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A Thousand Lies

By Kathy Cassel

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CHAPTER ONE
I crept down the hall, willing the polished wooden floorboards not to creak, then slipped into my parents’ home office. Originally a third bedroom at the far end of the hall from the other bedrooms, it’s now where my parents, Tim and Patty Collins, store the paperwork for their shop, Collin’s Auto Repair.
It isn’t that I’m not allowed in their office. But my parents might wonder why I was in there at 4 a.m. Especially since I’m not a morning person. Or why I was using only my phone app for light. But I was on a mission, and I hoped the office held what I needed—family photos required for my sociology project.
Mom had said she’d find photos for me. But Dad’s shop had picked up more business in the last couple years and outgrown the small building that housed it. Dad recently purchased a bigger place. Now every spare moment Mom and Dad have is spent packing up their old shop and moving into their new one.
The upside is that they’d hired me to help, so my bank account was a lot larger than it used to be. I’d been saving for a better camera, one I could use for a career in photography. So having a steady paycheck was good. The downside is that our family movie nights had been a lot fewer due to lack of free time.
More importantly right now, the photos for my sociology project were due, and I didn’t have them. Okay, I had a couple photos of my grandparents Mom gave me when I first asked. But when I’d asked for young pictures of myself—as well as of her and Dad—she’d gotten upset, saying she didn’t have any.
I’d already searched the kitchen drawers. Along with utensils, I’d found a variety of notes scribbled on scraps of paper, two combs, several books of matches, community theater tickets, and so on. No photos of any kind.
The family Bible hadn’t yielded any pictures either, and there wasn’t a photo album in sight. Which was what had led to my early morning search.
Before this project, I’d never thought about the lack of family pictures. There’s an 8x10 of me on the living room wall where I’m about a year old. That’s it. If it weren’t for the fact that every person who sees me with Dad tells me I’m the spitting image of my father, I might wonder if the lack of pictures meant I was adopted. But it’s obvious I’m not. My blonde hair, almost white in my baby picture, is the same shade my dad’s used to be. The bigger giveaway is the blue eyes and dimples we share. There’s no denying the shared genetics.
A soft noise in the hallway alerted me that someone else was up. I clicked off my flashlight app and froze. Steps were coming toward me. I quickly dropped to the floor. Crouched out of sight behind the desk, I peeked around the corner, hoping whichever parent it was didn’t notice the office door was open.
Mom padded by in bare feet, headed toward the kitchen. Then the sound of running water filled the silence, followed by that of the pot being put in the coffee maker. Of course. She’d forgotten to set the coffeemaker last night, and dad isn’t human until he’s had his first cup of the day.
As soon as Mom returned to her bedroom, I turned my flashlight app back on and shone it around. Where to start? Sitting in the desk chair, I opened the central drawer. It held pens, paper clips, and other small office supplies. Sliding open the top side drawer, I found electricity and water bills.
The bottom drawer was more of the same, so I moved to the filing cabinet, a standard metal four-drawer model. The top drawer let out a sharp metallic whine when I tried to ease it open. I froze and listened. The house was still silent. Relieved, I tugged harder.
A quick search showed it was full of my old school work. Everything from kindergarten stick-figure drawings to fifth grade spelling tests. The next drawers held my work from middle and high school. Had they saved every project I’d done and every test I’d taken? Still, no photos.
With a sigh, I crouched and tugged at the bottom drawer. It didn’t budge. I yanked harder. Nothing. Was it stuck, or was it locked? Bracing my feet, I grasped the handle and put all my strength into it.
The filing cabinet gave a mighty shudder as the drawer opened. I barely had time to register the lock box it held before a pile of car repair manuals stacked on top of the cabinet began spilling off of it. I jumped up, trying to catch them before they hit the floor.
Too late! In the stillness, the crash sounded like an avalanche. I pushed the drawer shut, then quickly began picking up the manuals and piling them neatly back on top the file cabinet.
Moments later, light filled the room. I shut my eyes and put my hand over them, shielding them from the brightness.
“Bailey! Whatever are you doing?”
I eased my eyes open. Mom stood in front of me in pink Winnie the Pooh pajamas, hands on hips. “I’m trying to find my baby pictures and photos of you and Dad.”
“I told you there aren’t any.” Mom’s voice held a hint of impatience. “I gave you ones of your grandparents.”
“How can there not be any baby photos?”
“We had them on a thumb drive, but it got misplaced.”
“No backup? No external hard drive?”
Mom gave me an exasperated look. “You know Dad and I aren’t up on technology. We only started storing our invoices electronically a few years ago.”
“What about prints of the photos? A family photo album?”
“I always meant to get around to it, but—”
“What do I do about my sociology project? We’re supposed to be creating it in class today. I’ll get a bad grade on what should be a fun assignment.”
Mom sighed. “I have a smaller copy of the portrait on the wall that I can give you. I’m sure your teacher will understand. There are plenty of photos of you a bit older. I can get you those.”
I studied her. Maybe it was the early hour or the news there weren’t any baby pictures for my project, but my brain wasn’t processing well. “I’m not adopted, right? You’re not hiding the real reason there are no photos?”
Mom chuckled. “With the resemblance between you and Dad? You came along after we’d given up on having any children. You’re our miracle child.”
“I know I’m not adopted, but I thought I’d throw it out there anyway,” I said, having heard the miracle child story before. “Are there any photos of you and Dad before I was born? Maybe a wedding photo? One of him in his Navy uniform?”
Mom sighed. “I can tell neither of us is going to get any more sleep. Why don’t you shower and dress, and I’ll make pancakes?”
I nodded and headed toward the bathroom. I showered, then dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt before stepping into the hall. Mom was coming out of the office with three photos.
“These aren’t as good as digital photos. They were taken with a film camera ages ago. But I was able to find one of our wedding day and one of Dad in uniform like you wanted.”
I looked at the photo of Dad. He was certainly in uniform, but he was turned away from the camera, saluting an older man also in uniform. Only his profile was visible. I studied the wedding photo. Mom looked young in her flowing white dress, her face bright. Although I have a strong resemblance to my dad, I don’t share much genetically with my mom.
The last picture was a copy of the large one on the wall. The paper and the picture itself were a better quality than the other photos. I turned it over to look for a studio trademark. Whatever had been written on the back was blacked out. “This one looks professional, but there’s no studio name on it anywhere.”
Mom hesitated, then answered. “It was taken by someone we used to know. She was better with a camera than Dad or me, but we haven’t seen her since you were little.”
“What was written on the back?”
Mom’s eyes furrowed. “Could have been the date it was taken.”
I nodded but doubted it. Why would someone black out a date?
I slid the pictures into a folder in my backpack, questions still filling my mind.

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