Dirty Little Secrets

Mom continued her noisy scraping along the hallway until she got to her bedroom. One hand gripped the walker as the other flew to her mouth. “Where are they? Where are all my things?” She turned and started back down the hallway to where Aunt Jean had stopped. “My papers and photos? All of my quilting supplies—some of those fabrics are irreplaceable!”

“You need to calm down,” Aunt Jean said. “We kept everything that was valuable. It’s all put away. The kids did such a wonderful job—”

“The kids? You made the kids do this to me?” Mom looked at Phil and me. He hadn’t even made it through the doorway yet—he stood outside with his eyes planted firmly on the ground.

“Phil and Lucy worked so hard trying to make this place livable,” Aunt Jean said, an edge creeping into her voice.

“I knew Sara would never betray me like this!” Mom said. She looked frantically around the living room. We had found the photos and put them on the mantle along with a big vase for her flowers. Mom walked up to it, and, with one swipe of her arm, pulled everything onto the floor with a crash.

Aunt Jean rushed over to the pile. “Lucy, honey, would you grab the dustpan?” she said, the waver in her voice the only sign she wasn’t as calm as she looked. She took my fourth-grade picture and gently placed it back on the mantle.

Mom turned on me. “You’ll do no such thing,” she said. She turned back to Aunt Jean, gripping the handles of her walker so tight her arms were shaking. “Where is everything? I want everything back in this house by tonight,” she said.

Aunt Jean straightened up to face her. “It’s gone, Jo,” she said quietly. “It’s gone. You can’t get it back. It was garbage. Don’t you remember what it was like with Mama when we were kids? Can’t you see you were living just like her?”

“I am nothing like her,” Mom said, every word sounding like it had come from the center of her body. She was practically spitting with anger. “I am a collector. Everything in this house has . . . had a purpose and a meaning. How dare you come in here and get rid of my treasures!”

I hugged the wall as I crept back onto the porch where Phil was still standing.

Aunt Jean’s eyes were wet as she tried to reason with Mom. “But all of the mold and mildew—and what I found in the refrigerator! It’s not healthy living like this. Don’t you remember when we were kids? What if their friends found out?” She swung around and pointed at me. “Do you want them to make fun of her too? I remember what it was like even if you don’t.”

“Get out!” Mom started screaming at her. “Get out! I will not tolerate this in my own house. You took advantage of me! You probably stole my things for yourself. Get out!”

Aunt Jean still didn’t move. “Joanna, calm down. It’s going to be okay. Look around at your beautiful house.”

“Get out!” Mom screamed at Aunt Jean one last time and, with all the effort she could muster, swung the walker at her. One leg caught Aunt Jean under the eye as she scrambled out of the way.

“Fine!” Aunt Jean said as she made her way to the door, her fingers pressed to her rapidly swelling face. “You’re on your own from now on. You don’t want help, you just live here and drown in your own filth.” As she passed me in the doorway, she placed a hand on my cheek. “Take care of each other,” she said. “I’ll do everything I can to help.” And then she was gone.

Mom lay crumpled in a heap on the living room floor, tears streaming down her cheeks. I walked over to try to help her up, but she swatted my arm away.

“I don’t need you,” she said. She looked at Phil still standing in the doorway. “Either of you.”

We both watched silently as she dragged herself to the coffee table and used that to swing herself onto the chair. That night, she spent the first of many nights sleeping on our old green recliner.

These past few years, her room had gotten so cluttered and her bed hidden under such a huge mountain of clothes, it was almost impossible to sleep there. Her life in this house had shrunk down to the space around that old recliner.

Over time, Mom got less angry at Phil and me, but things were never the same as before. Sara loved to suck up to Mom and tell her over and over how she would have never let us do it if she had known. If any of us ever wondered who the favorite was, we didn’t anymore.

Aunt Jean might have tried to help, but I only talked to her a couple of times after that. She would call when she knew Mom was at work and ask me how things were. I’d tell her they were okay, and she’d tell me she was sorry, but I always tried to get off the phone quickly. I felt so bad about betraying Mom that I didn’t dare keep in touch after she told us not to. Little by little, Mom eliminated almost every “outsider” from our lives. It was better this way, she used to tell us. The only people you can trust were right here in the immediate family. Phil just spent as much time as possible away from home until he could leave for good. That’s what we all did—waited until we could leave for good.