Dirty Little Secrets

I was losing control of this situation quickly and had to pull it back if there was ever going to be a chance to look normal to Elaina and the other girls. “No. I would never talk to Auntie Jean. We promised you we wouldn’t.” My stomach was beginning to churn, but I got up from my chair and put my arm around her to try to get her back on my side. “It’s just that some girls wanted to come for a sleepover—you know, for my birthday—and I thought—”

“You thought I was an embarrassment, is that it?” Her eyes were wet around the corners, and I could see she was going to start crying. She shrugged my arm off. “I’ll have you know I work hard for this family just to keep us afloat. No thanks to your deadbeat father, I’m killing myself to keep a roof over all our heads. Maybe other mothers have time to keep their houses spotless because they don’t have to work twelve-hour days and then come home to ungrateful children who can’t manage to pick up after themselves.” She slid her chair back with such force it banged into the sliding glass door. “I don’t need to come home to this kind of pressure, Lucy Anne Tompkins.” Tears were rolling down her face, and she wasn’t doing anything to stop them. “If I’m not good enough for your snotty little girlfriends, then maybe you should find somewhere else to live.”

“Maybe I will,” I said quietly, staring into my napkin. I knew that was like throwing water on a grease fire, but I couldn’t help myself. I was so tired of pretending, of not being good enough.

She inhaled sharply, and put all four legs of the chair back on the ground. “You think so, do you?” she said evenly. “And where would you go? Hmm? Who in the world is going to want an arrogant, whiny, good-for-nothing twelve-year-old baby? Your father?” She laughed. “You really think he wants you ruining his life? His perfect little girlfriend wouldn’t let you in their house for a minute.”

I could feel my cheeks burning. “Auntie Jean would take me,” I said. “She always said she would help us if we needed it.”

“Jean?” Mom said with scorn in her voice. “How often have you heard from Aunt Jean?” She took a deep, labored breath. “You really think she’s going to want to take you in? Trust me, she doesn’t want anything to do with us. Face it, Lucy, I’m all you’ve got left, so you’d better get used to it.” Her face was flushed and she coughed twice.

“I’ll run away,” I said, staring her down. “Anywhere would be better than here.”

“Fine,” she said, her voice raspy. She coughed and then inhaled sharply with a gasp. Her breath rattled in her chest as she tried and failed to fill her lungs with air. Mom’s arms started flailing and her eyes grew wide with panic as the oxygen failed to come. “Inhaler,” she mouthed, pointing to her purse on the floor by the doorway.

“Phil!” I screamed as I dove for her purse. I’d seen Mom’s asthma act up before, but I’d never seen an attack this sudden or this severe. I tore through the contents and found the beige inhaler sitting at the bottom. I shook it as I raced back to her place at the table, where she grabbed for it like a lifeline, Phil standing uselessly wide-eyed next to her. After a couple of hits, her breathing was ragged but successful, and the wild panic in her eyes was replaced by weariness. I stood next to her chair, not knowing what to do next, the feelings of hate mixed with guilt for almost killing her. Several long minutes passed as she gained control of her breathing and I held mine, remembering the words that hung between us.

Mom took one last hit on her inhaler and put it in her pocket. She held her hand out to me, and I helped her up out of her chair, her legs still shaking. She braced herself on the table before letting go and testing her balance, her shoulders squared as she stood up and looked me in the eye. “You do what you want,” she said and paused for breath. “But I won’t be an outcast in my own home.” She took a couple of shallow breaths again. “If you walk out that door . . . you’d better be able to make it on your own . . . because you won’t be welcome back.” She took a few shaky steps out the kitchen door and down the hallway, slamming the door to her room so hard the windows rattled.

I didn’t cry or get upset like I usually did—I just felt a numbness that started in my chest and flowed outward with a strange kind of peace. Slowly and carefully, I picked up our plates and carried them both to the sink. At least now I knew what was possible, and I’d never ask her again. I’d start marking down days on the calendar until I could move out on my own and keep my house the way I wanted, and have people over whenever I wanted. It seemed like forever, but what else was I going to do?

“That went well,” Phil said, grabbing a dish towel from the drawer next to the sink as I ran water for the dishes. “Anyone walking by probably thought so too.”

“Thanks for your support,” I said. “She almost died out here, you know. If it hadn’t been for her inhaler . . .”