The Secrets We Keep

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The Secrets We Keep Page 6

by Nikki Lee Taylor


  In the year since she was diagnosed, my mother’s condition deteriorated significantly. The cancer had not responded to chemo, and within three months of her bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy to remove the original mass, it returned with a vengeance. Within eight months, it spread to her spleen, liver, and intestines. Within ten months she was diagnosed as Stage IV or what they call the final mesothelioma stage. It was terminal. They gave her a year.

  With the bill for her treatment already over $185,000, my parents’ savings were gone, and my father had taken a second mortgage. Her oncologist advised that the best thing to do was in-home palliative care. We agreed. The only problem was that we had no money left.

  When my father went to the store, I skyped my brother David to see if he had any ideas on what to do next. “It’s Mom,” I told him, when his face filled the screen. “I don’t know what to do.”

  David had a thick neck, and his jaw, my dad used to say, was made for breaking fists. He also had a habit of leaning in so close during our video chats that his face looked like it was coming through the screen. “Is it money?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “As in, we have none.”

  “Right.” He nodded, and for the first time in two years fell back in his chair, allowing me to see his entire torso.

  “You look good,” I managed. “Everything alright over there?”

  “It’s as expected I s’pose. I mean, it’s messed-up, but it’s Afghanistan, so….”

  I nodded, and rubbed at my right temple. “Any ideas about Mom?”

  “How much do we need?”

  “How long is a piece of string? I mean, she needs palliative care so she can stay at home for as long as possible, before she goes into hospice. But it’s about $100 per day, and the VA is still saying no, because of Dad. We can’t use private medical, because they didn’t have oncology care as part of their premium.”

  “Well, why not,” he snapped.

  “Because, David, she’s 48. Jesus, it’s not like you think you’re going to get terminal cancer that young.”

  “I know. Sorry Soph, I didn’t mean it like that. I hate being stuck over here with all that’s going on at home. I mean, what if….”

  “You’ll be back in time, don’t think like that,” I told him. “She might have ages yet. You don’t know.”

  “So, how much for now? Just to get us out of trouble.”

  “I don’t know. Like, around $17,000. That would cover probably six months of palliative care. After that, we can re-assess whether she needs to be in hospice.”

  He groaned, and ran a hand through his hair. In the background, men and women dressed in camos buzzed back and forth. “Shit, Soph, I just don’t have that kind of money.”

  My last hope, dashed. “Me either. So, what do we do?”

  He swore, and trained his eyes on something in the distance. A tactic so as not to cry in front of his little sister.

  “David, you should know, Dad is—”

  “I can imagine.”

  “No, you can’t,” I said. “It’s worse than that.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad. And it’s not just that. He’s back on the drink and—”

  A voice boomed in the background, calling my brother to the comms room. “Shit, Soph, I gotta run. I’ll call back when I can.”

  And then he was gone.

  My brother’s military health cover didn’t lend itself to parental medical care. My father’s medical cover and pension had been cancelled as part of the Marine Corps findings, as had any benefits for my mother. Results of BRCA1 and BRCA2 genetic testing I had done on the advice of my mother’s oncologist had identified a gene fault. It meant there was a 30-to-60 percent chance for me of developing breast cancer and a 20 percent chance of developing ovarian cancer. In other words, there was every chance that if I waited too long then children might not be on the cards. That made me a twenty-one-year-old student who would spend her only savings, a grand total of $8,000, having thirteen eggs harvested and cryogenically frozen. Those thoughts plagued me most when I looked at my mother, knowing how much she needed care that none of us could provide.

  My parents’ house was a two-story cottage on Horseshoe Road in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania, with a magnolia tree in the front garden, and the shape of our hands forever imprinted in the concrete of the garage floor.

  In the sunroom, my mother had fallen asleep. I leaned on the doorframe, and watched her breathing slowly in and out, sunlight warming her face. Moments like these made it easy to pretend we were still a normal family, that my mother wasn’t dying, and that my father, who was in perfect health, hadn’t already become a ghost.

  The silence was broken when he came in from the store, a brown paper bag of groceries balanced in the crook of his arm and his fingers clutched around the neck of another bottle of scotch.

  “Did you pick up Mom’s medication?” I asked.

  The paper bag dropped onto the counter, a glass bottle of milk rolling out and smashing on the tiles. “Jesus, Dad,” I hissed. “Mom’s sleeping.”

  “Christ….” He sighed and looked down at the mess. “I’ll go back and get another one.”

  “Forget it. I’ll go to the corner store. Did you get Mom’s tablets?”

  “Yeah, I got ’em. You talk to your brother?”

  He might be drunk, but he would still know if I lied. “I did. David said he doesn’t have the money either.”

  “Damned if I know what to do, then.”

  “Dad, you can’t talk like that. We can’t just say ‘to hell with it.’ It’s Mom’s life.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” He took a glass from the top cupboard, and cracked open the bottle of Scotch.

  “It’s not even 1pm.”

  “Does it matter?”

  His body was so limp that I couldn’t tell if he was drunk already, or if even his bones had surrendered in trying to hold him up. “You drove home like this?” I said. “Where were you, at the pub again?”

