Lost Along the Way (2 page)

I nodded jerkily, trying not to take it personally. After all it wasn’t Chase’s fault somebody had broken their collarbone.

No
, said a small voice in my head,
but he sure jumped at the chance to stay home, didn’t he?

Well, I couldn’t blame him for that, either. Who wanted to spend an entire weekend locked in a musty old house, sorting through boxes of who knew what, dwelling on somebody else’s memories? Even I would have jumped at the opportunity to stay home. And as he’d said, cleaning out my parents’ house and getting it ready to sell would probably take several weekends.

Still, I was disappointed. Having a couple of days away with Chase had been the only bright spot for me in an otherwise depressing weekend. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

“You’re right,” I said at last. “There’ll be plenty of other weekends.”

T
HERE
ARE
two options when driving from Colorado to Laramie,
assuming one doesn’t want to take single-lane county roads the whole way. One is to go straight north on I-25 to Cheyenne, then take I-80 west. The interstates are fast, direct, and boring as hell. The other option is to cut through Fort Collins on Highway 287. The latter route is shorter by about thirty miles, but the drive times are about the same. If I’d been driving at night, I probably would have opted for the interstates, where I was less likely to have deer, antelope, or coyote jumping into my path, but with daylight still left, I decided to take the more scenic option.

It’d been nearly fifteen years since I’d driven this road, and I was struck by how perfectly familiar and welcoming it felt, winding my way through the rolling, dusty foothills. A few trees in the creek beds and a lot of sagebrush were the only hints of green. The reddish-gray earth contrasted with the bright blue sky. Huge stone outcroppings pierced the blue sky, the wind having stripped away the flesh of the earth, leaving her bones bare and exposed. It was harsh and barren, and yet hauntingly beautiful too. Some piece of me, long buried and denied, seemed to open up and rejoice of the sight.

I was going home.

It was a disconcerting thought. I hadn’t called Laramie home since I was eighteen. But I’d spent my formative years there. I’d ridden my bike through her streets as a preteen, and cruised those same streets in a beat-up Ford truck as a teenager. Hung out downtown with my friends. I’d dated a few girls. I’d even gone to bed with one, and all the while, the dawning realization that I was different gnawed at my gut. And yet I never felt out of place so much as I felt lost.

I’d left Laramie when I was eighteen, moving south to Fort Collins to attend CSU, and I’d immediately felt reborn. College was a whole new world, wide and educated and open to diversity. GLBT resources were abundant on campus, and the words “I’m gay” suddenly became easy to say to myself and my open-minded dormmate, if not to my parents. Fall of ’98, shortly before beginning my senior year at CSU, I’d finally rallied my nerve and come out to them. My father had raged. It wasn’t so much that he disliked the idea of homosexuality as that he hated the idea of
his son
not being “normal.” My mother had assured me over and over again it was only a stage. She was sure some girl had broken my heart, but eventually I’d meet a new girl. A different girl. A girl who would inspire me in ways I’d never been inspired before. My protestations fell on deaf ears, and I’d returned to Colorado for my senior year of college without even saying good-bye to my parents.

Two months later a young man was found tied to a fence in Wyoming, beaten nearly to death. He was rushed to Poudre Valley Hospital in Fort Collins, only a few miles from campus. Facts were slower to emerge in those days, but rumors have always moved like wildfire. The boy was gay. That was the one thing everybody seemed to know. There were stories he’d been barhopping in downtown Fort Collins the night he was ambushed. On the CSU campus, there was a shared heartache, and a looming feeling of guilt. A deep-seated dread that something so vile could happen there, in that place where we celebrated life so freely.
We couldn’t have done this
, the refrain went.
We’re not bigots.

When the truth finally emerged that Matthew Shepard was from Laramie, we’d all felt vindicated. It was with a sense of hesitant righteousness and a great deal of relief that we aligned ourselves with the rest of the country, pointing our fingers accusingly at my hometown.

For my parents, the tragic death of Matthew Shepard six days later only proved how dangerous my newfound “lifestyle” could be. For me, it was an excuse to turn my back on my roots. If people asked where I was from, I lied and said Cheyenne. And yet I watched with secret pride as Laramie rallied to its own defense, holding candlelight vigils for Matthew and suddenly declaring themselves on the right side of love. When one of my high school classmates came out on national TV, I’d fought the urge to run home and shake her hand.

