Draanen Wendelin Van - Flipped

This was insane! What was I doing?

I made myself shut out the light and go to bed. I was slipping, man, and it was definitely time to get a grip.

I’d never been embarrassed by where we lived before. I’d never looked at our house, or even our side of the street, and said, Oh! I wish we lived in the new development—those houses are so much newer, so much better! This is where I’d grown up. This was my home.

I was aware of the yard, sure. My mother had grumbled about it for years. But it was a low grumbling, not worthy of deep concern. Or so I’d supposed. But maybe I should have wondered. Why let the outside go and keep the inside so nice? It was spotless inside our house. Except for the boys’ room, that is. Mom gave up on that after she discovered the snake. If they were old enough to adopt a snake, she told my brothers, they were old enough to clean their own room. Matt and Mike translated this to keep the door closed, and became quite diligent about doing just that.

Besides the yard, I also never really wondered about the money, or the apparent lack thereof. I knew we weren’t rich, but I didn’t feel like I was missing anything. Anything you could buy, anyway.

Matt and Mike did ask for things a lot, but even though my mother would tell them, No, boys, we just can’t afford that, I took this to mean, No, boys, you don’t deserve that, or, No, boys, you don’t really need that. It wasn’t until Bryce called our home a complete dive that I started really seeing things.

It wasn’t just the yard. It was my dad’s truck, my mother’s car, the family bike that was more rust than steel, and the fact that when we did buy something new, it always seemed to come from a second-time-around store. Plus, we never went on vacation. Ever.

Why was that? My father was the hardest-working man in the world, and my mother worked for TempService doing secretarial jobs whenever she could. What was all that hard work about if this is where it got you?

Asking my parents whether we were poor seemed incredibly impolite. But as the days went by, I knew I had to ask. Just had to. Every day I’d ride home from school on our rusty bike, pull past the broken fence and patchy yard, and think, Tonight. I’ll ask them tonight.

But then I wouldn’t ask them. I just didn’t know how.

Then one day I had an idea. A way to talk to them about it and maybe help out a little, too. And since my brothers were working at the music store that night, and nobody was saying much of anything at the table, I took a deep breath and said, “I was thinking, you know, that it wouldn’t be hard to fix up the front yard if I could get some nails and a hammer and maybe some paint? And how much does grass seed cost? It can’t be that much, right? I could plant a lawn, and maybe even some flowers?”

My parents stopped eating and stared at me.

“I know how to use a saw and a hammer—it could be, you know, a project.”

My mother quit looking at me and stared at my father, instead.

My father sighed and said, “The yard is not our responsibility, Julianna.”

“It’s… it’s not?”

He shook his head and said, “It’s Mr. Finnegan’s.”

“Who’s Mr. Finnegan?”

“The man who owns this house.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “What?”

My father cleared his throat and said, “The landlord.”

“You mean we don’t own this house?”

They looked at each other, having some private wordless conversation I couldn’t decipher. Finally my father said, “I didn’t realize you didn’t know that.”

“But… but that doesn’t make sense! Aren’t landlords supposed to come and do things? Like fix the roof when it leaks and clear the drains when they’re plugged? You always do that stuff, Dad. Why do you do it when he’s supposed to?”

“Because,” he sighed, “it’s easier than asking him for help.”

“But if—”

“And,” my father interrupted me, “it keeps him from raising the rent.”

“But… ”

My mother reached over and took my hand. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry if this is a shock. I guess we always thought you knew.”

“But what about the yard? Why keep up the inside but not the outside?”

My father frowned and said, “When we signed the lease, he assured us he would fix the fences, front and back, and plant sod in the front yard. Obviously that never happened.” He shook his head. “It’s a major undertaking, and fencing is not cheap. I can’t see putting that sort of investment into a property that’s not ours. Plus, it’s the principle of the thing.”

“But we live here,” I whispered, “and it looks so bad.”

My father studied me. “Julianna, what happened?”

“Nothing, Daddy,” I said, but he knew I was lying.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, “tell me.”

