These Things Hidden

by Heather Gudenkauf

  “Did you take your medicine today?” she asks.

  I throw the covers away from my body and sit up. I snatch the pill bottle and unscrew the lid, making a big production out of holding one capsule up so my grandmother can see it. I toss it into my mouth and give an exaggerated swallow, opening my mouth wide so she can see that it is gone. I know I’m being mean, know my grandmother is just worried about me. I flop back down and cover my face with a pillow, feeling sick and miserable.

  After several minutes, I feel my grandmother pat my leg, rise from the bed and tiptoe out of the room. Then I spit the pill out from under my tongue.

  Allison

  I can hardly believe I got the job at Bookends. Every time I think about getting teary-eyed in front of Mrs. Kelby, I cringe. I have cried more in the past few days than I have in the past twenty-one years. I start tomorrow and I have absolutely zero clothes to wear that would be appropriate for work. Mrs. Kelby has only a few rules about dress code—no jeans, T-shirts or sweatshirts, but that’s all I own. All afternoon I’ve been dialing my parents’ phone number. Finally, my father answers.

  “Hello,” he says. The familiarity of his confident, resonant voice sweeps over me and I clutch the phone more tightly to my ear.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say, the words catching in my throat. “It’s Allison.”

  There’s silence on the other end and I know he’s thinking about what he should do. Should he hang up or talk to me? “I got a job, Dad,” I say in a rush. “In a bookstore, and I was wondering if I could stop home and pick up some of my old clothes. I don’t really have anything dressy enough to wear to work and thought maybe I could go through my closet and see if anything might still fit me. I haven’t really gained any weight and I probably could still wear my old khakis and I had some nice…” I realize I’m rambling and suddenly stop talking. I can hear my father’s breathing from across the line. “Dad, can I please come over?” My hands are sweating and I’ve twisted the phone cord so tightly around my finger it’s turning blue.

  “Dad?” I can hear the pleading in my voice.

  He clears his throat and speaks. “Of course, Allison. Why don’t you come over tonight around six. We’ll see what we can find.” He sounds distracted, faraway. Not cold, but not warm. Not how you might sound if you haven’t talked to your daughter in months.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll see you then. Bye.” I wait for his goodbye but only hear the soft click of the receiver. They just need time to get used to the idea of me being out of prison, of my return to Linden Falls. They just need a little more time.

  As Olene drives down the street I grew up on, it strikes me how little has changed in the five years I’ve been gone. Everything looks just the same. The same well-manicured lawns, the same large, redbrick houses with two-car garages and window boxes. She pulls up in front of my childhood home and a flood of memories rush through me. My mother sitting at the kitchen table, reading through cookbooks, my father working at his desk in the den, me in my room, studying. Brynn tiptoeing through the house, trying not to be noticed.

  “You want me to wait out here for you, Allison?” Olene asks me.

  “No, no, that’s okay,” I tell her. “My dad will give me a ride back.” But I don’t make a move to leave the car. Olene looks at me expectantly.

  “Allison?” Olene pats me on the knee. “Go and see your parents. It won’t be as bad as you think.”

  I give her a faint smile. “Thanks, Olene. You don’t know my parents.”

  “They were tough on you? Knocked you around a bit?” Olene questions. “You’re an adult now. They can’t hurt you.”

  “They didn’t beat me,” I tell her with a laugh. “Not with their fists.”

  “Then what?” she asks.

  “It’s hard to explain,” I say, putting my hand on the door handle. “I was perfect.”

  “And…”

  “And then I wasn’t.” I push open the car door, step out and wave goodbye. Then I trudge up the path, feeling all of ten years old again.

  When I get to the front door, I hesitate. I don’t know whether I should ring the bell or just walk in. I haven’t been here in five years; I don’t know my place anymore. If I even have a place here. Finally, I press the bell. After a few moments I hear footsteps and my father opens the door. “Hi, Dad,” I say shyly and step forward to hug him. I feel him go rigid and I drop my arms. He looks at me uncomfortably. He’s still the same tall, handsome man I remember, but I’m surprised at the amount of weight he has gained, the way his belly pushes against the fabric of his dress shirt. His brown hair has grayed and thinned and there are sagging pouches of skin beneath his eyes. I peer over his shoulder, looking for my mother. “Is Mom home?”

