Buried

by Robin Merrow MacCready

  “I guess it’s about time she got it under control.”

  “Yup. It’s about time.”

  “Can you fill in when I need someone?”

  “Just call me.”

  I hung up and went to Mom’s room, dragging the vacuum behind me. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room, trying to remember if I’d done the ceiling yet. A lone buzz came from the vacuum. He sounded pissed off, like he didn’t like being alone. Under the shade, another fly threw himself against the window. Without leaving the bed, I pointed the wand at the fly and turned the vacuum on.

  “Now you’re not alone,” I said.

  Then I did the walls and ceiling while I stood in the middle of her bed. Even though the floor had been done, I did it again, this time reaching under the bed with the hose. A metallic clink went up the hose and into the vacuum. Fear ripped through me. My hand shook as I turned it off. I leaned the vacuum against the wall and shut the door.

  I lined up five pages of the application form on the kitchen table, evening up the pages with the edge of the kitchen table. Then I began reading. The first page said I’d been nominated by Ms. Frost, a staff member of the high school. It said I qualified for a full scholarship to the state university, but I needed to fill in all the requested information and write a four-page essay.

  Ms. Frost knew the problems I was dealing with. She’d witnessed one of Mom’s binges firsthand at last year’s Spring Banquet. I was a junior and had made High Honors in English, the only one with an A+ average.

  Liz and her mother had noticed that Mom was drunk and offered to sit with her in the back of the room while I received the award. Even with several hundred people in the auditorium, her cries still reached me.

  “My baby, my only baby. You’re such an angel, my princess. Why are you so good to me, Claudine?”

  The hum of disapproving voices grew in the audience until Ms. Frost finally took her out to the lobby. On the way out, I heard her go on and on.

  “You have no idea how good Claudine is to me. She does everything.” Even while the people in the audience clapped for me, they craned their necks to watch my mother as she was escorted out. As I sat on the stage, I tried to read the minds of the parents. What were they thinking? Was it pity? Disgust? They were probably shaking their heads in disbelief at how the same woman who made gorgeous dried-flower wreaths also made a drunken scene. Well, she does live in a trailer, someone might have said. And you know, she doesn’t have a husband.

  After that night, Mom made a deal with me to go on a health regime. All health food, exercise, and no alcohol. She was fabulous from last May to August.

  I filled in the first line, printing carefully. APPLICANT: CLAUDINE MARIE CARBONNEAU.

  The phone rang, jolting me from the task. It was Liz. “Have you started?”

  “Started?”

  “Springer’s homework. The poet biographies. We’re having a quiz on Thursday.” I could hear her crunching on something. I looked at the clock. It was after six, and I hadn’t eaten since lunch.

  “Did I miss something?”

  “No, it’s on the assignment schedule.” She rustled a paper. “The one that’s due September twenty-first.”

  “I haven’t done it.” I had four pages to go on the application.

  “I haven’t either. I’ll pick you up at the mailbox.”

  I touched each page, counting. One, two, three, four, five.

  Deep Cove Library was open until nine. We only needed to find and photocopy some information.

  Liz was on one end of the poetry stack, and I was at the other. “You’re kind of out of it again. Maybe you should stay with us while your mom’s gone.”

  “Don’t tell your parents about Mom being at rehab.”

  “Too late, already did.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. I was worried about you. Mom looked to heaven and crossed herself and said something about praying for her.”

  “Sounds like your mom, but tell her no thanks.”

  I settled at a long table with two biographies. Liz thunked a pile of books down across from me. I looked at her, flipping through pages on Coatsworth.

  “You know she means well,” she said. Liz looked so together, effortlessly pretty, happy.

  I couldn’t help staring. Liz, you have it all, I thought.

  “Did you say something?” she asked, tucking her straight blond hair behind her ear.

  “I was just thinking how much I wish I was you.”

  “Even though my mother would drive you nuts.” She crossed her eyes.

  I stacked my books so the spines were even. “Even though.” I peeled off all the colored Post-it flags from my dividers and arranged them in a row on the edge of the long table. “Things are just harder than they used to be,” I said.

  “What’s up?” Liz said, leaning in.

  I rehearsed the possibilities in my head: Yeah, Mom took off again. She’s with Gary. She fell off the wagon. Again. Left me to take care of myself, yet again. And she didn’t clean up her mess, as usual. No, Liz, the rehab program was just wishful thinking.

  “Nothing’s up,” I said.

  “Nothing except that your mom’s at the top rehab program in the state.”

