Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13 - Saturday CHANGE THE SHEETS DAY
Chapter 14 - Sunday LAUNDRY DAY
Chapter 15 - Monday SHOPPING DAY
Chapter 16 - Tuesday DUST/POLISH DAY
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
“My mom’s gone.”
Liz grabbed my arm. “Gone? What are you talking about?”
I didn’t know. Why had I said that? I didn’t want to go over all the details of Mom and her screwups. Everyone knew her story, that she’d taken off before, but she’d been sober since spring. The longest time ever. I’d believed it was over.
“Did she take off with that guy again? What’s his name, Dubwood or something?” Deb said.
The group laughed.
“That’s what you call him, don’t you, Claude?” she said.
“Oh, man, Claude. I can’t believe she fell off the wagon again,” Cindy said.
“Oh, no,” Liz said. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s how it goes. You knew it would happen,” Matt said.
The floor blurred before me. I saw the broken bottles and I saw the crumbs. The silverware was in piles on the rug, and the spills, the stains, all of it, would be there forever. It was Mom’s M.O. Make a mess and leave it—and leave me, for a while, at least. And when she came back, I’d have it all cleaned up for her, and then we’d act like nothing had ever happened.
Not this time. This time was different. I hadn’t seen this one coming, and now I had a feeling of dread about it. There was a blackness to this that I couldn’t identify.
So I lied.
OTHER BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY
SPEAK
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First published in the United States of America by Dutton Books,
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This Sleuth edition published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008
Copyright © Robin Merrow MacCready, 2006
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TO MUM AND DAD Thanks for giving me spaces and places to dream. Rob
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks go to:
My sister Kate, who was there the night I began Buried. Sitting in Bookland of Brunswick, she said, “Oh my god!” That was all the encouragement I needed. My critique group members: Patty Murray, Sandra Dutton, and Karen Allen. Also, Amanda Russell, who came and went but asked the hard questions. This group never lies and always works for the story. Thanks, friends!
My friend Debbi Michiko Florence, for listening to me grumble and being my e-mail buddy when the dream came true. Oceans won’t keep us apart!
The Edgecomb Eddy School kids and teachers for encouraging me. And special thanks to Tanya Thibault, Terry Mulligan, and Joanne Krawic, who rescued me on more than one occasion. Your patience is endless . . . right?
Authors Alicia Erian, Lea Wait, Maria Testa, Elizabeth Searle, Carol Brightman, Jackie Manning, and Van Reid, who saw something in my words. I believed what you said.
Julia Burns Riley, Ph.D., M.S.W., who gave me the nod of approval that I needed. Thank you.
My editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, who helped me to dig deeper than I thought possible. You are amazing!
Associate editor Sarah Shumway, who answered all my questions—some more than once. Thanks for holding my hand at the end.
Wendy Schmalz, special agent and guide, who steered me through the sometimes murky waters of the publishing world. You never laughed at my questions. My husband, Pete, who supplied endless cups of tea and coffee, and put on the brakes when my fingers began to grow into the keyboard. You had faith in me when I needed it most.
My son Daniel, who kept my iTunes well stocked, and let me know when my memories of high school needed updating. You rock.
My son Forrest, who asked a lot of questions, the kind that helped me get unstuck. You could give Julie a run for her money in the future. You also make a mean sandwich.
I float on angel wings over Mom’s garden. I
dip down to deadhead the flowers and toss them behind the workshop. A sound penetrates the mist, but I ignore it. I glide and dip and toss the flowers onto the mound. The pile grows until it’s a small mountain of purples and golds. I have many more to add before I am done.
Though I’m not finished, I rest on an air current and look toward the beach. The moon has sunk behind the trees, and the sky over the sea is pink and purple, a hint that it is morning in Deep Cove. It’s time to be done.
I reach out for the last bit of wind, tipping my wing like the birds do, and go back to work. With a blossom in each hand, I glide through the morning garden, but a sound pulls me down. Now I’m not floating, I’m falling, and I don’t want to touch the ground. It’s going to hurt. I tuck my feet under me and brace myself for a crash.
1
I JERKED AWAKE AND RAN TO THE PHONE in the kitchen, grabbing it before the machine could pick up. The sniffles on the other end gave away the caller immediately.
“What’s wrong, Liz?” I asked, leaning on the counter. Relief washed over me. I could deal with Liz’s problems.
“I—I can’t do it,” she said. “I just don’t get it—I’ll never get it.” She let out a shaky breath and then sniffed. “Can you meet me at early study hall? Please, Claudine, please?”
