Dirty Little Secrets

“Ouch! Shit!”

I jumped back from the car and flapped my hand around. My finger stung like hell—and when I looked at it, I saw why. My nail had broken lifting a suitcase. Just another reason why coming back to Santa Monica was a mistake. If I’d stayed in Charlotte, at least all ten of my nails would still be intact.

I sucked on my finger to soothe the sting and glanced through the back window of the car. Milka was still asleep, thankfully. If she was awake and caught me cussing there, she’d be shouting, “Mama! Bad!” and following it up with a few excited rounds of the bad word.

I breathed a sigh of relief and moved back to the trunk. I gave the offending suitcase one last tug and it flied out of the car. The gravel crunched as it hit the floor, and I jumped to the side. 

I pulled the envelope the lawyer gave me out of the glove box and dug for the key. I found it hiding between the creased papers, and with another glance at Mila in the backseat, I walked to the front door.

I hesitated, taking a deep breath in. I hadn’t been to this house for two and a half years, much less been inside it. I had no idea what state it was in since Dad died nine months ago.

I just knew that I had put this off as long as humanly possible.

My hands were shaking as I shoved the key in the door and turned it, and I swallowed hard. The door creaked as I pushed against it, the sound almost ominous. My gut told me to run because, holy shit, there could be all kinds of zombies and crap in here waiting for me!

Thankfully, my brain was more rational and told me to step inside, and that I clearly needed to lay off The Walking Dead.

It was exactly the same as I remembered. The same childhood pictures were hanging on the walls. Of my mom crouched behind me, hugging me. Of Dad and my brother, Paul, holding up a huge salmon from the time they went fishing. Of me and Dad on my fifth birthday, me in a flouncy princess dress. Of me, Paul, and our parents at one of his baseball games, in the last photo we’d ever take together.

The same patterned rug I remember was running along the front hall, the corners slightly turned up from age, and, God, it was freakin’ awful. Only elderly women should have flowered rugs in their house.

It still smelled the same—like lavender and warm towels fresh from the dryer. I closed my eyes and breathed in. Hell. I wasn’t there enough. I should have been there more. No matter that Dad went to the hospice in Charlotte to be closer to me instead of going to Burns. No matter that he came to me.

I was too selfish to go to him when he needed me.

I dropped my head back and blinked harshly. No tears. He made that clear. He told me days before he died that when I came back to Santa Monica, I couldn’t cry. I wasn’t allowed to, because the happy memories were the best ones.

He told me that I was not allowed to think of him lying in the hospital bed, too weak to even lift a glass of water to his lips, his eyes sunken and his cheeks hollowed. I had to think of him healthy, smiling, cradling his newborn granddaughter in his arms. I had to think of him making homemade pizza and trying to be both mom and dad for pretty much my whole life.

It would be easier to think that way if it didn’t feel quite so empty without him in this house.

“Mama! Mommmmy! Where you?”

“Crap,” I muttered, turning back outside. And here I was, hoping I could get our bags inside before she woke up. I guess that’s what I get for effing around in the hallway.

I pulled open the car door and smiled. “Hey, baby girl! Did you have a good nap?”

“Out! Out!” Milka raised her chubby arms.

“Okay, okay, hang on.” I unbuckled her seat belt and lifted her out.

She kicked her legs, and I placed her down on the drive. She pointed to the house, so I nodded with a smile.

“Go near those stairs and you’re on the naughty step!” I warned as she ran towards the open door.

I slammed the trunk down and grabbed the two largest suitcases. I yanked them behind me, and by the time I got to the door, my fingers burnt like hell.

“I said stay away from those stairs, Milka Hudson!” I called, closing the door behind me. She ignored me, and I quickly let go of the bag to sweep her up and away from the staircase. “Here.” I pulled her dolly from the bag and gave it to her.

She followed me when I opened the door to the living room. I closed my eyes as I was assaulted by childhood memories for the second time. Of my mom, of my dad, of hiding behind the sofa and jumping out at Paul and making him yell. Of tearing open presents on Christmas morning and finding hidden eggs on Easter Sunday.

I took a deep breath and moved to the windows. I opened one to help eliminate the faint musty smell that was hanging around. This room was almost stale from not being lived in, a stark contrast to the last time I was here. Our next stop would be the store, to get cleaning stuff.

Automatically, my eyes flitted to the little girl babbling to her dolly.

Being scared to leave this house was dumb. Like a kid that’s too afraid to get out of bed because of the monsters they imagined were underneath. But I had to leave sooner or later.

But . . . I didn’t move. I stood where I was, staring at her.

I was in awe of her innocence. I wished I could see the world as simply as she did. She was completely unaware of my inner turmoil, of how torn I was. So many lives could be turned upside down in the blink of an eye, merely because of her existence.

I turned on the television to silence my thoughts and flicked straight to a music channel. It was a reflex now. My fingers moved automatically to the buttons that would take us there.

The cable was still working despite it being nine months since Dad died. I knew because I had paid for it ever since, waiting for the time when I’d grow big enough balls to come home.

Home. Now, it was. Mine, again.

When Dad died and the will was being read, Paul called from Afghanistan and gave his share of the house to me. He had his apartment, and he had decided, by himself, that me and Milka will get more use from this house. That we’d get more use out of living rent-free than he would—and he was right. After all, I only had a couple hundred bucks left from my waitressing job in Charlotte. After that, I had to live off my inheritance. The one thing I definitely didn’t want to do.

So the house wass bigger than we needed, but it had a huge yard for Milka to play in. That was sure as hell something my tiny, two-bed, city apartment didn’t have.