Empty Room

In our upstairs apartment, with short, textured, mossy green carpet and a white wrought iron railing that divided the stairs leading down to the front door from the living area, the three of us sat at a little table between the kitchen and the living room eating chicken a la king. I remember being so dazzled by the taste and confused by pimientos. I remember a feeling. Someone was angry, but I was distracted by the food. My mom was making that face you make right before you cry.

We moved from that starter apartment into a nice, suburban house in a new rural subdivision. We lived there during my pre-school, kindergarten, and first grade years. The hospital stood across from the entrance to the neighborhood like a giant Saint Bernard sitting and panting, ready to spring into action. This was both comforting and creepy in the same moment. At the same entrance to the neighborhood, across from the hospital was as a little convenience store where my friend Jennifer and I would ride our bikes to get Chunky bars, pink Yoohoo, and Big League Chew.Jennifer lived in a townhouse just behind me. We were the same age and liked the same things. I loved her very much.

Our house was a pleasant , olive green, two-story with a lovely little birch tree landscape design in the front yard. Upon entering the front door, to the right was a beautiful living room with a big bay window, shining, hardwood floors and a gorgeous white stone fireplace along one whole wall. There was a chair from our old living room set from our apartment that had been placed in front of the fireplace, oddly not facing it, but rather with it’s back to the beautiful piece as if to guard it rather than enjoy it. The rest of the living room set lived in the sunken den off the kitchen. There was a large rubber tree plant in one corner of the living room closest to the entryway, which gave the house the appearance of life from the front door. My mom used to give me a damp cloth and have me gently, GENTLY dust the leaves on a pretty regular basis. Point being, except for a chair and a plant, this expansive room with the stunning fireplace, natural light, and gleaming hardwood floors was empty. We never moved into the most important part of the house. We didn’t live in the living room.

At the time, it was a fun place to spread out all the presents we got for Christmas around the tree. It was fun to run around in circles unencumbered. It is not until now that I see that a big, empty living room was a sign of the impending doom of my parents’ relationship. It became a corral for us, my little brother and I, to play out of the way, oblivious of what was amiss. It was a gymnasium. I never thought anything of it at the time, other than that we had a huge playroom. For me, it was a blank canvas. It was a ballerina studio, my nurse’s office where I provided care for a line of sick and injured stuffed animals, a baton practice place, a place to spread out games and toys. We either played there or in the basement, which again, was painted green. We had a gym mat to flop around on, and I had a cardboard Disney playhouse to play in. I do remember being downstairs in the basement and hearing my parents fight. I remember my brother and I fighting and crying over nothing, presumably to get their attention. When that didn’t work, we would climb the basement steps and linger there, sitting on the top couple of stairs listening until it was ok to come out.

The living room was also where my dad sat, in that one chair, with the newspaper. He gave the room presence and purpose for that little bit of time each day after work or in the morning on the weekend. In my eyes, he was like that statue of Abraham Lincoln in that chair. He was larger than life, fascinating, strong, and mostly...I just wanted, specifically in that chair, in that room, to sit with him and be part of his moment. I wanted to hear him breath and watch him snap the pages to adjust them just so, scanning the columns for something of interest. Wondering what that was. I remember that well. I remember feeling close to him there and then. He was calmest then, and I absorbed it. It was the calmest thing I knew from either of my parents to date.

I also remember when that ended. When that chair became empty. When my dad left, I realized for the first time that this room had been empty all along. All that was left was the chair, and the fireplace, and my mother’s tears. It was 1978. I was six My brother was turning three. My mother never stopped crying after that. And my little brother and I would struggle to know our place in the world after leaving that house.