Starry Nights and Stolen Kisses

The Road Home

Do you ever have one of those moments of deja vu, where you feel like you are having an out of body experience? You hover above yourself and can see ghosts of yourself playing out moments from your past as they dance over your present like a movie montage. I feel that way every time I drive home through the vast expanse of undeveloped desert between the Inland Empire of Southern California and the Mojave Desert. The mountains surrounding the Cajon Pass are the same as they were when I drove away a dozen years ago on my bid for freedom and independence. They have stood Sentry as I have driven back and forth for quick visits since then, keeping time and serving as a benchmark for when the knot of tension and anxiety tightens in my gut on the way in and finally relaxes again on my way out. I approach these grand statesman with a little dread as the familiar pangs of throat gripping panic make themselves known.

“Get it together, Alexis. It’s just for a little while. You’re not signing your life away.”

Looking over I see a teenage boy smirking at me from the passenger seat of the bright red SUV pulling up on my left, like he has discovered my secret. It’s no secret that I talk to myself. I’m an extreme extrovert. If I don’t talk it out, I have no idea what I’m thinking. There’s no shame...except for when there is and I quickly act like I’m talking to someone through my bluetooth speakers. “I’m hands free,” I mouth to the snarky kid who clearly doesn’t believe me and flips me off as his mom speeds up enough to cut over in front of me and then snake across one more lane without turning on a blinker. Nice one. Way to perpetuate the negative stereotype of female drivers.

The hot air floods in through my window, drowning out the melancholic music coming from the co-dependent relationship between my phone and car stereo. My eyes on the road, I am hypnotized by the passing dots on the road and the white noise of the wind echoing in my ears. It’s easy to feel like I’m 18 again. Going home does that to me. I walk in the door of my parents’ ranch style modest home and I am no longer the highly educated, successful 30 year old professional that brings grown men to their knees, but am back to being the baby of the family. 

“Victorville, 20 miles. Nearly there. You got this.”

When I am home, my mother always wants to feed me. My step-father- who is basically my dad, always wants to know where I’m going, who I’m going there with and when I will be back. And my brothers...let’s just say that my brothers never got the memo that there is a statute of limitation on how long one can continue to give wet willies, noogies and fart on one’s sister. And yet, despite the anxiety, there is a little relief to be going home. To my people. My oldest brother, Joe, likes to say that we put the fun in dysFUNction. I’m not convinced that it’s always all that fun, but I do love them and being with them centers me in a way that I have been missing and needing for the last few months. 

It’s amazing how it feels simultaneous like everything and nothing have changed. Buildings may have different businesses in them now, but I can still chart out my childhood and adolescence by the landmarks I pass by. I fly by the mall where I spent the majority of Junior High and High School hanging out, The parking lot where I had my first car accident, what used to be the Dairy Queen where we would hang out after school football games in the back of someone’s truck. Every beautiful and painful memory washes over me as I take the exit towards my parent’s house. 

“What the- when did they put in the Starbucks?!?! Oh thank you caffeine Gods!” 

A Car horn behind me jerks me back to the task at hand. I wave an apology to the other driver who rewards me with an extended honk reaffirming their annoyance as they go straight once I finally turn left. They didn’t need to be so violent about it, I get it. You know your city made it to full on city status once you get not one, but three starbucks! To live in a neighborhood that now has its own coffee haven is a huge deal to someone used to living in large cities where there is one every three blocks. 

“Maybe this won’t be so bad. I spend a few months regrouping, putting some feelers out and can go anywhere in the country from here. All I needed was a sign.” 

I realize how sad it is that a Starbucks is the sign I needed that I will recover from professional setbacks, but there it is, I am put at ease. That is, until I see my parents' house and the giant banner hanging on the garage practically shouting “WELCOME HOME” with a gaggle of people standing under a balloon arch, cheering as they see me pull into the driveway. That is the last time that I give my mother ETA updates. 

“Auntie Alex, Auntie Alex!!!!” I am bombarded by a gang of toothless hooligans before I can even open my door. Before I know it, I am pulled from the driver’s seat and group-hugged by bouncing, excited little boys as my brothers make quick work unloading all of my belongings from the car into the house. 

“ My baby is home!” Reverently the boys part like the red sea to let the family matriarch through to hug her only daughter. “You took forever getting home.”

“You know what LA is like, Mom. I’m hungry, is there food?” Is there food? Of course there was food, and as soon as I said the magic words, my mother bounded away to set up the spread so she could fatten up the skin and bones passing for her daughter. The family receded back into the house leaving me on the driveway, scanning my old neighborhood, the ghosts of my childhood running around everywhere. I’m surprised by the ache in my heart as I watch the movie montage of childish games and intrigues with my brothers and friends play out in front of me. 

“Hey squirt! You coming, going or undecided?” I turn into a big bear hug given by Joe, who was followed into the hug by my second oldest brother Jimmy and finally my last brother, Tony. Sweet hugs don’t last long with these three before they begin to resemble a mosh pit more than a hug.

“Hey, Hey! Not so hard you giant clodhoppers! I am a wilting flower over here.” The wild laughter pouring out of my brothers rings out throughout the neighborhood and my spine stiffens with pride and I lift my chin in a practiced air of defiance as I flip them off and head into the house. The hounds of Hell follow on my heels wheezing through their tears and laughter. There is solace in knowing that some things never change.