We’ve spent hours upon hours clearing out the attic, and if I see another dusty old table or broken snow globe I think I’m gonna explode. I never wanted to do this in the first place. I should have known it was a trap when my parents asked me if I wanted to; that was never a question, but an order. This has got to be the most boring room in the entire house, hence cleaning it is the most tedious task imaginable. Thankfully, we’re almost done.
“I’m gonna make one last trip to the car, and then we can head out to get some lunch,” my mom calls as she heads down the stairs with an armful of hideous porcelain cherubs. Their heavily-lashed eyes stare back at me as I watch her descend. I dust my hands on my jeans (it is so infernally dusty here), and take a final look at our handiwork. The room is almost bare, save for a few boxes of things we thought were better left behind. The rays of the midday sun stream through the tiny window, turning previously-invisible dust particles into dancing specks of light. The hardwood floors are mostly clear, but I can’t help feeling there’s something not in its proper place. After all this monotonous labor, I’d be livid if we forgot anything, so I take a lap.
Rounding the corner of the cardboard citadel, I spot a red ribbon protruding from behind a box. I pull at it and feel it tear. Eventually I’m left holding a two-inch segment with a ripped end. Is that really all? What did I rip this from? I shove the box aside, but there’s nothing behind it, just the wall. I kneel to inspect the molding and notice a few threads poking out of an otherwise inconspicuous crack. With the aid of my dusty fingernails, I pry at the section of baseboard. It’s reluctant to move at first, but eventually I manage to release the panel, revealing a pitch-dark hidden compartment behind it.
Suddenly the attic isn’t so boring. I shine my phone flashlight into the aperture and it reflects off half a dozen leather-bound photo albums. I retrieve them and peer in once again to see if there’s anything more. There’s only one object left, different from all the others and thus more intriguing. It’s a blue and white gingham book with a red ribbon around it—a red ribbon that’s been torn at one end. The inscription on the cover reads Baby Book. But I already have a baby book, and it’s one of the first things we moved to the car.
I remove the rest of the ribbon and lift the upholstered cover. The first few pages just contain grainy pictures of my mom when she was pregnant with me. She looks as if she’s about to burst, and I was born prematurely. Imagine what could have happened if it had been a few more days. I turn the page, wondering what made my parents want to keep this book hidden from me. The next picture is of my mom in a hospital bed, presumably minutes or hours postpartum. She’s holding a tiny bundle—me. My dad’s standing by the side of the bed, holding what looks like a rolled-up towel.
I skip a few pages ahead to reveal a picture of a picnic in a grassy field. Though the photo’s not the best quality, it takes my breath away. There are two toddlers sitting on a blanket, with the same face, the same curly hair, the same laughing eyes. Either one could easily be me, but I’m not sure which one it is. The picture could be a mirror image if not for the fact that my mom’s on one side and my dad’s on the other.
But I’m an only child.