Dirty Little Secrets

As I passed the corner to Mom’s room, I spotted those scabby suede slippers sticking forlornly out of the sheet. It would only take a minute, I told myself. For some reason it felt like the right thing to do. I inched my way back toward the front of the house and found the box where I’d left it yesterday. Tearing through the tissue paper, I pulled out the new slippers, tucking them under my right arm as I made my way back through the kitchen. I knelt down at her feet and gently pulled the old, worn slippers off, trying not to look at her yellow toenails or her mottled bone white skin while I slipped the new ones on. As I stood up, I squeezed the right foot with my hand. It was as close to a good-bye as I was going to get. I had to keep telling myself it was better this way. I had to believe it.

Setting her old slippers down on my bed, I took a long look around my room. I’d never lived anywhere else, and I knew every crack in the ceiling and worn spot in the carpet. As much as I couldn’t wait to get out of here, I was going to miss it. This was where Mom taught me to sew and where once upon a time we all lived together as a family. I reminded myself that this was also where I lived without a door to my room or hot water for years. I ran my hand over the quilt on my bed and looked at the lunchbox that held my tickets. If I started to think about all the things I wanted to save, I’d never get it done. I had to get started.

I changed into Phil’s old AC/DC concert shirt and gray sweatpants as fast as I could because it was so freezing in here. Grabbing the stinky slippers off the bed, I stood in the doorway and took one last look around. Everything else had to stay. Teddy B. was in a heap on the floor with my jacket, and I felt a pang in my chest. I hadn’t seen him for years, but I felt like he was one link to the past that I wasn’t ready to give up. I grabbed him and stuck him in the waistband of my sweats. I’d stash him someplace safe until it was all over and he could be with me again.

I took a deep breath and turned toward the door. Time to start my after.

chapter 20

5:25 a.m.

Starting the fire was harder than I thought it would be. When Johnny Depp and his sisters burned their house down in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, they took what they wanted out of the house and then poured gasoline over everything else. Gasoline wasn’t part of my plan—I had to use the natural layout of the house to make this place burn beyond recognition while making it look like an accident. And I couldn’t take anything with me.

I plugged the space heater into the extension cord by Mom’s chair, and to my surprise, it started whirring without even needing a smack to get it started. As soon as the coil inside was glowing orange, I placed the heater next to a stack of newspapers and kicked it over just enough so that it was pressed against the flammable pile. I stood back and waited for the flames to burst from the heater and blaze up the wall.

Nothing happened.

I’d always thought that the smallest thing would burn this place down to the ground. We were always worried that a spark from an electrical short or a stove malfunction would send the place up in flames in seconds. Apparently it took a little more effort. I pushed the heater deeper into the stack and stood back, watching for the smallest wisp of smoke to signal success.

I smelled it before I saw it—that faint campfire smell when something starts to burn. Just as the smell registered in my brain, there was a brief burst of smoke before the edge of one of the papers caught fire.

It didn’t roar and it didn’t jump to life—the fire unfolded purposefully before my eyes as if it were an animal that was slowly coming out of hiding, creeping forward and waiting to see if I was going to chase it back into its cave.

I’d been concentrating so hard on starting the fire that once it caught I wasn’t sure exactly what to do. It had to be going really strong before I went for help, so I just watched the flames creep up the stack of newspapers as if they were the yule log we always watched on TV on Christmas mornings. I could see it, I could smell it, and eventually, I could feel the heat from it, but it was like it didn’t really have anything to do with me.

The smoke was starting to gather and swirl at the ceiling as I stepped back into the dining room. It invaded my nostrils and I tried to take short shallow breaths so that it wouldn’t go deeper. I crouched down a little where the air was clearer and hoped that I could still get out easily.

In a fairly short time, the fire knew it was beyond any decision I could make and was quickly spreading in this part of the house. A little zing of panic raced through me as I realized I’d actually done it—the house was really on fire and nothing I could do now would stop it.