Yes, I assured my mother when she called me in tears. I was still gay. Matthew Shepard hadn’t changed that. If anything, the tragedy had driven the fact of my sexuality home.

Not long afterward, I met Chase, and my life changed forever. I knew immediately this wasn’t a dalliance or a fling. This was love, strong and pure and so undeniable it sometimes brought tears to my eyes. I went home for Christmas that year and told my parents all about Chase. I wanted them to meet him, but they refused. They insisted I was going through a phase. I just needed to try harder. Date more women. They offered to pay for a psychiatrist. They begged me to move back home, away from the university and its dangerous ways. Needless to say, I’d refused.

That’d been my final trip to Laramie. Even after their deaths, there hadn’t been a reason to return since the service had been held in Omaha.

Now, I had no choice but to go back.

In my mind, Laramie remained forever unchanged, solid and serene, quiet yet proud, somehow untouched by time. In some ways it was true, and yet everything was different too. I recognized her form and her foundation, but new buildings and businesses now rose above the old, testaments to forward progress and growth, even here in the dusty regions of southern Wyoming.

The speed limit decreased. The highway narrowed and transformed into Laramie’s main drive, Third Street. I turned right before entering the downtown district. My parents’ subdivision lay just south of the University, a large neighborhood of sprawling ranch homes on wide green lawns, built before the oil boom and the rise of cookie-cutter architecture. Here I found myself smiling with fond remembrance. The trees were taller, and a few of the houses showed signs of having been taken over by property management companies and leased to college students, but most of the homes were well maintained, the lawns neatly cropped, the flowerbeds just starting to show promise. My smile broadened as I passed Washington Park, with its old-fashioned band shell. I wondered if they still used it.

Part of me wanted to drive right past my parents’ house and explore more of the neighborhood I’d grown up in. I wanted to know if the jungle gym at my old elementary school was the same, or if modern safety concerns had forced them to remove it. Spring Creek and LaPrele Park lay a block or two to the south, and I wondered if the weeds and wild grasses still grew lush and unchecked along the stream’s banks.

But it was almost eight thirty. There’d be time for reminiscence another day. In truth, I was only delaying the inevitable.

I stopped in front of my parents’ house, staring open-mouthed at their front lawn. In its center sat a strange contraption constructed of shining metal. Loops and slender rods formed circles, some of them ending in strange scoop-shaped ovals. The others held metal birds aloft, their wings outstretched, ready to catch the next breeze that came by. It was relatively still at this time of the evening, but I imagined the entire contraption would spin when the wind hit it. I shook my head, expecting the vision to disappear, but no. It remained, incomprehensibly, in my parents’ yard.

“My father must have lost his mind,” I said to myself. The structure itself was oddly beautiful, but it seemed out of character for my somewhat conservative parents, and especially for my father, who normally found such things ostentatious.

I pulled into the driveway, killed the ignition, and sat for a moment studying the house. My parents had repainted it at some point, covering the pale yellow I remembered with tan, but my mom’s horrid gold curtains still hung in the front window. I’d paid for the power and water to remain on all this time. Landon had volunteered to keep the lawn mowed, an offer I’d gladly accepted, but I could see he’d done more than that. The yard was gorgeous, with lush green grass and full flowerbeds, although not much was in bloom yet. They looked better than they ever had when my mother had tended them.

I dragged my duffel from the car and found the key that had remained on my key ring all these years, untouched, and yet somehow a talisman of my past. It still fit in the lock. Muscle memory made me reach out and flick the light switch without having to hunt for it as I stepped inside. My jaw dropped at the sight in front of me.

“Your parents have collected a lot of stuff over the years,” Landon had said during one of our brief phone calls. I marveled at what an understatement it was.

