Lucy—the roommate who loves to hear herself sing—is rushing around the
living room, gathering keys, shoes, a pair of sunglasses. I’m seated on
the couch, opening up shoeboxes stuffed with some of my old things
from when I lived at home. I grabbed them when I was home for my
father’s funeral this week.
“You work today?” Lucy asks.
“Nope. I have bereavement leave until Monday.”
She stops in her tracks. “Monday?” She scoffs. “Lucky bitch.”
“Yes, Lucy. I’m so lucky my father died.” I say it sarcastically, of
course, but I cringe when I realize it’s not actually very sarcastic.
“You know what I mean,” she mutters. She grabs her purse as she
balances on one foot while sliding her shoe onto the other. “I’m not
coming home tonight. Staying over at Alex’s house.” The door slams
behind her.
We have a lot in common on the surface, but beyond wearing the
same size clothes, being the same age, and both having four-letter
names that start with an L and end with a Y, there’s not much else
there that makes us more than just roommates. I’m okay with that,
though. Other than the incessant singing, she’s pretty tolerable. She’s
clean and she’s gone a lot. Two of the most important qualities in a
roommate.
I’m pulling the lid off the top of one of the shoeboxes when my
cell phone rings. I reach across the couch and grab it. When I see that
it’s my mother, I press my face into the couch and fake-cry into a
throw pillow.
I bring the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
There’s three seconds of silence, and then—“Hello, Lily.”
I sigh and sit back up on the couch. “Hey, Mom.” I’m really
surprised she’s speaking to me. It’s only been one day since the
funeral. That’s 364 days sooner than I expected to hear from her.
“How are you?” I ask.
She sighs dramatically. “Fine,” she says. “Your aunt and uncle went
back to Nebraska this morning. It’ll be my first night alone since . . .”
“You’ll be fine, Mom,” I say, trying to sound confident.
She’s quiet for too long, and then she says, “Lily. I just want you to
know that you shouldn’t be embarrassed about what happened
yesterday.”
I pause. I wasn’t. Not even the slightest bit.
“Everyone freezes up once in a while. I shouldn’t have put that
kind of pressure on you, knowing how hard the day was on you
already. I should have just had your uncle do it.”
I close my eyes. Here she goes again. Covering up what she doesn’t
want to see. Taking blame that isn’t even hers to take. Of course she
convinced herself that I froze up yesterday, and that’s why I refused
to speak. Of course she did. I have half a mind to tell her it wasn’t a
mistake. I didn’t freeze up. I just had nothing great to say about the
unremarkable man she chose to be my father.
But part of me does feel guilty for what I did—specifically because
it’s not something I should have done in the presence of my mother
—so I just accept what she’s doing and go along with it.
“Thanks, Mom. Sorry I choked.”
“It’s fine, Lily. I need to go, I have to run to the insurance of
ce this morning. We have a meeting about your father’s policies. Call me
tomorrow, okay?”
“I will,” I tell her. “Love you, Mom.”
I end the call and toss the phone across the couch. I open the
shoebox on my lap and pull out the contents. On the very top is a
small wooden, hollow heart. I run my fingers over it and remember
the night I was given this heart. As soon as the memory begins to sink
in, I set it aside. Nostalgia is a funny thing.
I move a few old letters and newspaper clippings aside. Beneath all
of it, I find what I was hoping was inside these boxes. And also sort of
hoped wasn’t.
My Ellen Diaries.
I run my hands over them. There are three of them in this box, but
I’d say there are probably eight or nine total. I haven’t read any of
these since the last time I wrote in them.
I refused to admit that I kept a diary when I was younger because
that was so cliché. Instead, I convinced myself that what I was doing
was cool, because it wasn’t technically a diary. I addressed each of my
entries to Ellen DeGeneres, because I began watching her show the
first day it aired in 2003 when I was just a little girl. I watched it every
day after school and was convinced Ellen would love me if she got to
know me. I wrote letters to her regularly until I turned sixteen, but I
wrote them like one would write entries in a diary. Of course I knew
the last thing Ellen DeGeneres probably wanted was a random girl’s
journal entries. Luckily, I never actually sent any in. But I still liked
addressing all the entries to her, so I continued to do that until I
stopped writing in them altogether.
I open another shoebox and find more of them. I sort through them until I
grab the one from when I was fifteen years old. I flip it open, searching
for the day I met Atlas. There wasn’t much that happened in my life worth
writing about before he entered it, but somehow I filled six journals full
before he ever came into the picture.
I swore I’d never read these again, but with the passing of my father,
I’ve been thinking about my childhood a lot. Maybe if I read through these
journals I’ll somehow find a little strength for forgiveness. Although I fear
I’m running the risk of building up even more resentment.
I lie back on the couch and I begin reading.
Dear Ellen,
Before I tell you what happened today, I have a really good idea for a new
segment on your show. It’s called, “Ellen at home.”
...
This is where I start reading through the diaries. I find the one from when
I was 15, the one where I met Atlas. I start reading, and before I know it,
my mother calls again.
