When I was a kid, my family went to a lot of garage sales. You find the coolest stuff—to a kid, anyway. Lava lamps, old joke books, cigar boxes—these things are treasures when you’re single digits.
One Saturday morning, I was wandering someone’s lawn of junk while my mom haggled over second-hand clothes. I usually looked for books, though I was still learning to read. I liked the way they smelled, liked the crisp type on the yellowing pages. Every one felt like a treasure chest, and you never knew what would be inside.
But what caught my eye that day wasn’t a book. Instead, I happened across an old, honest-to-God, ink ribbon typewriter.
My mom was skeptical when I tugged on her sleeve and pointed to the clunky machine, but I suppose my enthusiasm convinced her. After a few more minutes of haggling, we left with a box full of clothes, a scuffed pair of shoes, and the typewriter in tow.
*
I loved that thing. I spent hours typing away, giggling with glee every time the type guide slid home with a ding! Spelling wasn’t one of my strong suits, so what I produced was barely comprehensible, but it didn’t dampen my joy a bit.
Eventually, the ink ribbon ran out. I begged my mom to buy another, but she refused. Instead, the typewriter went into the closet, and eventually, I forgot about it.
*
My mother kept everything. “Packrat,” is what she used to call herself. I understand it—when you’re scraping by your whole life, you don’t want to get rid of something you might need one day.
But it means cleaning out a house takes a long time.
I didn’t find the typewriter until a few weeks in. It was sitting on the top shelf of the hall closet, nostalgic and neglected. Despite my recent grief, I smiled seeing it. There were good memories in this place, buried under the pain.
I took it down, and with it came a rain of pages. The typewriter had sat on top of a pile of paper, now scattered around my feet. Some of the pages were fresh as untouched snow. Others were yellowed and wrinkled. But—I discovered as I picked them up—they were all blank.
Shuffling them into line, I brought them to the kitchen for safekeeping. And there, under the old iron chandelier, I realized there were indentions.
Someone had written on them, but not in ink.
Curious, I dug around in the junk drawer until I found a pencil. Starting with the oldest page, I gently shaded over the indentations, revealing the hidden words.
They were disjointed, some letters and even whole words missing. But the jist of it remained.
don t know why I ev n try with th t girl. S metimes I jus thi k ab ut driv ng aw y in the mid le of night and nev r coming ba k. She d wake up and wond r where I gone Wou d she cry If sh did she d deserv it
My mouth went dry. I kept shading, revealing more messages, accumulated over years.
Lit le c nt thinks she s al that Who doe she think she s struttin around in that tiny sk rt like a whor
Why did I ha e a kid It s only mad my life wo se I can t go anywhe e or do any hing I wish she d never be n born
Ka la s been in the hosp tal for thre we ks and it s been so nice arou d the ho se wit out her S metimes I dre m she di d and I wak up and I m disappointed I was thinkin ab ut putt ng so ething in her food maybe blea h but that d mn nurse is so nosy She s always a king what I m doing and goin on and o about how swe t K yla is I just wa t to say Well then YOU be her mot er then
In the end, I sat at the center of 53 papers, filled from end to end with hidden vitriol, finally revealed after 30 years.
I guess I never really knew my mother after all.