College Ruled

forty-three

43
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I TAKE THE bus home for break, spending every passing mile imagining the worst case scenario of what I might find when I shove open my mother's door and announce myself. There's been a few missed calls and e-mails since Thanksgiving, but for the most part my family has left me alone.

        A comforting thought, usually—silence means I haven't done anything wrong—but now the distance feels intentional. Sharp in a way that has me turning apologies over in my head.

      So sorry, Ma, I absolutely did not intend to embarrass you in front of guests, though I absolutely meant everything I said—

     So sorry, Ma, for being such a mess—

     So sorry, Ma, that I can't be as good as Cami—

      Maybe it's all been forgotten about. Maybe my mother actually heard me and she'll take everything I said into consideration. Maybe she'll even apologize to me. 

      Or, perhaps, they've sold the house, moved across the country, and effectively severed me from their lives — a limb left to bleed out alone.

     I shove my sigh down my throat.

     The last minutes of the journey take the longest. I press my forehead against the cold sting of the window's glass, watching the glimmer of Christmas lights blur by in the dark, and attempt—desperately—to nurture whatever speck of holiday spirit lays dormant in my gut.

     The rest of the bus goers (the ones that have managed to stick with me through each stop along the way) seem to have already caught it, and they pass it around like a cold.

     The two women behind me have spent the majority of the bumpy trip comparing family itineraries — 'Oh, yes, you absolutely must do that' and 'Oh, no, the carolers are much more spirited on the West side of town.' The boy across the aisle is listening to Michael Bublé on repeat, volume high enough to catch the low drawl of 'It's Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas' through his headphones. The bus driver stuck a Santa hat on his head about halfway through the long trek, and every time the door to the bus drags open, the bell he managed to secure to its hinge give a nice loud jingle.

     They're all... happy.

     I half expect someone to sneeze tinsel in my direction.

     And don't get me wrong, I love Christmas. I do. But people tend to wanna go home for Christmas, and it doesn't quite feel like I'm going in the right direction for that.

      When the bus finally drags to a halt at my stop, I slip out with one of the itinerary ladies. Thankfully, my neighborhood is only a few blocks over, so it's relatively painless making the journey there.

      The house, as always, is a bright, sparkling mirage of golds and reds. Dad's vintage nativity scene stretches across the snow-speckled grass.

       The key is under the mat. I don't bother knocking.

      "Ma!" My bag hits the doorframe and I stumble into the dark foyer. The house smells like cinnamon. I can hear the TV chattering in the distance. Some Dancing With the Stars rerun if I had to guess. "I'm home!"

Camilla emerges from the kitchen when I wander into the living room. "Hey." She has a glass of wine in her hand. "Mom went to bed a little bit ago."

"Oh." It stings. I don't know why it stings. "Probably better that way. Did she seem mad?" I chew on my lip. "Does she want me here?"

"Can never tell with her." Cami blows out a breath, clipped hair fanning out over her forehead. "Wanna drink?"