The Home We Return To

musings on the body and beetlejuice

I was 13, and I was in my room watching the television. It was a Saturday night, and I was alone, wondering what my friends on base must have been doing. On a clear and open night like the ones in Gricignano, they could have been huddling in the gazebo down the street. They could have been playing “Manhunt.” They could have been off base sneaking drinks at family pizzerias. After all, a few of my friends had been a couple years older than me. The Sony Trinitron television that my dad had bought in the 90s played the Armed Forces Network. As I switched through the channels, I stopped at the channel with guide. I heard loud yelling. I stared at the screen with no feeling other than wanting to leave and go into the night.

At 14, I sat at my computer desk. The air was thick in Norfolk, so I turned on the fan. I scrolled through YouTube. I watched bloopers of people falling off of buildings, getting hit by random objects, and slipping on icy grounds. I had just spent the last couple of weeks recovering from surgery. My head was wrapped in gauze to keep my right ear in place. I had been in and out of surgery for the last few years, but this time around I was doing whatever I could to make the droning go away. I wasn’t sure what I had a taken, but I ended up at the desk for the next few hours. The droning disappeared. It turned into buzzing. I remembered the last time I felt this way was when I emerged from the deep end of the pool at Caserta. As I got out of the pool, I tilted my head to the right side, beating my left temple to get the water out. It felt like my insides were echoing.

17, I thought I wasn’t going to make it. I gasped for air, and I clutched at the ceiling above me. It was the middle of the night, and I as I tried to breathe in, my throat remained shut. I stumbled out of my bedroom and into the bathroom. I grabbed onto the towel rack. I hung onto the shower curtain. I fell to my knees. I had felt stupid for eating a whole box of otter pops just a few hours before. I could still taste the artificial sugar on my tongue. My parents rushed into the room. “Anak, what’s wrong?” my mother asked. “Kris!” my dad cried. It’s hard to remember what had gone through my head, but I started to breathe again. I held onto them. I didn’t want them to leave me.

A year later, I sat in the bathtub, wanting nothing more than to make whatever was inside go away. I clenched my teeth as I got out. I slowly dressed myself, careful to not make any sudden movements. I hobbled as I walked to the bed. I climbed in and shivered. The heater had been off for the last few days. I wondered why the landlord had not turned it on or if she could hear me through the creaky boards. I closed my eyes. It reminded me of the time we had moved to Alaska. I spent my first night alone in bed. I cried. I wanted to go home. But home was far, far away. I drifted off.

I am still alone, but watching a movie – Beetlejuice. There’s a part in it where The Maitlands, a married couple, return home. They notice a fire that they did not start, but they decide to warm their hands. As they hold their palms to the flames, the wife’s index and middle fingers catch on fire. It’s a funny scene, but poignant. They stare in disbelief, confused at the state the bodies they are in. There was a time where I was a ghost. Sometimes I even chased them. Dead and alive.

I lay down and stare at the ceiling. I hear the fan drones. I feel it in my chest when I take deep breaths. My skin is warm. It feels like I have returned.