Incandescence

06: Homecoming

The backpack weighs more than it did when I originally packed it; Mum must have been at it when I wasn't looking. With a heavy sigh I throw it over my left shoulder and begin walking towards the front door, taking long, purposeful strides so as to speed up the inevitable.

            It flies open just as I'm about to reach for it with my hand, and Mum barges in, her blonde hair sticking out in several directions like jagged spikes. "Where's your sister?" she demands.

            "Still upstairs," I say, and squeeze past her with the backpack. "Is the boot open?"

            "Hold on." She pushes me back inside and shuts the door, takes her shoes off and then jogs upstairs, tenderly calling Lena's name as she goes. Funny how she can be so rude to one of us and yet so composed around the other. I reach into my pocket, about to pull out my cell phone to check the time when I remember it's no longer there; the screen of it was cracked beyond repair during the accident. I've got savings left over from my last birthday, but really, what's the use in buying a new phone when I barely used the old one?

            "April," Mum calls down to me, "can you check the cooker is switched off?"

            Wouldn't wanna blow the place up now, would we? I think, trudging into the little kitchenette to do as she asked. It's only been a day and a half since we returned home, but already I feel as though I've been living here for weeks. Mum has been on the phone pretty much non-stop, trying to get more information on the disaster they're calling the Canada Bus Bombings – highly original, I know. But when newscasters reported how three buses, all within a two-mile radius of one another, had each been blown up at the same time, give or take a few minutes, it seemed to stick.

            Principal Marks granted us permission to stay home for the rest of the weekend to 'recover'. I wish he hadn't. I need something to take my mind off things before I drive myself to the brink of insanity through mere thought – and all that tedious schoolwork would do the trick.

            Lena doesn't seem to care. She is an island, remote and closed off to those around her. Erik's condition is stable, but they're currently only letting his parents visit him at the hospital. It's been a tough thirty-odd hours, having to put up with both a stoic sister and a mad mother.

            I think I'm glad to be returning to Destination Doom. For once.

            Several minutes later, Mum and Lena descend the stairs, the latter's face as blank as an artist's canvas before it's been splattered with paint.

            "We all set now?" Mum says, and reopens the door. I think she must be happy to be getting rid of us too, even though she'd never admit to it. She had to cancel her flight out to Winnipeg yesterday to look after us; a flight which may have resulted in a salary upgrade. Our mother is a workaholic, to put it straight. While most widowers seem to find solace in a new hobby, like painting or pottery for example, she put all her hard-wired energy and focus into her occupation. She's had three job promotions in her real estate career since Lena started at ASA; she goes through them like an addict does with their daily fix.

            Once dumping mine and Lena's bags in the trunk, I climb into the front passenger seat of Mum's battered blue Renault Clio, basking in the familiar scent of worn leather and vanilla car freshener. She could easily afford a new vehicle, but over the years she's grown a freakish attachment to the piece of junk. She's even given it a name – Alfie: The son she never had.

            "I spoke with Marian last night," Mum says whilst shifting the car into reverse. I watch out the window as we pull out of Hemlock Avenue, this time for a good while. "She was going to arrange a trip over from Vancouver sometime next month to see you."