Dirty Little Secrets

It wasn’t a diary—not really. Carefully pasted onto the pages of notebook paper were magazine pictures of different houses. There was a picture of a wide, green lawn with a house perched way off in the distance and a family having a picnic on a postage-stamp-sized blanket. There were dining rooms with long tables where people could linger after a meal and talk about politics or sports. A bedroom with a white canopy bed big enough for a mom and kids to curl up on a Sunday morning and read the newspaper. Every now and then on the page would be something written very carefully in her sprawling handwriting. She’d written “cabinets” next to the page with the rustic kitchen and “knobs” next to a picture of some latches.

I flipped quickly through the rest of the book. Every picture showed a house in pristine photographic condition, the people who lived there smiling at their good luck. There were no clogged sinks, no green bins, and no giant stacks of newspapers.

The notebook wasn’t her diary—it was more intimate than that. They must have been pictures of the house she wanted to have someday. Except that someday never showed up. I ran my fingers over a picture of a wide porch with a swing that was perfect for sitting with an iced tea on a hot summer night. She must have been doing this for years—cutting out pictures of what might have been. This book of possibilities completely ignored the reality of what our lives had become. I knew how she felt because I felt the same way when I thought about my after. Hopeful—which was an emotion our house didn’t see a lot of.

I closed the cover and stared at it. How dare she have dreams while making all of us live like this? She was the parent—she could have done something about it. She was the one with the power to make our lives like the people in the notebook, but instead she buried us all under tons of filth and shame.

I crossed the room, the notebook heavy in my hands. It made me angry and sad at the same time to picture her sitting in her chair late at night carefully pasting other people’s rooms into her dream book. It was a small satisfaction when I tossed the notebook unceremoniously into the trash bin. That’s how much her dreams were worth in the face of my reality.

As I walked back toward the living room, my phone rang. “I’ve been trying to call you,” I said as I flipped the phone open.

“What in the world did you do to Sara?” Phil asked without even bothering to say hello.

“Hey, Lucy,” I imitated, ignoring his question. I was so angry at Mom right now that I needed to take it out on someone. “How are you doing? Was the rest of Christmas okay? Sorry I couldn’t stay longer, but I have my own life now and can’t be bothered with you people anymore.”

“Ha, ha,” he said flatly. “Point taken.” I could hear him draw in a heavy breath, and the sound of some music in the background. “Okay, so how are you? And what in the hell did you do to Sara? I’ve spent the last half hour with her on the phone screaming in my ear about how ungrateful you are, and how I must have put you up to it.”

I should have known Sara would call him. There was a green bin over near the wall, so I went to sit down on it. “I didn’t do anything to her,” I said. “She just came busting in here and started freaking out. You know how she always acts like she owns the place.”

“So you’re not doing what she said?” he asked. I could tell somebody was nearby because he was practically talking in code.

I looked around at the half-full garbage bags. “No.” I hesitated for a second. “Maybe.”

His voice cut out, and I could picture him switching the phone to his other ear. “What do you mean ‘maybe’? Have you been . . . messing with her stuff? You know better than that.”

I could hear another voice in the background. “Where are you, anyway?” I asked. “It sounds like you’re at a party or something.”

“I’m with Jen in the car,” he said. “We’re going up to Tahoe for a couple of days. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I was just straightening up a few things around Mom’s chair when Sara came in and did her usual favorite-daughter routine. It’s no big deal.”

“From the way she was talking, it sounded like you were dragging Dumpsters up to the front door and loading everything into them,” he said. “Have you learned nothing? Leave it alone.”

“I can’t leave it alone.” I said. “Not anymore.”

“Less than two years, Lucy,” he said quietly. “All you have to do is sit tight and wait until you graduate. Then you can do anything you want.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” I said, knowing everything had already been set in motion. As I looked around the room, I wished so badly that he would turn the car around and come help me. He was free to go to Tahoe for the weekend with his girlfriend, but I couldn’t even go meet Josh at a party. I was tired of having it be my turn all the time. My turn to take care of Mom, my turn to worry about the house. When was it going to be my turn to get a life?