My dad’s old recliner, a bit more worn and significantly droopier in the seat than when I’d last seen it, still afforded the best view of the television, a big, black, clunky box purchased right before I left for college. The couch was new, and the cushion on the end closest to my father’s chair had a bit of a dent in it, exactly as the old one had, indicating the place my mother had spent so much of her time. But the rest of the room was a surprise to me. Every bit of space around the perimeter had been filled with shelves of some kind, and each shelf was covered with bric-a-brac. In some places stacks of banker boxes loomed in front of the shelves, their tops covered with knickknacks. My mother had never been interested in such things when I’d lived with them. I was stunned to see so much of it collected here now.

The kitchen was as tidy and clean as it had always been. My parents’ bedroom looked lived-in, but not unreasonably so. Maybe the living room was some kind of anomaly? Maybe they’d been in the middle of a project? But the guest bedroom was worse than the living room. Stacks of lidded boxes and similarly sized Rubbermaid containers filled the space, piled four or five deep in some places. The bed was buried beneath boxes and bags, as were the dressers and bedside tables. My dad’s office and the garage were the same. I didn’t dare check the attic.

It was with some trepidation that I opened the door to my own room. To my relief the space was completely devoid of clutter, looking exactly as it had last time I’d stayed there. My twin-sized bed had the same blue bedspread it’d had when I left. Abandoned books filled about half the shelves. A couple of old action figures and a spelling bee trophy remained, but many of the shelves were empty because I’d taken most of my treasured items with me at some point. An ancient
Rolling Stone
magazine and a thin layer of dust covered the desk. A couple of posters still clung to the walls—Nirvana, even though I’d never liked them as much as kids my age were supposed to, and
Wayne’s World
, because all my friends thought it was great. I was too embarrassed to admit I’d liked
A League of Their Own
more.

I wandered back into the living room, stunned by the enormity of the task ahead of me. I’d stupidly assumed a few weekends at home would be enough to clear the house. Now I feared it would take months.

I glanced around and received the biggest shock yet.

The mantel had always held framed photographs. A few of cousins or aunts and uncles. A couple of my late grandparents. A whole lot more of me, from bald baby to high school graduation. Now, a new photo sat front and center. It was Chase and me, squinting into the sun, my arm draped casually around his shoulder. I was smiling at the camera, but Chase had been distracted just before the shutter clicked. He appeared to be looking at somebody or something over the photographer’s left shoulder. The sunlight shone like gold on his dark blond hair, and his lips were parted as if he was about to speak.

I recognized the photo immediately. It’d been taken by our neighbor at a barbecue, two years earlier. It was a digital image, stored on my laptop, shared on social media, but I’d never printed a single copy. I’d certainly never sent one to my parents. Yet here it was, bright and in full color in their living room.

I ran my finger down the side of the frame, wondering at how my mother had come across it. I imagined her shopping for the frame, then rearranging all the other photos on the mantel to make room for us, in the place of honor. The sight brought tears to my eyes.

Better late than never.

I
TRIED
calling Chase to let him know I’d arrived and to rail at the state of my parents’ house, but he didn’t answer. Maybe he’d gone to bed early. Or maybe he’d gone to the restaurant to help cover the evening crowd, even though he hadn’t worked the dinner shift. Either way, it seemed I’d have to wait until morning to speak to him.

I wandered into the kitchen and started checking cabinets. It was immediately apparent somebody—probably Landon, since he was the only one with a key and he’d offered to take care of the place—had gone through them already. Macaroni, Campbell’s soup, a cabinet full of spices, and several boxes of Hamburger Helper were all that remained. The latter made me laugh. My mother had worked full-time as a nurse at the hospital up until only a few years ago. She’d never been much of a cook.

The cupboards also still held all my parents’ dishes, but anything that might have gone bad had been removed. There was no bread. No half-eaten boxes of cereal. A few Hungry-Man frozen dinners lingered in the freezer, but the fridge contained no milk, butter, or cheese. Only bottles of ketchup and mustard and a lone box of baking soda. The dishwasher was empty and spotless. The trash can was also empty save for a trash bag, still sticking to itself down the center of the can because no item had yet been dropped into it. The bathrooms, upon inspection, were the same. As far as I could tell, nothing had been removed, but the trash can had been emptied. A quick glance proved the laundry hamper was empty as well. I suspected the small pile of folded clothes on top of the perfectly made bed had been dirty when my parents had died, but Landon had taken care of that too.