  “She’s not here right now,” he says, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. I see several cardboard boxes on the floor behind him.

  “Oh,” I say in a small voice, realization dawning on me. There isn’t going to be any dinner with my parents, no rummaging through my closet with my mother for my clothes. I think of my old bedroom, with its walls painted soft lavender and my polka-dotted comforter. I loved that room. It was a refuge for me. A place where I could just be.

  “Can I help you carry the boxes to your car?” my dad asks with forced cheerfulness.

  “I don’t have a car, Dad,” I say shortly. “I just got of prison. I don’t have a car, or clothes or anything.”

  “Oh, well.” His face becomes pained. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

  “Don’t bother,” I mutter, and turn away from him, feeling my heart pinch. Then I quickly turn back toward him. “I want to see it,” I say. My father looks confused and I continue. “I want to see my room.”

  “Allison,” my father says with an awkward chuckle. I push past him, step into the house and look around. I move into the formal living room and everything appears to be the same as it was five years ago. The same floral wallpaper on the walls, the same sofa and love seat, the same grand piano. Even the smell is the same. A mixture of rose petals and cinnamon. But something is off, something is different—I just can’t see what it is yet. “Allison,” my father says again. This time his voice is hard, cold. “What are you doing?”

  I ignore him and begin to climb the staircase that leads up to my bedroom. The carpet is soft beneath my feet and the mahogany banister feels smooth and cool against the palm of my hand. I stop suddenly and I know—I know what’s different. The pictures. The pictures are all gone. Every single photo of me is gone. I continue to move slowly up the stairs. My legs feel heavy and my heart is hammering in my chest.

  “Allison,” my father calls after me. “You can’t just come in here…” His voice trails off as I reach the top of the steps and turn down the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. The air up here feels stale and presses on me even more heavily than when I was in prison and I push down the urge to dash back down the stairs and out into the fresh air. The door to my bedroom is shut. I reach out for the knob, twist, and it opens with a click. The weak evening sun doesn’t soften the shock. Gone are the lavender walls, replaced with stark white paint, gone is my polka-dotted comforter, gone is my desk for studying, gone are my soccer trophies, my blue ribbons, my team pictures, my bookshelves, my stuffed animals. All gone. I choke back a sob and lunge toward my closet and fling open the door. Empty. No clothes, no shoes, no boxes filled with keepsakes. I’ve been erased.

  As I stumble from my bedroom and into the hallway I see the door of my parents’ bedroom, open a crack, and catch a glimpse of my mother, her face mostly hidden in the shadows.

  As I rush down the block I keep expecting to hear them call my name or feel a hand on my arm. But nothing. They’re just letting me walk away. I’m angry at myself for being so heartbroken, but I am. I walk for several blocks. Gertrude House is about five miles from my parents’ home and I wonder if I can make it there by eight o’clock, the time Olene is expecting me. I hear a car creeping up behind me and I turn. It’s my father and my stomach
flips with hope even though I’m irritated with myself for caring.

  “Allison,” he says through the open window, “I’ll give you a ride.” Even though I want to open the car door and get in, I don’t want to make it too easy for him.

  “It’s obvious you and Mom don’t want anything to do with me, so don’t bother.” I begin to walk in the direction of Gertrude House again.

  My father follows me slowly in his car. “Allison,” he calls, “I’ll only say it one more time. Please get in the car.” I look at him long and hard, then climb in beside him. He turns off the ignition and looks over at me, rubs his face. “Allison, please look at this from our point of view. This has been very hard on us.”

  “But I’m—” I begin, and he cuts me off.

  “Let me finish. This has been very difficult for your mother and me. We’ve finally found some…” My father looks at me pleadingly. “Some peace.”

  He wants me to let them off the hook, to say I understand why they have completely written me off. In a way, I do, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. They are done with me. Finished.

  “Okay, Dad. I get it.” I smile sadly. “Tell Mom I understand.” My father breathes out a stream of air and begins to drive. When we pull up in front of Gertrude House my father pops open the trunk.

