Arroyo

By Rebekah Anderson

 

This is how my visit home begins: I take a plane to a train to a bus to a car to a bicycle to a taxi and then hitch-hike the rest of the way to my parent’s house in the desert. It’s dark by the time I arrive. From the end of the driveway, the house looks like a pile of dry sticks leaning against the deep orange canyon wall. Christmas lights run a lopsided rectangle around the front window. The lights stream in a line and then erupt in a freakish spattering. My ride peels away in the dark, and I heft my knapsack towards the door.

            They are so happy to see me. My mother spins in a circle. My father skitters around the house, bumping into walls. The inside of the house smells old and warm, and they say it’s been dry and hot for months. I say I’m tired and go to my room to sleep. I hear them scratching and sniffing outside the door all night.

 

The next morning, they are still outside the door. When I come out, they both follow me to the kitchen. My father cooks me breakfast. I slump at the table with them and look outside the window. The lights are less confusing from inside. The front yard is cracked open in long cuts, dark red and brown rocks, baking in the sun.

            My mother insists on making my bed and then lies on the floor panting. My father asks me about work, gives advice, ears flickering at the sounds around him. I stomp my feet and tell him not to boss me.

A cloud parks over the house, dimming the mid-morning light. What’s this? They say. Clouds? We haven’t had clouds here in so long. Have too! I shout at them. They look hurt. No, really, we haven’t.

 

I take a shower and when I come into my room to dress, my mother has ripped open my knapsack and strewn my things around the room with her teeth. When she’s gone, I rearrange everything. From my window, I can see it starting to sprinkle.

            When I come out dressed, they are watching the Weather Channel. Can you believe this rain? They ask me. Some rain, I say. Well, it is to us, they say. I try to read a book while they watch TV. Do you want something to eat? My mother says. We just ate a couple hours ago, I say. No need to bark, my mother says. The rain picks up outside and starts to puddle in the cracks in the front yard.

            Isn’t that something! My father says standing in the open doorway. He watches the drops fall onto the stained ground, scratching his scales against the doorframe. By dinnertime, the rain has filled the cracks in the yard and is running off toward the road. I sit at the table, which since breakfast has grown huge along with the chairs. My feet don’t touch the ground. It’s a Christmas storm! My mother yips, slipping a greasy pork chop onto an unbreakable plate and handing it to me. I pick at it with my fork. Is something wrong with your food? She asks. I throw my fork on the floor and stare at my plate.

The rain is coming down hard enough that we can hear it pounding on the roof of the house. The Christmas lights look bleary through the wet window.

 

After dinner, I retire early. To read, I say. Oh. Okay, they say. I can hear the TV muffled through the wall, the rain still peppering above me. My throat feels dry, hoarse. I miss my apartment, being alone, cooking for myself, my routine. I curl into a fetal position and clear my throat to try to get rid of the dryness. Do you need some water? My father is right outside the door. Go away! I say.

 

In the morning, the rain has stopped. My mother gets up when she hears me get up. I can no longer walk and crawl into the kitchen. Are you hungry? She asks, following me to the kitchen. I grunt at her and pull myself up in front of the window expecting to find the front yard a mud wash from all the rain. Isn’t it something? My father says picking me up and plunking me in a high chair.

My mother howls like a coyote from the kitchen; my father rolls into a ball like an armadillo on the front porch. I bang my spoon on the metal tray. The cracks in the yard are growing with tiny cacti that look as though they are about to bloom, red and purple.