Dirty Little Secrets - C. J. Omololu [20]
I checked my watch. Eleven thirty on a Tuesday morning. The only people who would really be around were old Mrs. Raj next door and maybe TJ from across the street, unless his mom put him in some sort of day camp during vacation. I decided going out the front was worth the risk—mainly because I had no other choice.
As I set the box down behind the garage, I felt like I had begun to accomplish something. I was even sweating from the exertion, despite the cold weather, so I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of the front doorknob as I came back in.
I was feeling even more accomplished as I hauled the next box out the front door. I heard the skateboard wheels scraping the concrete before I saw him.
“Hey,” TJ said as he kicked the back of his skateboard so it landed in his hand. “Whatcha doin’?”
I shifted the weight of the box to my hip and turned to him. “Just some cleaning.”
“My mom always does that after Christmas so she can make room for the new stuff,” he said.
“Well, there you go.” I turned to walk away.
“Can I help?” he asked.
I sighed and stopped walking. I really liked him, but the last thing I needed was a kid hanging around asking questions. “No, TJ. Not really. I’m doing fine on my own.”
“Are you getting rid of anything good?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “How about I let you know when I’m finished.”
“I can go through it with you,” he said. “Come on, I’m totally bored.”
I looked up and down the empty street. “Aren’t there any other little kids around today?”
TJ tipped his helmet back on his head with one hand. “I’m not a little kid,” he said. “I’m in third grade.”
“Listen,” I said. “Anyone I babysit on a regular basis is a little kid. Go find someone else to bother. I’m really busy here.”
“Fine.” TJ’s shoulders slumped as he turned to walk down my driveway. Great. Now his feelings were hurt. I really did not have time for this.
“Hey, T,” I called after him. “How about I make a pile for you to go through later? If I find any cool stuff Phil left behind I’ll give you first pick.”
He shrugged without turning around, but dropped his skateboard on the sidewalk and, with a running start, rolled around the corner and out of sight. I took that as a yes.
Back inside, I felt good, like I was making progress. As I stuffed the boxes full of paper, I grabbed a bag labeled “Scrub City”—Mom’s favorite clothing store. Sure enough, it was filled with colorful nursing scrubs with the tags still on, and I wondered how long ago she’d bought these. I pulled out a shirt that was covered with Simpsons characters all dressed for Christmas—Homer had on a Santa hat and Lisa’s saxophone was covered in lights. Mom always found the most obnoxious scrubs to wear because she said it made her people feel better to look at something cheerful. She never called them her patients, always her “people.” I guess calling them patients would make it more obvious that a lot of them were never going home again. Maybe after, I could take these down to her work and let the other nurses have them. Sort of like Mom’s legacy.
I’d gone down to the hospital with her for one of those “Take Your Daughter to Work” days a couple of years ago. I’d been there lots of times, usually parked at the nurses’ station with a supply of pens and pads of paper with the names of