  “Do you need help with the boxes?” he asks.

  “No, I can do it,” I say, and I can see he is relieved. I pull out each of the boxes filled with clothes and set them on the curb next to me. “Thanks, Dad,” I tell him. “Say hi to Mom for me.”

  “I will,” he assures me as he retrieves his billfold from his pocket and pulls out several bills. “Here, take this.”

  “You don’t have to,” I say.

  “No, please. We want you to have it.” He presses the wad of cash into my hand. “Good luck with your new job.”

  “Thanks,” I manage to say, and my throat aches with emotion as I watch him pull away. I stand there for the longest time until I feel a hand on my arm. I turn around, expecting to see Olene, but it’s Bea. With her is Tabatha, piercings and all.

  “You okay?” Bea asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say, brushing away tears, hoping that they couldn’t see them. Bea bends down and with her wiry, strong arms picks up a box and then Tabatha does the same. In fact, I’m not fine. Not at all.

  Charm

  Charm stops at the grocery store and picks up an apple pie from the bakery case and a carton of vanilla ice cream. She considers buying the cheapest generic brand of ice cream she can find, seeing as she’ll probably end up leaving Reanne’s before dessert. But her mother will be all light and air and will wonder sweetly out loud if Gus and Charm are having financial difficulties and what a shame that would be, since Gus got the house in their divorce. Charm knows she couldn’t splurge for the expensive ice cream, either; her mother would think she was putting on airs. No Häagen-Dazs tonight. Charm settles on a midpriced half gallon of French vanilla.

  Reanne greets Charm at the door with a big hug. Binks takes the pie and ice cream from her hands and pats her awkwardly on the shoulder.

  “It’s so good to see you, Charm,” Reanne says. She has put on weight. Her curves have turned to chub and her hair, rather than sun-streaked, looks brittle and overprocessed. Fine lines have settled beneath her eyes and her makeup has bled into the crevices. Charm resists the urge to wet her finger and wipe it away.

  Her mother has gone to a lot of trouble. The small kitchen table is covered with a floral cloth and candles are lit.

  “Wow,” Charm says, taking it all in. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Just you come in and sit down. Dinner is ready. Let’s eat it while it’s hot,” she says, nudging her toward the table.

  “Okay, okay.” Charm laughs guardedly as she takes a seat. “It smells really good,” she offers charitably.

  “You’ll have to thank Binks for the chicken. He made that. But I made the potatoes. Mashed, just the way you like them!”

  Charm feels a sudden pang of regret. Gus is at home with only the hospice volunteer to look after him. “Those are Gus’s favorite, too.”

  Reanne quickly glances at Binks to see if he caught the comment, but he’s busy forking the chicken onto plates. She waits until he sits down and the dishes of food have been passed around. Charm takes a few bites. The chicken is dry and she struggles to swallow. Binks smiles and nods at Reanne and she wiggles in her seat as if bursting to speak.

  “What?” Charm asks, fearful of the response.

  “Binks and I are getting married!” Reanne screeches with happiness, and Charm finds a smile frozen to her face. She tries to make her lips move but nothing happens. Binks and Reanne look at her expectantly.

  “Wow,” Charm says softly. Suddenly the need to get out of this tiny apartment with its greasy, cigarette-infused air and kitschy knickknacks is overwhelming.

  “And…?” Her mother leans toward Charm, waiting for more. Binks is looking down at his plate. Mashed potatoes are stuck to his mustache.

  “And…I’m happy for you,” Charm says, the quivering ripple in her voice betraying her. All she can think of was how badly Gus wanted to marry her mother. This amazingly kind, responsible, handsome man loved her mother, but she had walked away. “Congratulations,” Charm finishes weakly.

  “You’re not,” Reanne says petulantly. “You’re not happy. You cannot stand to see me doing well.”

  “Mom,” Charms says tiredly. “That’s not it. I am happy for you. I’m just surprised.”

  “Surprised? Surprised at what, Charm?” She is angry now. “Surprised that I am in love and getting married? After all I’ve been through, I thought at least you’d be understanding!”