  He drained the glass in one mouthful, and slammed it down on the counter. “Well, the upside is that if I close my eyes, I can’t tell the difference between you and your mother. You both sound the damned same.”

  Tears burned, and I bit my lip. “Okay, Dad, have it your way. I’ll find the money for Mom. Just forget it.”

  “Sure, kid. Whatever you say.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared at him. “You believed in being accountable once. It’s all you ever drummed into our heads. What happened to you?”

  He just shrugged, and turned away. “Life happened, I guess. Gets us all eventually. You’ll see.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Madelyn-May

  When a week passes with no more threatening emails, I begin to relax. Clearly the sender was just another crazy, who has since got themselves caught up in whatever the next crazy thing is that crazy people do.

  In the living room, Bastian and the twins are sprawled out across the carpet, watching a movie. Harlow’s wrist rests gently on the lip of the popcorn bowl, and Harry’s legs are spread out like a wishbone. They are the perfect family. Every mother’s dream. But once again, I find myself hovering in the doorway, like an uninvited guest.

  For the past week, I have been a bad person, a cold mother, and a distant wife. Instead of coming right home after work, I spend hours driving around, without calling or checking in. Lost in the past, my demons hitching a ride, dark streets and unknown neighborhoods call to me, and caring little for my family, I answer.

  Anything to avoid going home.

  The first few nights, Bastian waited up, frantic over where I’d been, but by the fourth consecutive night, when I returned the house was silent and still, the warm kitchen light turned out. It hasn’t been my intention to make his life difficult. It was that damned email, pulling me back to the one place I have tried so desperately to escape. Staying in motion feels like the only way to keep my mind from imploding. Like, if I dare to sit still, the pas
t might finally catch up with me.

  “You want to watch with us?” Harry turns and asks, his face glowing with the promise of second chances.

  “Sure, if I’m allowed?” I glance at Bastian.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he says in mock protest. “What do you think, kids? Is Mom allowed?”

  I’m grateful he never holds a grudge. If I am the distance, Bastian is always the bridge. But to my surprise, Harlow shakes her head. “No, I don’t want her to watch. The movie is just for us.”

  “Harlow,” Bastian gently scolds, “that’s not very nice.”

  “Well, she’s not very nice either.” Harlow is up on her feet, and staring at me, her arms folded defiantly across her chest.

  Beside her, Bastian bites his lip, and I can’t be sure whether it’s to stop himself from scolding her, or to hide the first hint of a smile. I know he wouldn’t find it funny, but there’s every chance he might think it’s deserved.

  “Well, how about I come over and be nice now?” I try. “Would you let me watch with you guys?”

  Her face softens, and I can see she wants to concede, but what she does next is like a knife in my heart. Instead of answering for herself, she looks to Bastian. It’s such a tiny gesture, innocent, and void of any harsh words or temper tantrums. There is no cursing or name-calling, just a look, but it speaks volumes. She needs his approval to allow me in. Is it safe? Without uttering a word, that’s what she is asking: Dad, is it safe? The honest answer, and the one that fills my husband’s eyes, is: No, she is not safe – but I am. He is their loving parent, while I am a shadow that haunts them. But Bastian simply smiles, and rests his forehead against hers. It is as beautiful as it is painful. He whispers something in her ear, and she reluctantly nods.

  “Go on then,” he encourages her.

  “You can watch with us,” she tells me, her eyes cast downward. “I suppose.”

  He always has my back when it comes to the kids, although I strongly suspect it’s more for their benefit than mine. I mouth him a thank you. He shrugs, and turns back to the television. I’m in. For now.

  We’ve been watching the movie for about thirty minutes when the gate intercom buzzes. It’s unusual for anyone to turn up at our property unannounced, and I always have packages delivered to the office. Looking for an explanation, I turn to Bastian. “Are you expecting someone?”

  But he shakes his head. “No, not me.”

  I stare at him for a minute, just to be sure, then get to my feet, and look at the camera screen.

  The chubby face of a delivery man looks back. “Package.”

  “For?”

  He looks down at the screen of his device. “Madelyn-May Marozzi.”

  I pause, and try to gather my thoughts. “What is it?”

  “Look like I got X-ray vision to you, lady?” he snaps into the camera. “It’s a package.”

  “And I have to sign for it?”

  “What’s going on?” Bastian calls from the living room. “Who is it?”

  “It’s a delivery,”’ I call back. “It must have been addressed here by mistake. I’ll take care of it.”

  My finger hovers over the gate release, visions of the email returning to haunt me. “Who is the sender?”

  “Come on, lady,” the driver whines. “It’s only my business who it’s to, and far as I can tell, that’s you.”

  “Well, it’s certainly my business,” I tell him, “and I’m not buzzing you, or anyone else, into my property unless you tell me the name of the sender.”

  “Fine,” he sighs, “you win. The sender is Mom and Bub Babywear. That good enough for you?”

  I press the button, and watch through the window as the delivery man’s ample shape bobs up and down, closer and closer, until he is full-size and standing on my porch.

  “All good?” Bastian calls.

  I sign the delivery man’s device, and try to look apologetic. “You have to be sure these days.”