“What time is it?” I asked, kicking aside an empty pizza box.
“Almost seven-fifteen.” Sniff.
I looked around the room. Broken beer bottles, overturned ashtrays, and snack foods littered the trailer from end to end. “I might be a little late. I haven’t changed yet.”
“Thank you, thank you. I love you, Claude!”
Shutting my eyes to the mess, I stepped carefully over a half-filled garbage bag. This was typical. Typical of Mom before she stopped drinking. She’d have a party and trash the place, then take off for a while. Last time it was South Carolina with Candy. Later, I’ll get to it later, I thought.
Damn, here we go again.
I went to my bedroom, put on clean jeans, clipped up my lo
ng brown hair with a barrette, and slipped on my clogs. I made my bed and started a wash. At least my room was neat and organized.
Liz and I weren’t the only ones at early study hall, but we found a table alone and sat side by side, the Algebra II book between us.
“Dad’s going to kill me if I don’t pass,” she said. She swallowed a sob and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.
“Liz, you’ve got to get ahold of yourself. You can’t do anything if you give in to every emotion. Especially this,” I said, tapping her paper. “They’re just numbers.” I patted her back. “You do fine in everything else. You’re even in a senior English elective with me this year, and you don’t have trouble with that.”
She shrugged. “This is math.”
“You can do this.”
She twirled her pencil between her fingers like she was bored with my pep talk.
“Take a cold, hard look at the problems and forget about your dad. Don’t feel anything; just think.”
“I hate this.” She took a breath and looked at the page. “I don’t even know what this means,” she said. “Why are there letters and numbers? It doesn’t make sense.”
I explained the quadratic formula and made her a simple problem. She did it without a hitch. I gave her a harder one. She did that. Soon she had three more done, and they were all correct. “Now try the one on the paper.”
“Too hard, Claude.”
“Just try it,” I said.
She bit her bottom lip. “Like the ones I just did, right?”
“Right.”
She did it and then slapped her pencil down. “Done.”
I leaned over her paper and nodded. “You did it.”
“You’re my guardian angel, Claude.”
I thought of my dream. In it I was a falling angel, a crashing angel.
Could I pass as a guardian angel? Maybe.
Seniors were allowed one English elective a semester, and Semester One at Deep Cove High was poetry. Liz leaned toward me across the table we shared.
“Claudine,” she said in a low voice.
My mind was a blank slate. No thoughts came, and for a panicky moment I forgot where I was. I looked up at Mr. Springer, and he nodded to me.
“It’s your turn,” he said.
My heart thumped in my chest. My turn? What was I supposed to be doing?
Liz pointed to the text, and I read each word separately and unrelated to the one before or the one after. When white space appeared, I stopped and looked up at him.
He raised his eyebrows. “Okay,” he said. “For homework, come up with three Maine poets to share tomorrow. Class dismissed.”
Liz was in my face immediately. “What was that? You sound like a zombie.”
“Tired, I guess.”
She looked at my hands. “Helping in your mom’s garden?”
“What?” I looked at my black crescent nails. “Yup.” I picked at them as we headed down the hall toward the double doors.
“Need a ride to group?” Liz asked. We backed up to the lockers as a clutch of noisy girls passed us. “I did that letter-writing exercise last night,” she said.
“That was stupid,” I said. “If you can’t tell the truth face to face, why do it on paper and then throw it away?” Lydia, the facilitator of our group, Teens of Alcoholics, suggested writing our feelings to our alcoholic parent and then throwing the letter away. She thought it would help.
We stepped out into the sunlight, and I set down my backpack to fish out my sunglasses. “I didn’t do it. And I think I’m getting sick of that group.”
“Claude, you’re the one who got me to go in the first place.”
“I’m just not sure I need it anymore.” I started down the granite steps ahead of her.
“You’re lucky,” she said.
I looked back at her suddenly. “Lucky?”
“You’re so over it now. Just last week you were calling your mother twice a day. I need some of whatever you’ve got.”
“It’s just experience, I guess.”
“Will you come anyway? I don’t want to go alone.”
The group met daily at the Community Center near the church, but wasn’t affiliated with any group or any religion. It only offered the promise of anonymity and support. Liz and I went every other day when we could. I’d been going off and on for the last year. Knowing other people had the same problem always helped. But today I felt itchy and claustrophobic.
Every time I came into the high-ceilinged room, a wave of memories hit me and I felt like I was four again—pants dirty, my hair a tangled mess, my nose red and crusty. I went to preschool here. The Blue Bus picked me up and dropped me off every day.
