Not anymore.
Now I’m ready to go home and tackle my mom’s desk.
* * *
My mother’sdesk is neat and tidy. Her computer is in the center and an old-fashioned clock sits on the right side. On the left is a picture of her and Ted on their honeymoon. They wear leis and big smiles.
I flip over the picture so it’s face-down and open the shallow center drawer. Pens, stationery, a small brass key, an old cell phone. Receipts, loose thumbtacks, a phone charger that doesn’t fit the old cell phone.
I close that drawer and pull out a deeper drawer on my right. This one contains neatly labeled hanging files. One-by-one I read through them, touching each label with the tip of my finger.Mortgage, electric, landscaping. On and on they go. Slamming that drawer shut, I turn to my left and reach for the cool brass handle. Maybe this one will yield something.Anything.
More files. My hope deflates like a slow-leaking balloon as I read each label. Who saves their tax documents from the past twenty years? And in separate files, no less.
Water fills my eyes, making it hard to read the remaining labels. It’s useless anyhow, they are all the same. The wordTaxes, followed by a year.
But not the very last one. I blink twice, using the backs of my hands to push away the moisture.
Lennon.
Clear as fucking day. My name.
My heart pounds against my ribcage like an angry fist on a wooden door. My hand flies forward, snatching the file and immediately dropping it as a sharp, hot pain flashes through the top of my middle finger.
“Ow,” I whimper, bringing my fingertip to my mouth and sucking. In a few seconds, the pain lessens, and I pull my finger back and look at it. “Damn paper cut,” I mutter.
This time I’m cautious. I reach out, gently lifting the manila file folder from where it fell and placing it on the desk in front of me.
For a moment I’m still, studying my name written in her cursive. I always liked the way she made her L's. Loopy and feminine.
I open the file and find a sheet of paper, folded in half.
That’s it.
Where are the baby pictures? The mementos? The crayon scribbles?
I grab the paper and unfold it.
I was wrong. It’stwopieces of paper.
Jackpot, I think caustically. The word is bitter on my tongue.
Leaning back in the desk chair, I pull my knees into my chest and begin to read.
Dear Lennon,
First off, I guess I should say welcome home. If you’re reading this, then you must be going through my desk. Which, of course, means I’ve joined the ranks of the dearly departed. What a blessed situation for me to be in. I’m now living with my Lord and Savior. I’m sure going through my belongings is the last thing you want to do. I don’t blame you. I’ve done it once before, I know how difficult it can be. You’re stuck doing it for me, and I had to do it for my sister.
Yes, you read that correctly. I said sister. I was not an only child, as I told you. I’m sorry I lied about that, but I have to admit it wasn’t my only lie. Buckle up, because I’m about to tell you the truth. And the truth starts with my sister.
Penelope was beautiful. Everyone called her Pretty Penny, and she had the shiny personality to go along with the nickname. She was the kind of person you took notice of the second she walked into a room. Penny and I were closer than sisters. Some days I thought maybe we shared the same soul. During my first year of college, our mom died. I did the only thing I could think to do: I dropped out and moved back home to take care of Penny. We had no other family, and even if we did, there’s no way I’d send Penny to live with them. I got a job at the local garden store, and between my earnings and the little bit of money my mom had saved, Penny and I made it through her senior year of high school. I smiled proudly at her graduation, and we shared a look that clearly conveyed how much we missed our mom. I assumed Penny and I would go to college together, taking out loans and working part-time jobs to make ends meet. Penny did not share my plan. She wanted to wait a year to go to school. She complained she was burned out from high school and wanted to delay college.
As it turned out, Penny had a better reason for delaying college. She was pregnant. And not with just anybody’s baby. Penny managed to make a baby with the one person I’d been in love with for years. A love that only Penny knew about, because I’d never had the guts to tell him. She waited until after he’d left town that summer, returning to his fancy university on the east coast, before telling me.
I threatened to tell him, but she begged me not to. I could never deny Penny a darn thing. Maybe that’s how she ended up in such a predicament to begin with. But Penny’s belly wasn’t the only thing growing. Alongside the circumference of her belly, my anger and resentment grew. She held inside her the child of the man I loved, and she never even acknowledged how she had hurt me.
I walked Penny through her pregnancy, and each day I hid my anger.
Penny had the baby. She labored for forty-six hours, and I stayed by her side. I stared down at the tiny baby, legs and arms flailing, mouth open in a scream. I didn’t see Penny fading. The room became a flurry of shouting doctors and nurses. I smelled their fear. If you think emotions don’t have a scent, you’re wrong. Fear smells sour, like curdled milk.
