Home Alone

“Goodbye, see you in a few hours,” my mother said to me as she slipped through the back door of the house and out onto the patio.

“Bye,” I replied hastily, closing the door behind her and clicking the lock into place. The deadbolt slid heavily as it latched. Finally, I was home alone for the first time. No parents around to tell me what to do, or what not to do. I inhaled deeply, filling my nose with the familiar scent of home. Excited about my newfound independence, I could not decide what to do first. Of course, none of these things would be novel to me, but there would for the first time be no one looking over my shoulder.

I decided to watch TV. My feet guided me across the floors I had walked countless times, prodding the floorboards and eliciting high-pitched squeaks that echoed throughout the empty house. Turning on the TV felt foreign, as if I was doing something forbidden. For the first time I could watch anything I wanted without someone wanting to watch something else or yelling at me to turn it down. I stretched across the couch, another newfound delight, turned the volume up, and let my laughter roar across the room with each punchline and goofy act that played across the glowing screen.

Hungry, I slid off the couch, made my way to the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator door. Cold air rushed at me and the bright light reflected off the clean, white interior. Nearly overwhelmed by the number of foods and my lack of culinary experience, I managed to nab the ham and cheese from the deli compartment. Food in hand, I marveled at the savory taste of the ham combined with the sweeter bread. I had never experienced this heightened sense of flavor when my mother made my food for me.

The basement stairs creaked under my feet as I began to discern the musty smell of the cellar. My freedom nearly over, I spent it shooting pucks free of harassment from my little brother. The dark rubber discs whizzed towards the net. Sometimes clanging off the dented and bent posts and many times flying past and into the cement wall already covered in black streaks. Through the narrow window near the ceiling the light waned until darkness prevailed.

Looking at the time, I expected to hear my mother returning at any moment. As the predetermined time of her arrival back home grew closer, I began to pace. It was past the time, and she should have been home by now. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. The empty house seemed larger, almost foreboding. The wooden home creaked and groaned as if warning of something. The sense of independence and freedom that I had had only hours ago was gone, replaced instead by nervousness and loneliness. I hunkered down underneath heaps of blankets and pillows. Cold sweat lined my palms, making them slippery. Shadows danced at the edge of my vision, and I snapped my head around trying to see something that was not there. Why wasn’t my mom home yet? Where was she?

A car slowing down, turned and grumbled up the driveway. I leaped out of bed and flew down the stairs. I glanced out the windows, nothing. Was it my imagination? The dining room, kitchen, mudroom zipped by me as I raced to the study to look out at the garage. The light in the garage winked off through the windows in the garage door and out appeared my mother, my little brother traipsing behind. A sigh of relief escaped my lips, and I calmly walked and unlocked the door.