The Illusion of Permanence

Chapter 2

My bedroom is the cleanest space in the house. For that reason, among others, it is my sanctuary.

It is white and bright, but not in the same way Mom's hospital room is. That room is synthetic and sterile, mine is natural and neutral. Sheer curtains flow around the edges of my window, letting in the late afternoon sunlight that bounces off the soft snow walls. My twin bed is tucked into the corner; a nest of crumpled blankets and pillows. These are the most saturated colors in the room: primary yellows and blues mixed with bright oranges and greens. I don't have much on my walls, just some watercolor paintings of flowers that I made in middle school art class. I haven't painted since, but I'm still proud of them. They remind me of when everything was simpler, easier, and more serene.

When I'm in my room, I can pretend that things are still the way I saw the world back then. I can live in my bubble of sunshine, right in the eye of the hurricane that exists outside my door. I can pretend that the hallway is still littered with piles of books instead of piles of garbage, and that the foyer table is still displaying birthday and holiday cards instead of unpaid bills and meaningless get-well-soon cards.

When I'm feeling particularly awful, I play a visualizing game with myself: I imagine that outside my door, the world beyond my room is literally anywhere else. I imagine myself turning the handle and pulling it toward me, only to see an endless field of daisies, or a waterfall in the middle of a canyon, or the view from on top of a high mountain. Sometimes it's more domestic than that, and in those daydreams, my bedroom door opens up to a home all my own. It's usually something small, but not in the same way my real house is. Instead of being cramped and cluttered, it is cozy and intimate. Sometimes it's a beach house, all light wood and white linen; other times, it's a rustic cabin in the woods, scattered with cozy pillows and fuzzy blankets that are all in deep natural tones like browns and greens. My favorite is the country home, the type you'd imagine as the epitome of summer: sipping lemonade on the front porch, a tire swing hanging off the backyard apple tree, fireflies blinking in the evening air. It's less of a concrete visual and more of a feeling—a feeling of hominess, comfort, and simplicity. It's a feeling that I haven't had in my own home in a very long time.

As if to remind me of this, I hear my father curse loudly downstairs. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to hold on to the peaceful fantasy in my mind. But that happy feeling gets as scared as I do, scurrying away as the guilt and fear settles in to take its place. I didn't think he'd be home this early, because he never is. 

My father, Donald Keaton, has the most boring desk job you can imagine. Although my only descriptions and impressions of it have come from my father himself, and also based on the personalities of the very select few of his coworkers that I've managed to meet, the job seems to be somewhat similar to what the characters on The Office do, except without any of the humor that the show has gracefully included. It's not a paper company, either—at least, I don't think it is. I don't actually know much of anything about the company itself except that according to its employees, it—and I quote—"sucks ass". So, naturally, they all go out for drinks every evening at the local bar once they've finished with work. I'm sure that most of the men have one beer, maybe two if it was a tough day, and then they head on home to a nice warm meal their loving wives prepared, which is already placed on a table surrounded by smiling children. But after those men have had their drink, bitched about their days, paid their bill, and left, my father will stay on his stool and order another. And another. And another. He'll keep ordering them until he's drunk enough to forget that when he gets home, there won't be a warm meal and a healthy wife and a smiling child welcoming him. Instead, there will be leftover pasta and a jar of cold sauce, a quiet house, and a scared teenage daughter hiding in her bedroom. But even though this is the way it always is, he never expects it. He still wants to open the front door into his dream home.