Wow. It didn’t seem like him. Thumbing through a few pages, it became obvious this was a diary. I really didn’t know him.

I knew that, like me, he had gone bankrupt. I knew that, like me, he had left his wife for another woman. No, he left us for another woman. That was the difference… I never had kids. I never wanted kids.

“Because you didn’t want to be me.”

He was the one to say it, once I tracked him down. Staring vacantly through cloudy cataracts, he wisely deciphered a fact that took me years of counseling to figure out.

A teardrop hit the page like a drum beat. I wiped my eyes, then the paper. Then I read.

I didn’t know this man.

This man had hopes, dreams, and failures. He had a story to tell. An adventure. There was excitement about a new beginning. Excitement about a daughter. There was fear. Fear in not succeeding, not being loved, and not being remembered.

I sat. I read. Time took a break and held still for me, waiting for me to catch up. Eventually, I reached the top of the last filled page. Big letters celebrated:

“It’s a boy!”

I choked back everything to continue reading:

“Just bought paneling to finish this room. Once I get saw horses and plywood, I can put the train set down here. Buildings, cars, signs, trees… He’ll be able to create his own world. He’s gonna love it.”

I could barely see. Water welled up in my vision. There was a final entry:

“Things are hard. We have a three year old running around, my wife is pregnant again, and now we’ve given up the master bedroom so her parents can move in. I’m the only one working. It’s not enough.

There’s no privacy. Down here is the only place I can get peace and quiet. Was it supposed to be like this? Is this my fault? I’ve been remodeling this room as long as I can, but the project is done. There’s nowhere else to hide this away.

I’m… out of time.

Well, let’s get on with it…”

Gripping the diary tight against my chest, I wept.

My sleeve became my tissue. I couldn’t distinguish if fatigue or sadness won. I slept.

The furnace cycled on, waking me some hours later. It didn’t feel as cold. Morning sunlight streamed in through basement windows, the dust particles giving it palpable volume.

Not the worst place I’ve ever woken up. You couldn’t convince my body of that, though: everything stiff and eyes puffy. Maybe today would be better than yesterday. How long I had slept?

I pulled out my phone to check the time.

One unanswered call.

There was a voicemail left twelve minutes ago. The caller was unknown.

I played the message, tapping the speakerphone option. A woman’s voice, distressed:

“Hi Evan, this is Bev.”

Who?

The bare, concrete walls should have echoed a healthy reverberation, but her voice didn’t carry. Dust dancing in the window light above seemed to suspend movement as time held fast once more.

Wait… Beverly?

The air went out of the room as it dawned on me.

Beverly was the other wom…

“I’m so sorry to break this to you, but your dad passed away late last night. I was at his side.

My heart is broken. I know he’s not in pain now and resting comfortably until I see him again.

He’s gone home.”