  He rolls his eyes and hands me the box. “Whatever you say, lady.”

  I close the door behind him, and remember to answer Bastian. “Everything’s fine. I’ll just run this up to my office.”

  No one has ever sent me a work package to our home. Had I refused delivery, Bastian would have asked questions, the kind I couldn’t answer – but something isn’t right about the box. I can feel it in the twist of my gut.

  Upstairs I take a deep breath, stretch my shoulders, and begin cutting off the tape. At first, all I can see inside is packaging, but as I dig deeper, I brush the corner of a small box made of cardboard. The moment I see it, my breath catches, and the room begins to spin. A book of matches. Without thinking, I immediately throw it onto the floor, anything to get some distance from it. There is no note, no message, but the matches say all they need to. Someone knows about the fire.

  “Everything okay up here?” Bastian pokes his head around the door.

  At the sound of his voice, I leap in my seat. “Jesus, you scared me.”

  The book of matches lying in the middle of the floor catches his eye, and he leans over to pick them up.

  “No, don’t touch them!” I shout. “Leave them!”

  “What the hell, Madelyn-May?” He pulls away, as though his fingers have already been burned. “Why would you leave a box of matches lying around where the kids can get them?”

  “I’ll pick them up,” I tell him. “Just leave them where they are.”

  He steps back, but stares at me in confusion. “You’re not making any sense Madelyn-May. What the hell is going on? Why are there matches in the middle of the floor?”

  If his fingers close around those matches, the two worlds I have spent my life trying to keep apart will collide. That life, those secrets. He’s so much better than all of that, and I don’t want him anywhere near my hotbed of lies. “I need a minute,” I tell him. “Okay? I know you must think I’m being crazy and strange, but please Bastian. I. just. need. a. minute. Alright?”

  “You know what?” he says, disappointment heavy in his eyes. “It’s not alright. I’ve been running this ship alone for what feels like forever, but for at least the past week while you just disappear. For a tiny moment downstairs, when you came to watch that movie wth us, I thought maybe, just maybe, you were coming around. But now this.” He throws up his arms. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Madelyn-May, but I’ve had enough.”

  “I know, but—”

  “No, you don’t know,” he snaps. “But you will.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means now it’s my turn to disappear for a while.”

  “What? You wouldn’t—”

  “I need a break. For a while, it’s your turn to take care of the twins. You are their mother, after all.”

  I stare in silence as he turns and walks toward the door. ““I’ll be back when I’m ready,” he says over his shoulder. “Until then, at least just try to look after them.”

  Downstairs the front door closes with a thud, and Harlow starts to cry. A voice in my head tells me I should go to her, but my body refuses to move. Instead I sit at my desk, and stare vacantly at the matchbook lying on the floor. How do they know?

  At some point the crying must have stopped, because the house is silent when Harry sneaks his chubby face around the corner.

  “Mom, Harlow’s saying she’s hungry. You want me to go ahead and heat something up for her?”

  “I’m sorry, buddy,” I manage. “I’ll come down now.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  He is growing so fast. It feels like just yesterday he couldn’t tie his own shoelace. “Don’t thank me, honey. I’m your Mom, I’m supposed to take care of you.”

  “Yeah,” he shrugs, “but we know that’s Dad’s job.”

  I stare back at him, words failing me.

  “I didn’t mean…,” he stammers. “…I just meant—”

  “It’s okay, buddy. Daddy loves taking care of you, but you know what? So do I. So let�
��s go make some dinner, huh?”

  “Can you make hotdogs?”

  “Let’s not get crazy,” I grin. “How about I order a pizza?”

  On the way out of the room, I scoop up the book of matches, and tuck them inside my desk drawer. I am not a child anymore. I’m an adult, and tonight I need to think about people other than myself. For now, the matches and whoever sent them will have to wait.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Madelyn-May 1996

  On the day of my fourteenth birthday, I became a teenager and a woman all at once. Seeing that bright red stain in my underwear was the happiest moment of my life. It was over. He would never touch me again. Unlike Mercy, who was lucky enough to get her first period when she was 10-and-a-half, my body had refused to allow me the same escape. When my blessed period finally came, I had been Daddy’s ‘little girl’ for five years.

  On the day it happened, I decided not to change my underwear. I thought maybe if I left the soiled ones on, even though it was totally gross, he would know not to touch me down there anymore. He said himself that he’d stopped visiting Mercy after she got her first period, so if he curled his fingers around my underwear and found blood, I would be safe.

  But that day Mom wanted to do a wash, and when I took off my underwear, she shrieked out loud. “You got your first period! Oh, Madelyn-May, that is so great. Good girl.”

  It was the first time I ever saw her genuinely smile, and the first time she ever told me I was a good girl. I wanted so badly to take credit for the accomplishment, but it had kinda happened all on its own.

  “You hear that, Bobby-Ray?” Mom shouted out. “Madelyn-May got her period.”

  “Did she just…,” he mumbled between swigs of beer. “Well ain’t that somethin’.”

  “It is something, you big dope. Now go pick up those tools off the bedroom floor. And quit being so damned lazy. That isn’t where they go, and you know it.”

 

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