The Ignored

I loosened my tie and sat down on he couch. I felt drained. The weekend loomed before me: two days of freedom in which I would constantly be confronted with my anonymity. I tried to think of something I could do, some place I could go where I wouldn’t be continually faced with the meaningless obscurity that was my existence.

My parents, I thought. I could visit my parents. I wasn’t ignored by them. I was not just a forgettable face to my mom, not just a nobody to my dad. I might not be able to talk to them about my situation, but just being with them, just being with people who noticed and paid attention to me, would help.

I hadn’t tried calling them after Thanksgiving, feeling vaguely pissed off at their treatment of me and wanting to punish them for it, but Christmas was fast approaching and I needed both my mom and my dad to give me some idea of what they wanted this year.

I figured that was as good an excuse as any to give them a ring.

I walked over to the phone, picked it up and dialed. Busy. I hung up, dialed again. We weren’t close, my parents and I. We did not see eye to eye on most things; we did not even like each other a lot of the time. But we loved each other. We were family. And if you couldn’t turn to your family in time of need, who could you turn to?

The line was still busy. I hung up the phone. I had a plan. I would be spontaneous. I would surprise them by driving down right now and showing up on their doorstep for dinner.

Average people weren’t spontaneous.

I packed a toothbrush and a change of clothes, and ten minutes later I was on the freeway, headed for San Diego.

I considered pulling off at San Juan Capistrano, then at Oceanside, then at Del Mar and trying to call again. Now that I thought about it, my parents probably wouldn’t like it if I just showed up on their doorstep without warning. But I had momentum, I didn’t want to get sidetracked, and I stayed on the highway, moving south.

It was close to nine when I pulled up in front of my parents’ home. Our home. It hadn’t changed much since I was a child, and that was reassuring. I got out of the car and walked up the short cement path to the porch. Although I had been here less than a year ago, it seemed like it had been forever, and I felt as though I were returning after a long, long absence. I stepped onto the porch, knocked, rang the bell.

A strange man answered the door.

I jumped, startled.

From behind the stranger came the voice of another stranger, a woman. “Who is it, dear?”

“I don’t know!” the man called back. He was unshaven, overweight, wearing low-slung jeans and a tank top T-shirt. He looked at me through the screen. “Yes?”

I cleared my throat. There was a funny feeling in my stomach. “Are my parents here?” I asked.

The man frowned. “What?”

“I came to visit my parents. They live here. I’m Bob Jones.”

The man looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I live here.”

“This is my parents’ house.”

“Maybe you have the wrong street or something.”

“Taz!” the woman called.

“In a minute!” the man called back.

“I don’t have the wrong street. This is my parents’ house. I was born here. My parents have lived here for the past thirty years!”

“I live here now. What did you say your parents’ names were?”

“Martin and Ella Jones.”

“Never heard of them.”

“They own this house!”

“I rent from Mr. Sanchez. He’s the owner. Maybe you should talk to him.”

My heart was pounding. I was sweating, though the weather was chilly. I tried to remain calm, tried to tell myself that there was a rational explanation for this, that it was all part of a simple misunderstanding, but I knew it was not true. I swallowed, tried not to show my fear. “Could you give me Mr. Sanchez’s address and phone number?”

The man nodded. “Sure.” He started to turn around, then stopped. “I don’t know, though. Mr. Sanchez might not appreciate me giving out personal stuff — ”

“A daytime number, then. Don’t you have his work phone number?”

“Yeah, sure. Hold on a sec.”

The man retreated into the house — our house — to find a pen and paper, and I realized that a work number wouldn’t do me any good. It was Friday night. Unless I wanted to wait until Monday, I was screwed. On an impulse, I looked toward the wood frame house next door. The name on the burnt wood novelty shingle hanging from the lighted porch was CRAWFORD. The Crawfords! I should have thought of them before. If Mr. and Mrs. Crawford still lived next door, they would know what the hell had happened. They would know why my parents were not here, why this strange man and his wife were living in our house.

Without waiting for the man to return, I hopped off the porch and started across the lawn toward the Crawfords’. “Hey!” the man called out behind me. I heard his wife yell something.

I stepped over the low hedge that separated our house from the Crawfords’ and walked up their porch, ringing the doorbell. A moment later, I was gratified to see Mrs. Crawford open the door. I was afraid she’d be frightened by my mohawk, and I purposely tried to look as nonthreatening as possible, but she opened the door all the way, totally unafraid. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Crawford! Thank God you still live here. Where are my parents? I just went next door and there’s a strange man living in our house who said he’s never heard of us.”

Now there was fear in her eyes. She moved slightly behind the door, ready to slam it at the slightest provocation. “Who are you?” Her voice sounded older than I remembered, weaker.

“I’m Bob.”

“Bob?”

“Bob Jones. Don’t you remember?” I could see that she didn’t. “I’m Martin and Ella’s son!”

“Martin and Ella had no son.”

“You used to babysit me!”

She started to close the door. “I’m sorry — ”

I was so frustrated that I felt like screaming at her, but I kept my voice even. “Just tell me where my parents are. Martin and Ella Jones. Where are they?”

She looked at me, squinting for a moment as thought she almost recognized me, then shook her head, obviously giving up her memory search.

“Where are they?”

“The Joneses died six months ago in an automobile accident. Drunk driver.”

My parents were dead.

I stood there as she closed the door on me, not moving, not reacting, not doing anything. The door clicked shut, followed by the snick of a dead bolt. In my peripheral vision, I could see the curtains move on the window to the right side of the door, could see Mrs. Crawford’s face peek through the opening. I was vaguely aware that the man living in my parents’ house — Taz — was calling to me, saying something.

My parents were dead.

I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. I had not had enough time to think about their lives to be able to react to their deaths. I had not had time to prepare for and cultivate a sense of loss. The shock had been too sudden. I wanted to feel sad, but I didn’t. I simply felt numb.

I turned slowly around, walked out to the sidewalk.

I hadn’t been invited to my own parents’ funeral.

I wished that my parents and I had been closer, but I’d always assumed there’d be time for that, that eventually it would happen, that age would provide common ground, that years would bring togetherness. It was not something I’d actively planned for or sought out, just a general feeling, but now those vague hopes had been permanently dashed. I should’ve made an effort, I thought. I should’ve known that something like this could happen to them, and I should’ve put aside the babyishness, the pettiness, and not let our disagreements divide us. I