I remembered the long tables and the tiny wooden chairs splattered with paint. This was where I learned how wonderful peanut butter was on graham crackers. This was where I loved to play house and make art. Every morning before snack we gathered in a circle on our mats and had Show-and-Tell. During Choice Time I climbed onstage and ran through the red velvet curtain over and over again just so it would caress my face. Sometimes I just wrapped myself in it and hid.
Now ten metal chairs scraped across the floor as the group gathered in a circle. I sat beside Liz, and Hanna sat beside me. I knew Hanna from school, but we never hung out together. She was captain of the cheerleading team. The clipboards came my way, and I took one. There were two pieces of paper on them: the steps to recovery and the beliefs.
Lydia, our facilitator, held a paper coffee cup and waited for the clipboards to make the rounds. She seemed a little nervous and nitpicky today, nodding as each person took one, like she had someplace to be. As soon as the last person got one, she tucked her red hair behind her ears and sat up straight. “My name’s Lydia, and I’m an adult child of an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Lydia,” the group said.
I jumped. We did this every time, but it snuck up on me today. I alternately clung to my clipboard and picked at my cuticles, hoping for relief.
“As I’ve told you before, I’m just here as a facilitator. I’ll only join in if you need me, or if I see a need.” She looked at me expectantly. “Can you start us today, Claudine?”
I looked at Liz, then back at Lydia. “Okay. I’m Claudine. I’m a child of an alcoholic.” My chair creaked. I sighed.
“Hi, Claudine,” the group said.
I lined up my papers so the edges matched perfectly.
“Let’s go around the room.” By the time the greetings were done, I had to have one of the steps picked out to discuss or another focus for the meeting.
“My name’s Liz, and I’m the daughter of an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Liz,” we said.
Feet shuffled as each member of the group introduced himself or herself.
Matt from English class was also there. He’d come two other times, but when he talked, it was only so he could disagree or scowl at what was being said. The only time he’d ever talked to me was at a junior high dance, and when I’d said I wouldn’t dance with him, he’d punched me in the arm. He was much cuter now, and his long, dark curls fit his bored expression. Now I’d probably dance with him if he asked.
As each person was greeted, my stomach became tighter, and I picked away at my skin as I weighed my options. I could pass a clipboard and have everyone take turns reading a step from the paper, or we could share our experiences with the letter writing. What could I say? I hadn’t done a letter. Three more people. Three more people to go. No, two.
Now Chris wanted to talk about her letter to her mother that she’d torn up. This was supposed to be greetings, not share, but it worked for me. I sat back and crossed my arms.
“Why’d you tear it up?” Matt asked.
Chris shot him a dirty look. “Because I’m not cruel like you. I wrote it for myself, not my mother.”
“You’re just chickenshit,” he said.
“And you’re mean when you don’t need to be.”
I tried to imagine the letter I would
’ve written if I’d done the exercise. My breath caught in my throat. It was almost my turn to speak. One more. Hanna piggybacked on Chris’s comment about how freeing the letter writing was for her.
“But I gave it to my mom,” she said, looking proud.
The group gasped in unison.
“Are you crazy?” Chris said.
Liz covered her mouth.
“It wasn’t bad, really. I just expressed my feelings and told her it hurt me when she drank.” Hanna looked at the floor. “She cried.”
The room grew silent. This wasn’t the cheerleader I knew.
Then all eyes were on me. A chair squeaked on the other side of the circle. My mind went to the scene I’d left at home that morning. I shared the only story I could.
“My mom’s gone.”
Liz grabbed my arm. “Gone? What are you talking about?”
I didn’t know. Why had I said that? I didn’t want to go over all the details of Mom and her screwups. Everyone knew her story, that she’d taken off before, but she’d been sober since spring. The longest time ever. I’d believed it was over.
“Did she take off with that guy again? What’s his name, Dubwood or something?” Deb said.
The group laughed.
“That’s what you call him, don’t you, Claude?” she said.
“Oh, man, Claude. I can’t believe she fell off the wagon again,” Cindy said.
“Oh, no,” Liz said. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s how it goes. You knew it would happen,” Matt said.
The floor blurred before me. I saw the broken bottles and I saw the crumbs. The silverware was in piles on the rug, and the spills, the stains, all of it, would be there forever. It was Mom’s M.O. Make a mess and leave it—and leave me, for a while, at least. And when she came back, I’d have it all cleaned up for her, and then we’d act like nothing had ever happened.
Not this time. This time was different. I hadn’t seen this one coming, and now I had a feeling of dread about it. There was a blackness to this that I couldn’t identify.
So I lied.
Buried Page 1