Dirty Little Secrets

As I turned to walk back up the concrete steps and into the house, I caught a glimpse of a silver fender sticking out of the pile. My car. At least Mom said it would be once she got it out of here and fixed it up. It was really Mom’s old car that she’d put in here when she’d bought the new one a couple of years ago. Maybe someday I could dig the car out and get it running, or even use hers. I could finally get my license and feel like I was free. It would sure beat having to ask Kaylie’s mom for a ride everywhere.

I grabbed the boxes from the garage and dragged them back down the pathway to the front door. It only took ten minutes to go through one big stack, recycling most of it and throwing the rest in one of the garbage bags. I picked up the box to take this first load outside, but when I got to the hallway, the sides were blocked by the stacks of newspapers and magazines—the path was way too narrow for me to carry the box through the kitchen and out the back door. I could feel my muscles straining as I stood in the front hallway trying to decide what to do with the heavy, awkward box. The last thing I needed was to draw attention to myself by carrying the bags and boxes through the front door, but until I’d made the main path wider, it was going to be impossible to carry them out through the back.

I checked my watch. Eleven thirty on a Tuesday morning. The only people who would really be around were old Mrs. Raj next door and maybe TJ from across the street, unless his mom put him in some sort of day camp during vacation. I decided going out the front was worth the risk—mainly because I had no other choice.

As I set the box down behind the garage, I felt like I had begun to accomplish something. I was even sweating from the exertion, despite the cold weather, so I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of the front doorknob as I came back in.

I was feeling even more accomplished as I hauled the next box out the front door. I heard the skateboard wheels scraping the concrete before I saw him.

“Hey,” TJ said as he kicked the back of his skateboard so it landed in his hand. “Whatcha doin’?”

I shifted the weight of the box to my hip and turned to him. “Just some cleaning.”

“My mom always does that after Christmas so she can make room for the new stuff,” he said.

“Well, there you go.” I turned to walk away.

“Can I help?” he asked.

I sighed and stopped walking. I really liked him, but the last thing I needed was a kid hanging around asking questions. “No, TJ. Not really. I’m doing fine on my own.”

“Are you getting rid of anything good?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “How about I let you know when I’m finished.”

“I can go through it with you,” he said. “Come on, I’m totally bored.”

I looked up and down the empty street. “Aren’t there any other little kids around today?”

TJ tipped his helmet back on his head with one hand. “I’m not a little kid,” he said. “I’m in third grade.”

“Listen,” I said. “Anyone I babysit on a regular basis is a little kid. Go find someone else to bother. I’m really busy here.”

“Fine.” TJ’s shoulders slumped as he turned to walk down my driveway. Great. Now his feelings were hurt. I really did not have time for this.

“Hey, T,” I called after him. “How about I make a pile for you to go through later? If I find any cool stuff Phil left behind I’ll give you first pick.”

He shrugged without turning around, but dropped his skateboard on the sidewalk and, with a running start, rolled around the corner and out of sight. I took that as a yes.

Back inside, I felt good, like I was making progress. As I stuffed the boxes full of paper, I grabbed a bag labeled “Scrub City”—Mom’s favorite clothing store. Sure enough, it was filled with colorful nursing scrubs with the tags still on, and I wondered how long ago she’d bought these. I pulled out a shirt that was covered with Simpsons characters all dressed for Christmas—Homer had on a Santa hat and Lisa’s saxophone was covered in lights. Mom always found the most obnoxious scrubs to wear because she said it made her people feel better to look at something cheerful. She never called them her patients, always her “people.” I guess calling them patients would make it more obvious that a lot of them were never going home again. Maybe after, I could take these down to her work and let the other nurses have them. Sort of like Mom’s legacy.

I’d gone down to the hospital with her for one of those “Take Your Daughter to Work” days a couple of years ago. I’d been there lots of times, usually parked at the nurses’ station with a supply of pens and pads of paper with the names of pharmaceutical companies written on the top, but we never stayed more than a couple of minutes—just long enough for her to pick up her paycheck or see to one of her people quickly. I’d spent half a day there once when the daycare lady didn’t show up, but I’d never seen her actually work before.