2209

I visit my hometown. Haven't seen my folks for, how long has it been, 22 months? Maybe. Should've called first. Hmm, better to surprise them. Gonna stop by the liquor store. Something for the old man. For my mom? Check the time, you know the flower shop closes at eight. She always loved flowers, especially the purple ones. Can't go wrong with those.

I wonder though, if I was a 68-year-old woman, would I be delighted when my son, who lives two towns away and calls once a month, suddenly shows up at my doorstep with a bottle of brandy and a basket of flowers.

Ah, he remembered my choice of color.

The other one's for dad, mum.

Oh, right, well, come on in, sweetheart.

That's probably me projecting myself onto my mother.

Approaching the street corner, I just then remember she doesn't even remotely like flowers. It will complement your living room wall, I'd tell her. I rub my palms on my face, sit in the car for five minutes.

I'm such a mess. I should've at least showered first.

I open my eyes, surveying the view from the driver's seat. Wait a minute. Why is our old apartment building gray? I turn off the engine, take the keys, phone, brandy bottle, and the flower basket. Is this some kind of dream? I'm pretty sure we lived in a red building. At least it was the last I remember. I feel like crap. In fact, I look like someone sleep deprived for days.

I get out of the car. The village itself looks older, more desolate. How much change can take place in just over a year, I wonder. This town always seemed alive with activity, even in gloomy winter. I walk the short distance to my parents' three-storey building, trying to remember the code to the apartment.

2-2-1-4. 2-8-0-4. 2-3-0-4?

Nothing works. I fumble for my phone in my back jeans pocket and open the recent call log.

June (3); 21 Sept. 2020

Lotus Garden Delivery (2); 20 Sept. 2020

Kimmy (1); 20 Sept. 2020

I stop to bother with the rest. How is it that I haven't made or received any calls in the past nine days?

I thumb in a search for my contacts. Mom. Dad. Did I change their names or delete their numbers?

Getting impatient, I try my luck with the door. Sometimes, I recall this, someone would forget to close it shut, an invitation to intruders. I myself didn't use to make the effort, just a single push or pull until you hear a click, to make sure it locks. It is closed from the inside. I steady my stance on one leg and push with one shoulder. It gives way as if the frame is made of wood, weathered and infested with bugs. I ignore this and head straight to the elevator. I suppose someone who comes from a different town, or newer, would get claustrophobic in old, poorly lit tin cans like this one, but I grew up in this building. Alas, it is not even working.

To my right is a staircase leading up, which I don't mind. My folks live just on the second floor. My free hand finds the light switch. The only remaining light bulb seems to be coming from a far corridor on the topmost floor. I get out my phone and use it as a flashlight. Not that I cannot maneuver under the faintest flicker; I am paranoid that even the steps have begun to deteriorate.

I reach the landing. The thing that is ever present when you are trying to find our apartment is the brittle, dated and faded Christmas wreath hanging on the door. It is also the first one on the left. I reach for the gold plated door handle and pull down. Most days, as long as I can remember, my mother never locks. I'm still not sure why, but it's probably because Dad doesn't like to knock. If he has to, someone will get an earful. That someone is usually whoever is inside, and that someone is most of the time, my poor mother. I push away the negative stream of thought as the door opens to the living room, the first thing you see before even stepping in. I half expect to see my mom sitting on the couch, her right side facing diagonally to the adjacent wall, watching her drama series. The lights are out. According to my watch, it is almost four in the afternoon, but right now I am not sure if I should trust it. The sky says it is still daytime, with somewhere around an hour before sunset.