Whisper of Broken Things

Chapter 1

My plane flew into the Hancock County Bar Harbor Airport exactly 28 minutes from the expected arrival time. I could have sworn I could smell the salt-filled air and hear the flutter of the seagulls the second the plane hit the ground. When I was little, my dad and I would joke about how pitiful this airport was compared to the ones in Washington. How the waiting area is just a tiny circular room with 12 chairs, and about the food court that doesn't exist. But now that I'm back here for the first time in 6 years, I kind of appreciate the simplicity. How small and quaint it is. A perfect façade of how Bar Harbor is supposed to be. 

I exit the "arrival" area of the airport and head straight to the bathroom to finally pee after a 7-hour long plane ride. Even when I was little, I would never use the bathroom on the plane. I guess in my tiny mind the second I shut that plastic airplane door, there would be some spontaneous combustion that would ultimately end in everyone's death. I know it's ridiculous, but just to be sure, I try my very hardest to never use the bathroom until after the flight, I guess that's a great example of how bad my anxiety has always been. 

I speed walk my way towards the Men's restroom. My yellow carry-on with my faded Beatles sticker on the side, rolling just as fast behind me. On the way there, I realize how much nostalgia this place gives me. The artwork plastered all over the off-white walls hasn't changed at all, even the fake plants angled in different corners, are the exact same.

 I push through the crowds of tourists and run to the bathroom as fast as I can. I overhear the chatter of beach plans and shopping extravaganzas. As I exit the bathroom I squeeze by a lady, and her entire litter of children sitting doe-eyed with their backpacks in hand. She rolls her eyes at me, as I shuffle through with my suitcase. Her attitude reminds me of my mothers, always thinking she is above everyone else.

 I remember when my mom had first mentioned the idea of moving in with my dad, (mainly so she can move in with her new, vegan, yoga-loving, boyfriend, "Bray"), I wasn't opposed. My mom is always using me as a way to channel her anger about my dad leaving us. It's not like I could blame him though, she never made it easy for him. Nothing he did was ever good enough for her. Even before the fighting began, she always had something to complain about.

 Now that I think of it, she never seemed like she loved him as much as he loved her. When I was a kid and I would see happily married couples on the streets, or in movies, and I would wish my parents looked as happy as they did. We spent a lot of family time together for a good portion of my life, but something always seemed off between them, even when they weren't fighting at all. I use to think it was because my mom hated my dad, that she was only using him for his money. It wasn't until after he left, that I realized things aren't always as see-through as that.

 For the first nights after, my mom would go out drinking and stumble in drunk at 4 am. I would find her face down on her bed, crying. Too drunk to even take her shoes off. Every night the same routine. And every night, I would always sneak in there when she had finally cried herself to sleep, take off her shoes, and place a blanket over her. This routine lasted for close to a month, and after that came the yelling. Not just at me, but at everyone. At our neighbors, her coworkers, family members, the random guy at Walmart that didn't say sorry after bumping into her. Everyone became a target for her sadness and grief. But eventually, she stopped yelling at everyone and narrowed it down to just me. My room was too dirty, my grades too low, I was too depressed, I should be grateful, I needed to make friends, I needed to stop going out, "I'm just like my father". Everything I ever did was never good enough for her. 

I think I reminded her of my dad too much, not only because I look like a spitting image of him when he was my age. But because I didn't follow her perfectly printed blueprint of all the choices, she expected me to make in my life. My dad was gone, and I had become her new punching bag. It didn't matter how much time had passed, as long as my dad wasn't there, she wasn't ever satisfied with anything. She dated guy, after guy, for months until Bray came along. I found myself with this small hope that maybe all of her anger would somehow turn towards him. But it didn't, she treated him like he was a king on a throne. And pretty soon it was all "Mathew I'm going house hunting with Bray", "Mathew I've got dinner with Bray tonight, I left money for a pizza", and "oh Mathew how would you feel about a new baby sibling?". God, forbid I tell her my actual opinion on that question. Tell her she's a shitty mother to me, how the hell does she expect to raise a new baby. But instead, I kept my mouth shut. I dealt with her shit because I was comfortable there.

 I didn't grow up here in Bar Harbor like my dad. I grew up in Clyde Hill, Washington. I lived in a fairly big house with a big backyard. I went to a nice school that had security guards at each door. Not that I wanted to. I hated it actually, all the classy bullshit. I just wanted to skate with my friends, and go to sketchy 7/11 gas stations at 2 am to get slushies. One of the main reasons I loved visiting Bar Harbor in the summer is because all the teenagers here did exactly that. They weren't forced to go to brunches and big galas, and parade around in fancy clothing. I hated everything like that, and so did my dad.  He and I would go thrifting on the weekends, while my mom went out and spent 4,000 dollars on new clothes. We never really fed into all that elitist bullshit my mom thrived off of. And while I hated everything about Clyde Hill, the thought of moving out of my childhood home made my stomach hurt. 

Nothing was the same anymore. Not my parents, not my friends, not even me. But the swing set my mom had gotten installed when I was 6, was still there in the backyard. It was one of the last things standing in my life before the divorce. All the happiness that I had left was in that backyard. And every day, right up until I boarded that flight this morning, I would go and swing on the swings to remind myself that I am still alive, that I am still me. That somewhere inside, past all of the anger and pain, is still that 6-year-old, who was so excited that his mom got him his very own swing set in the backyard. I didn't care how much I hated my mom for how she treated me, nothing in the world could make me willingly leave that house. And nothing did. 

It wasn't a choice between my childhood house and moving to Bar Harbor. It was a choice between my mom's new home with Bray, which she could only afford after selling my childhood house or moving to bar harbor. There was no way I would ever move in with her and bray, and no way I would forgive her for taking that happiness away from me. So, when she gave me the ultimatum it took me approximately 1 second after she said she had already sold the house to ask, "how soon can I move in with dad?" And almost as quickly as it took me to make my decision, she replied, "you can head up there the day after school gets out." 

And so, I finished up my junior year, said goodbye to all my friends, and swung on those swings one last time at 3:00 am, before my 4:00 am flight. When my mom dropped me off at the airport, she gave me a brief and emotionless hug. It made my eyes well up with tears. But she didn't seem to be phased at all. And at that moment, I knew I made the right decision. I sent a message to my dad telling him how much I missed him and how I couldn't wait to see him. And as the plane took off, and the entire town of Clyde Hill became barely visible, I let myself have hope for a better life in Bar Harbor.