In the middle of the trip I woke up early with a bad head cold and headed to the county to see my family. In my histamine-addled state I failed to notify anyone of my departure or which ferry I would be taking; I have officially forgotten the enormous distances and expenditure of time required to navigate the place where I grew up.
My mother picked me up at the Bainbridge Island terminal and we set off to explore. The forest of my childhood has been chopped down to make way for strip malls and big box grocery stores, and many other familiar things are gone or changed beyond recognition. The gas station where I spent most of my childhood is now just another convenience store. But the signs I painted at the lumber yard are still directing traffic. The battleships are still in the bay, along with cruisers and supply ships and all manner of military vessel, waiting a turn in drydock.
I was determined to catch up with the family on this trip, and that inclination along with the coughing fits kept me in town long enough to have complicated dinners with the few surviving members of the clan.
I do not believe that anyone has a claim on my loyalty unless they earn it, least of all blood kin. I would never make time for people out of a sense of duty. This perspective is not just a quirk of my own personality; it is a key element in our family history.
The feuds and fights that have split up our crew are legendary. My people hold a grudge – and while they can keep secrets they are not shy. I am only unusual in that I moved away.
I love my family, but leaving caused a permanent rift that will never be mended. Then of course there is the fact that I grew up in terrifying chaos; I won’t be able to publish most of the stories until a few more people die. All of this makes for worthwhile yet difficult reunions. I always go back, I just limit the amount of time I spend there.
During one particularly gruesome dinner Mark Mitchel kept texting me to suggest stabbing a problematic relative in the neck with my fork to which I replied But then how would I eat my Applebee’s salad??
Normally I do not visit long enough to go on a tour of youthful indiscretions, but several days of driving around gave me plenty of opportunities to think about the past.
At age twenty-one I was living behind six foot fences with Dobermans patrolling the property. Those were the days when I thought gun safety meant putting the Glock on top of the fridge, and a baby gate on the back room where the big weapons were stored. Where most people would find pennies under the sofa cushions I always turned up knives, bullets, expanding titanium clubs.
My time was split neatly in half, with a domestic side in the county as a military spouse, and another life in Olympia as a grad student. In the middle was a two hundred mile daily commute, back and forth several times a day across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, during a time when I still suffered from panic attacks and flashbacks so severe I would often end up stranded in far distant towns.
I looked after my daughter, ignored other household chores, and spent a lot of time thinking about implementing federal civil rights laws at the state and local level.
In my spare time – and there was plenty as the head injury kept me awake around the clock – I was reading the existentialists and Thomas Jefferson’s letters. I also developed a deep obsession with the Grange movement.
Did I have other emotions or attachments? I loved my daughter in a profound and raw way. I admired and respected my young husband; he was funny and brilliant and together we were an impossibly tough proposition. KTS says that boy is the scariest person he has ever met – an insight I agreed with at the time while still thinking it hilarious. The narrative was endlessly entertaining, even as the daily reality became dangerous.
What went wrong with my love story? We were too young, and too proud, and together for all the wrong reasons. I remember the last time we kissed, at the car wash on Bethel Road. I didn’t know then that I would lose his friendship along with his love, that we would never laugh together again. I thought we were just growing up, not away.
Driving around with my mother I was reminded once again that my hometown is the most beautiful and wretched place I have ever known. The mountains loom, the inlets sprawl, and the trees enroach.