Dirty Little Secrets

It would serve everybody right if I walked out of the house at that moment—straight down the driveway—and left all this crap behind me. Just turned my back on all of it and kept on going. Not that I had anywhere to go, but as long as it wasn’t here, it really didn’t matter. I imagined how it would feel to walk down the street with nothing in my hands and not worry about this house. I bet it would feel amazing. Free. There was nothing stopping me from doing it. It’s not like there was a lock on the door, or someone telling me I couldn’t go. Anytime I wanted to, I could just head out the door and let someone else deal with all this mess.

Except I knew that I wouldn’t. It was up to me to deal with this, just like it had been up to me to take care of us these last few years, making sure Mom ate a decent meal once in a while and had enough clean clothes for work. It was up to me to make sure the plumbing still worked and we weren’t reduced to peeing in buckets again. Up to me to make sure that nobody ever found out how bad Mom was getting. It was still up to me.

My body felt disconnected from my brain as I tucked in the sheet once again. Mom’s arms were flung sideways near her head, but I couldn’t bring myself to grab her hands, so I lifted her under the arms and pulled her back down the hallway just a little bit, so her feet weren’t all jammed up in the corner and she wasn’t visible from the front door. I sat in the hallway a few inches from her head and tucked my knees up under my chin. I told myself that I was just taking a break—I wasn’t giving up—but I wasn’t sure I believed me.

I felt empty and used up. As I sat, gazing at the floor, I noticed her left hand was brushed up against my leg, almost like she was reaching out to touch me. It was such an unusual gesture for her to make that it startled me. I looked at her unpainted fingernails with the ridges that had gotten deeper the past few years and wondered when she’d touched me for the last time. We’d never been a very “touchy” family, but I couldn’t remember holding her hand or even feeling her fingers brush against mine as we passed something to each other recently.

Looking at the hand that had made such an unbelievable mess of things, I realized it was also the hand that had carefully pasted pictures of what she wanted her life to be like into a notebook—the hand that had stroked the feet of a lonely, dying woman.

I reached out and curled my hand around her still, icy fingers. I held it there for a long time as I sat with my knees to my chest, wishing that just for a minute she could squeeze it back and tell me everything would be okay.

chapter 15

8:00 p.m.

It was pointless to keep going but impossible to stop. I wandered aimlessly around the house, trying to decide what to do next, finally sitting down on the arm of Mom’s chair to psych myself up for the long night ahead.

Something was sticking up from the back corner of the cushion. The remote, maybe? I leaned over and pulled out a pair of scissors. Special scissors with black handles. Cautiously, I stuck my hand farther down into that corner and felt something hard and narrow. Another pair of scissors, but these had blue handles.

I finally pulled up three pairs of scissors scattered around the edges where the cushion met the chair. It was just like Mom. She was the one who lost the scissors down here, and when she couldn’t find them, she went out and bought another pair. After she blamed me for losing them, that is. I took the cushion off to see what else had been right under her butt the whole time.

There were a few coins of different sizes and some old popcorn kernels sharing space with over a dozen envelopes that were piled toward the front of the seat. The coins and scissors I could understand, but how would sealed envelopes just happen to fall underneath the front of the cushion? And in a nice, neat stack?

I picked one up and looked at the return address. It was from a bank and it was pretty thick. Maybe she had a secret bank account she didn’t want us to know about. Mom always said we didn’t have enough money for things that I wanted, but I never believed her because she had Dad’s child support plus what she made at the hospital. I had to pay for my own cell phone, and I’d missed the tenth-grade trip to Disneyland last year because we supposedly couldn’t afford it. The main reason I didn’t get my license wasn’t because I had no car, but because Mom said the extra insurance would be too expensive. I always suspected that saying we couldn’t afford it was an easy way for her to get out of something she didn’t want me to do. It would be just like her to be literally sitting on a fortune.