1-800-why-am-I-like-this

May 31st, 1981: Part II

The Gallagher house had quite the extensive driveway. It was made of gravel and curved slightly at the sides as it climbed the hill leading to the mansion itself. On this day the gravel was dry, throwing dust into the air as Patrick's car drove over it.

    He finally reached the end of the driveway, stopping just in front of the garage. The house looked the same as it always did. It was an intimidating place. The building was made of some sort of dark, ruddy stone, exquisitely carved into some kind of record of a story that Patrick could never quite figure out as a child.

He got out of his car, forcefully shoving the door closed and sighing as he walked to the front door.  He noticed that his parents still hadn't replaced the bronze lion-shaped door knocker with a more functional, modern doorbell. Patrick knocked on the door anyways, as forcefully as he possibly could. About half a minute later, his mother arrived at the door.

June Gallagher was a short, clean-cut woman with sandy blonde hair and pale skin covered in the beginnings of wrinkles. Large garnets dangled from her ears, and another hung around her neck. There was a pristine, polished air around her. Clearly her image was practiced and planned. Patrick knew that she wouldn't want it any other way.

    "Hello, Patrick," she said, smiling slightly.

    Patrick stepped inside. "Hi!" he exclaimed. "It's been a while. How have you been?" He shuffled his feet on the doormat. It was the same one that had been there when he was in high school.

    "I've been just lovely," his mother said. "And you? How's Portland?"

    Patrick almost laughed at his mother's formality. It certainly wasn't going to be returned. "I'm good. Portland is nice."

    "Good." She sauntered carefully into the kitchen, taking a dark purple kettle off of the stove and pouring the steaming water into two white ceramic tea cups. "What kind of tea would you like?" she asked.

    "Peppermint, please," Patrick stated. He sat down at the table as his mother pulled out the tea leaves from the pantry. He watched as the tea steeped. Though there was no distinct visual change, a faint, pleasant scent started to waft through the air.

    "What's the reason for your visit, Patrick?" his mother asked, folding her hands in her laps as she sat down.

    "Uh," he uttered, stirring his tea, "I was, um, I was...I was wondering about Mary Jane."

    "Oh." June's face immediately chilled. Her smile disappeared and her icy blue eyes glossed over. "Her."

    "Yes," Patrick stated. His heart speed up. "It was...surprising, to say the least, when she showed up at my apartment claiming she was unloved."

    "She is not unloved," June scoffed. "She is simply disappointing. I will forgive her once she rectifies the situation."

    "And what would 'rectifying the situation' entail?" he questioned. "Shouldn't you simply support her?"

    June chuckled coldly. "You've never had a child, Patrick. We expect them to become functioning members of society. Mary Jane has fallen out of the structure. She needs to fix that."

    "Well, what did she do?" Patrick questioned. "Was it really so bad? You know, society is changing; maybe what she did wasn't that wrong."

    June looked distant, staring out the window. The sunlight rested dramatically on her face: sharpening her nose and darkening her eyes. "Things change, yes. The times change. But underlying moral standards do not, no matter what the times say. The masses are not always correct, you must understand."

    I do understand, Patrick thought, but maybe your opinions weren't underlying moral standards in the first place. He sighed, frustrated. "But, because of changes in the times, is there a possibility that whatever Mary Jane did was because of societal coercion? You know how easily teenagers are convinced."

    June smirked in an uncharacteristic way. She was usually so polite and so well put together. Such a rigid, traditionalistic woman should not be one for contempt or feelings of superiority. But, then again, for some unknowable reason, people who follow their heritage or religion dutifully tend to view themselves as better than others whom don't live, feel, or believe the same as them. "Does that imply that you now realise the idiocy in many of your teenage decisions, then?"

    Patrick locked his jaw. "That's different," he uttered beneath his breath.

    His mother raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Oh? How is it any different?"

    "I believe I made the right decision. It may not be the more prosperous option, but it is certainly the more fulfilling one. Now, please tell me what Mary Jane did wrong."

    June laughed. "That girl can tell you herself. You'll send her right away, too. I guarantee it."

    "I am not the same as you." Patrick's eyes were slightly teary. He remembered this kind of conversation all too vividly. There was such a difference between the cold professionalism of the mansion and the warmth and cordial air of his apartment. There was a reason why he considered such a small, cramped place more like home than his parents' house ever could be. He suddenly remembered the reason for his hesitance to return, even for such a short period of time: the memories.

    June jutted out her chin, staring directly into Patrick's eyes. He felt so vulnerable right then, even though she had no power over him anymore. The marionette strings had finally been cut from his limbs, but they still hung from him like they could be grabbed onto him whenever someone decided they wanted someone to control. "We are more alike than you would think, Patrick," June said. "Far more alike than you would be willing to admit."

    Patrick shook his head. "No. No! We are not alike. Not at all. I will never be like you."

    June chuckled. "Sure. Believe that. But you believe wrong."

    A tear fell from Patrick's eye. He wiped it away quickly. That was the kind of thing he'd be punished for as a child. Deep down, he was still impossibly scared. He shook his head insistently, getting up from the table and backing away towards the baby-blue wall.

    "Go on then. Leave. Run away like a coward. But you can't deny the truth forever. Something has to change. Either it's you or it's me. And we all know the latter isn't going to happen." June grinned, almost like she knew something Patrick didn't. A glint returned to her blue eyes, though it was more maniacal than joyful.

    "You know what?" Patrick exclaimed, grabbing his jacket off the chair he had sat on. "I will leave. But I assure you, I am not a coward. At least I have the courage to believe in change. At least I have to courage to question what I've been told!" He turned around, rushing out into the foyer.

    As he left, Patrick slammed the door closed. He felt tears all across his face. He laughed. How odd this situation felt. He never thought he'd cry in that house. It was in no way a comfortable, supportive place. He remembered how safe Jinan's house, about a half an hour away, had felt compared to that one. He had wanted his future kids to grow up in a home like that.

    As Patrick drove away, down the winding driveway and out onto the gravel road darkened by a thick woods of coniferous trees, he realised he had never drank the tea.