I knew what he’d say if I told him, and yet I couldn’t not tell him. Not with the way he was looking at me. So I took a deep breath and said, “The Loskis have been throwing my eggs away because they were afraid they’d have salmonella because our yard is such a mess.”

My father said, “Oh, that’s ridiculous,” but my mother gasped, “What?” Then she cried, “Did Patsy say that?”

I looked down. “No, Bryce did.”

“But it must’ve been a family discussion! A boy doesn’t come up with that on his own…!” My mother looked for all the world like a doe waiting to be shot through the heart. She covered her face with her hands and said, “I can’t go on like this! Robert, things have got to change. They’ve just got to!”

“Trina, you know I’m doing the best I can. I’m sorry about the yard, I’m sorry about the situation. This isn’t the picture I had for my life, either, but sometimes you have to sacrifice for what’s right.”

My mother looked up from her hands and said, “This is not right for our family. Your daughter is suffering because we won’t fix up our own yard.”

“It’s not our yard.”

“How can you say that? Robert, wake up! We have lived here for twelve years. It’s not temporary anymore! If we ever want to have a decent place with our own yard, if we’re going to help the kids through college or do any of the other things we’ve promised each other, we’re going to have to move him into government care.”

My father let out a deep sigh and whispered, “We’ve discussed this so many times, Trina. In the end you always agree that keeping him at Greenhaven is the right thing to do.”

I wanted to say, Wait! What are you talking about? Who are you talking about? But the conversation was flying so fast and furious that I couldn’t seem to break in, and it wasn’t long before they were bickering so badly that it was almost like I wasn’t there.

Then in the back of my mind, it clicked. Everything clicked. It was my dad’s brother they were talking about. My uncle. David.

To me Uncle David was only a name. Someone my parents had explained to me, but not someone I’d ever actually met. And even though I knew my dad visited him, I never knew exactly when. He never talked about it.

Dad also thought we shouldn’t talk about Uncle David to others because David was retarded. “People jump to conclusions,” he’d told me. “They assume that, by association, something must also be wrong with you. Trust me, I know.”

So we didn’t talk about it. Not at home, not with friends. It was almost like there was no Uncle David.

Until now. Now he felt larger than life, and I could tell from their argument that he was the reason we didn’t have our own house; he was the reason we didn’t have nice cars or fancy things. He was the reason there always seemed to be a cloud of weariness hanging over my parents.

Why did I have to bring up the yard in the first place? I’d never seen my parents fight like this. Ever. I wanted to grab them and say, Stop it! Stop it! You love each other! You do! But I just sat there with tears streaming down my face.

My mother stopped suddenly and whispered, “We should not be doing this in front of her!”

“I’m sorry, Julianna,” my dad said, then reached over and held my forearm. “Don’t cry. None of this is your fault. We’ll work it out, I promise we will.”

My mother tried to laugh through her tears, saying, “We always have, and we always will.”

That night my parents came into my room and talked to me, one at a time. My father talked about his brother and how much he loved him and how he’d promised his parents he’d always take care of him. My mother talked about how much she loved my father for his strength and kind heart, about dreams and reality, and the need to count your blessings. And she made me cry all over again when she kissed me goodnight and whispered that of all her many blessings, I was her best and brightest.

I felt sorry for my father. I felt sorry for my mother. But most of all I felt lucky for me that they were mine.

And in the morning, as I rode my rusty bike out the driveway to school, I promised myself that when I got home, I’d tackle the yard. Rented or not, this was our home, and I was going to help make living here better.

As it turns out, this was easier thought than done. First it took me half an hour of rummaging through the garage to find a hammer and a box of nails, a saw, and some pruners. Then it took another half hour of standing around to figure out just where to start. The actual yard was just clumps of weeds, but what about the bordering shrubs? Should I dig them up, or prune them way back? Were they shrubs, or just overgrown weeds? And what about the fence? Should I knock it down, or rebuild it? Maybe I should take out the front end entirely and use the wood to fix up the sides.