  “What you’ve been through?” Charm says incredulously, though she knows it will do no good to get upset. Her mother will twist it, make Charm seem like the ungrateful, spiteful one. “What you’ve been through,” Charm says again, more softly this time. “You are absolutely unbelievable, Mother. Pardon me for being a little skeptical about you finally settling down with one man. It’s not exactly what you’re known for.”

  “Now, Charm,” Binks says reasonably. “No need to be disrespectful.”

  “You know what’s disrespectful?” Charm says in a dangerously low voice. “Disrespectful is bringing man after man into your home so that your children have no idea who will be sitting at the breakfast table the next morning. Disrespectful is allowing men into your house who make moves on your nine-year-old daughter!” Reanne looks confused for a moment, as if running through each of her former boyfriends, trying to figure out which one preferred Charm to her. “Disrespectful is raising your child to believe that men are stupid cattle that can be tossed aside like garbage. Disrespectful is divorcing the one decent man who loved you and your children, breaking his heart completely. That is disrespectful.” Charm pushes her chair back from the table and stands.

  “You’re leaving?” Reanne asks in disbelief. “We haven’t finished eating. We haven’t talked about your brother yet.”

  “I’m through talking,” Charm says, looking levelly at her mother. She moves to the door and changes her mind. She knows it’s childish, but she can’t stop herself. She walks to the refrigerator, calmly opens the freezer door and retrieves the half gallon of ice cream. She and Gus will eat the ice cream tonight. She won’t tell Gus about her mother’s upcoming wedding. Instead, she’ll tell him that her mother seemed miserable, lonely, that she asked after how he was doing. “Have a happy life.” Charm tries to muster as much goodwill as she can, but it comes out bitterly. She leaves, her mother and Binks staring after her, mouths gaping open.

  Charm is still shaking with anger when she arrives home, not sure why the news of their upcoming marriage has made her so upset. She suspects that it has to do with how the news will hurt Gus’s feelings. She peeks in on Gus, who is fast asleep, and then decides to go for a walk along the Druid River. She loves this place. In the fall, she sits under the locust trees,
their small yellow leaves falling around her like canary feathers. In the winter she would walk for miles, the cold air making her eyes water, her boots leaving bigfoot-size prints in her wake.

  Years ago, when Charm was twelve, she made an army of snow angels, one for each of the men her mother had brought home—the ones she could remember, anyway. With her finger she wrote the initials of each man next to the angel. If she couldn’t remember the man’s name, she wrote down what she remembered about them. C.B. stood for the man who wore cowboy boots. She was six, and didn’t even recall seeing the actual man. Just the boots lying at the floor of her mother’s bedroom. Gray and scaly, in the dark they looked like they were guarding the room, ready to strike. When she stood and looked down at her work, the rows and rows of angels imprinted in the snow, Charm felt satisfied somehow. The only thing that was missing was a little red spot in the center of each angel. A broken heart. Charm’s mother was always the one who left, never the guy. She kept them wanting more.

  After walking along the river until her anger cools, Charm goes back into the house and once again looks in on Gus. He doesn’t stir. She tiptoes to her bedroom and pulls out the shoe box she has kept hidden in her dresser drawer for years.

  In the shoe box, she keeps the few mementos of their time with the baby. Less than three weeks. A lifetime ago. Every once in a while she sits on her bed and fingers each of the items. First there’s a pair of tiny baby socks that are a soft periwinkle blue. They were too big for his tiny feet and looked clownish on him. When he kicked out his legs, the socks would slide off his feet and he would wriggle his toes as if saying, Ahh, this is better. But they were his socks and he had worn them, even for a short time, so they were special. Also in the box is the wrist rattle shaped like a bumblebee and a tiny blue Chicago Cubs baseball cap. Finally, there are the two small, framed photos. One shows Charm, looking incredibly young and incredibly exhausted as she holds a crying, red-faced baby. The other is of Gus, smiling, holding a quiet, sleeping infant. She knows she will never be able to tell him about the first two days of his life. That he was loved by a fifteen-year-old girl and a sick man who had no idea what they were doing, but who tried and tried until they couldn’t.