The Truth About Keeping Secrets(33)

Thank God Mom hadn’t watched me open it. She had her back to me, refilling her coffee, which gave me enough time to sneak behind her towards the stairs with the book pressed to the side of my thigh, turned cover-side in. ‘Thanks for everything, Mom,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I love you.’

This was suddenly very real. I could handle texts; my skin had grown so thick that I was practically one big callus.

But this was real-world.

They’d been to my house.

They’d driven to the cul-de-sac, come to my house, put their grubby fingers on my mailbox.

With each encounter with whoever this was, I could feel myself being dragged further away from the shore, forced further into a situation I didn’t ask to be a part of; I was reeling and needed someone to tow me back to solid ground. Someone else needed to know. But who? I couldn’t tell Mom – not after how it had gone the first time. She’d freak out, and in the pit of my stomach I still wanted to believe her that this was some elaborate bullying scheme, that the death of my dad had amplified me into more than a blip on everyone’s radar, and like last time, they’d get bored of me, and this would all go away eventually.

Bea? Could this have been her? I didn’t know. I didn’t think she had the guts to do something like this – but the truth was, I knew nothing about her any more. A lot can change in two years.

I couldn’t tell June. Not now, when everything was going so well. I’d scare her off.

I texted Olivia.

Me: Are you home?

Her: nah. with miles’ fam. his grandma just called me oriental. excuse me miss do i look like a rug

Me: Do you know when you’ll be back

Her: uhhh dunno. we still need to have dinner n stuuuuff

Her: why? are u ok?

Me: I’m mostly fine. Just lemme know when you’re back

Her: affirmative!!

While I waited, Mom and I spent the day watching various festive media in silence until, at one point, she tried to mask a sob with a cough, and when it became painfully apparent that it was, indeed, a sob, she disappeared upstairs. I felt a pull to ask her to please stay, that we could talk about it, but I couldn’t manage to get the words out and I listened to her plod up the stairs, followed by the soft click of her bedroom door.

Later in the day, my phone buzzed again when I wasn’t expecting it. Thanks to what must have been some Pavlovian conditioning, the sound nearly made me jump out of my skin. I checked the name: June.

Her: Merry X-mas Whitaker! From me and Heath. xo

And then a selfie of the both of them smiling, June in a cream turtleneck and Heath in a Santa hat, a stack of cherry-red wrapped presents piled up behind them.

She had thought of me.

Me: You guys too!!

I considered taking a picture to send back but thought better of it (‘Yeah, here I am, alone, in my empty house. Festive.’), and I willed her to say something else, anything else, but she was just giving me well-wishes and everything had run its natural course.

Moments later, Olivia texted me. She was almost back.

I wasn’t totally sure why, but I didn’t really want to see her in the house right now, so I made myself some microwave hot chocolate and found a little spot for myself in the backyard, dusted some spider webs off a linen chair from the garage and lit a fire.

I’d made sure to bring the copy of Healing Homosexuality.

The silence of the cul-de-sac was even more pronounced than usual, and the long shadows cast by the fire and the trees were entirely unsettling, so much so that Olivia made me jump when she arrived.

‘Ho ho ho!’ she said, her words muffled by the comically large scarf wrapped round most of her face. ‘Good holiday tidings.’

I sipped my not-quite-lukewarm hot chocolate just to have something to do with my hands. ‘Hey. Uh, do you want a chair?’

‘Nah, I’m good. I’ve been sitting all day. One big Christmas sit. Miles’s family is huge – like, he has all these little cousins and my God, it was cute at first but we actually watched them open presents for two hours and thirteen minutes, and I know that because I timed it. Oh, look.’ Olivia thrust her wrist into my face, revealing some sort of generally pleasant bracelet.

‘That’s … nice.’

‘Miles got it for me. It’s Pandora. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. I love it. Did you get anything exciting?’

‘Actually …’ I handed her the book.

It seemed to take a second for her eyes to adjust to read the title, because she was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘Oh my God. I knew she was kind of awkward about it, but oh my God.’

‘No, it’s not … it’s not from Mom. It was in my mailbox this morning. Wrapped, with my name on it.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

I stared into the fire and the fire waved back. ‘I am very much not kidding you.’

She flipped it open. Gasped. ‘Have you looked inside?’

My gut twisted. ‘No, what?’

Olivia handed me the open book; I couldn’t quite make out what it was in the dark, but it looked sort of like a newspaper clipping. I leaned in closer while the firelight ricocheted off it when it clicked – Benjamin J. Whitaker, age 46, passed away Monday, September 14th – it was Dad’s obituary.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was pretty sure Olivia was blabbering – there was a shrill buzzing assaulting my left ear – but the anger just bubbled and bubbled and made my hands shake and my nose run.