June 10, 1968

Hello again.

Sorry for not writing over the weekend. You know why. I'm a little tipsy right now, but I should be fine.

It's been eight years since we escaped. I can hardly even believe it. I called in sick today, just so I could take the time to myself. It's a lot to go over. It's been the same drill for the last seven years, I suppose, taking the day to reflect on things. I think Chris and Cathy feel the same way, the date nagging at the back of their minds. I'm certain Chris will be seeing today a little different.

What can I say? He came home to visit this weekend. He's doing so well for himself. He wants me to meet his girlfriend. They met at a charity function at school. He showed me a Polaroid of her, I was almost scared she was going to be a carbon copy of Cathy.

But of course. She's a redhead. I'm so, so happy for that.

Given the time of year, I told him everything. Everything about our family tree, everything I endured while they were in the attic, everything that grandmother did or threatened to do. I figured he was old enough to face the truth. He told me that he had his suspicions, but that I only cemented them in place. He was always rather clever.

He in turn told me about everything in the attic. There was a lot he'd previously forgotten to tell me or completely lied about. I really don't blame him. For the longest time he was afraid he was a monster, a freak. He's the furthest from it. Perhaps it was the isolation, perhaps it was in our blood. Over a bottle of wine, we decided that we were going to free ourselves from the sins of our family. We've started fresh and new.

He's going to do so much good in this world. I can taste it. Maybe he'll cure cancer.

This morning a letter from Cathy arrived. She even sent one of her Playbills with her name circled. It's a supporting role, sure, but God is it a start. I can't wait to paste it in a scrapbook right next to Carrie's newspaper stories and Cory's songs he writes. One day her name will be in lights. It's what she deserves. I think they'll all be a little famous. Wouldn't that be the world's greatest slap in the face to Corinne? She always wanted greatness and never worked for it, and her kids are all rising stars.

Well, maybe not me. I was never born to be a star. I don't want to be a star. I'm content sitting right at my desk at work type- type- typing away at reports and memos.

Well, maybe not. I can't ever stop thinking about that Mamas and Papas song. California Dreamin'. That's where all the young people want to be, California. It's where everything is changing, where everything is new, where you can be anybody you want to be, meet anybody you want to meet. It's this wild fantasyland where you can reinvent yourself.

Isn't that just me. Why not take on a fourth identity while I'm at it. Change my name again. Change my face again. Get a new job, take up waitressing or something, find a rockstar to marry, be just outside the spotlight.

Then again, I don't know if I ever want to get married. I know I don't want kids. The thought alone terrifies me.

I'm so damn indecisive nowadays. There's so much I want, so much I have, so much I sacrifice myself for. I can't uproot Carrie or Cory. I know I couldn't ever do that to them. They're 16. I was 15 when this all started. Half their life has been spent living with me, right here in this little town. It would be cruel to move them and change their lives right as they're beginning.

Maybe, just maybe, when they graduate and find their own ways, I can have what I want. I haven't been able to have what I want in eleven years. I can move far, far away from here, so Corinne or Olivia or Lawrence will never be able to find me. I can be me. I can be free. I can forget.

I'm running out of space in this journal. This is the last page. I'll have to get to the store and buy a new one soon. It's probably for the best. I should be getting to bed soon.

Goodnight. I don't know when or if I'll read through this diary again. It'll be right on the shelf, though. Just in case. For the memories.

Sincerely,

Camilla D.