  I rearranged the Post-its from lightest to darkest. I almost had all the colors of the rainbow, but I needed a dark blue. I searched my binder pouches.

  “Claudine, maybe I never told you, but I’ve always wanted your brains,” she said.

  I zipped up the binder without looking at her.

  “You know that, Claude. Ever since second grade. And the help you gave me on that math assignment yesterday, that was exactly what I needed. And the help you’ll be giving me on that health report . . . you’ll help me, won’t you? Look at me, Claude.”

  “Yeah,” I said, tapping my head. “My brains, your looks. What a package.”

  “What are you saying, Claude? You’re pretty. You just—”

  “I need a bath, right?” I said, remembering Nurse Gooch and the teasing on the bus.

  “Oh my god, are you a little PMS? I was about to say that confidence is all you need. You’ve kind of lost yours.”

  I nodded like I was considering it, but it was easy for her to say. Everything was in place for her. Even with only average SATs, she’d still be going to the college of her choice.

  And now that I didn’t have to deal with Mom at home, and with the application for the scholarship, maybe I’d be going, too.

  At home, when I should’ve been working on my poet biography or the application, I wrote another letter, the kind I wanted to burn.

  Dear Mom,

  Okay, so if you decide to come back, there are going to be some changes. Here are the rules:

  1. Say “Thank you” when you should, like when Mrs. MacPhee gives us something, or “No, thank you” if you don’t want it. (You always joke or make a wiseass crack instead, and that’s embarrassing. You aren’t that funny, Mom.)

  2. Be a clean drunk. Like Mr. MacPhee. Man, it’s embarrassing when you’re slouched over Linwood or Candy or slurring your words. Why do you do that???

  3. Let me know when and where you’re going. Make a plan; don’t just disappear. It’s rude to take off without telling anyone.

  You can start now. If you’re out in some big rig with Gary the trucker, a call would be nice. It would be considerate. I actually worry when I don’t hear from you. There’s a dark something inside me, and it wakes me up at night and makes me scared for you, so call me, please.

  —Claude

  3

  AT LUNCHTIME LIZ DROPPED HER LUNCH BAG beside me and said, “Are we on for after school?”

  “Yeah, my place,” I said, lining up my baby carrots evenly. One, two, three, four, five. I ate one.

  “I’ll bring what I started for health, and we can look at the notes for the poetry quiz.”

  “What quiz?”

  “What quiz? The one tomorrow. It’s prep for the test.”

>   “Hmm.” I touched each carrot, then ate one. Three left. “Liz, do you think it’s bad to give someone a lot of chances?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. What if you tried and tried to make it work and just got so tired, you couldn’t do it anymore?” One, two, three, eat one, two left.

  “Love changes things. Maybe your mom and Linwood need a break. And nobody makes good decisions when they’re emotional.”

  I washed down the carrot with my spring water, but I really wanted Liz’s Diet Coke.

  “How’d you get so smart, Liz?” I said.

  “I have smart friends. Also, Dad and I were talking last night. He’s not so bad sometimes.”

  One, two, eat one, one left. I loved the last carrot. It was sweeter, tastier, special.

  The warning bell rang, and Liz stood, grabbed her wrappers, and popped my carrot into her mouth.

  I looked at the place where the carrot had been and then at her. Heat tingled under my cheeks.

  “What?” she said, jaw grinding up and down. “Did you want that? It took you so long to eat them. Sorry. I figured you weren’t so into them.”

  I couldn’t speak. I waved her off and headed for the line out of the cafeteria.

  “Claude, it was just a carrot.” She leaned on me. “I’ll buy you a new bag, an economy-size bag, a whole farm!” She squeezed me tightly.

  I shook my head and looked up at the lights. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, picking the skin at my fingertips. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. She took the last one. My last carrot. I had to have more.

  On the way to group, Liz stopped so I could get a bag of baby carrots.

  “You, my friend, are a nut. You need to eat more puff pastry and less vegetables!” She opened a raspberry cream pie and offered me the first bite.

  I shook my head. “You don’t know where that’s been, Liz.”

  She pulled onto the road. “It’s been in a nice clean machine, Claude. Take a bite.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. I held out a handful of carrots to her before she could stick her hand in the bag. “You never know who might have sneezed into the cream filling.”

  She held up her hand in stop sign fashion. “No, I’ve had my limit. And robots don’t sneeze.”

  Liz started off the group by saying she wanted to hear what people thought about the letter-writing thing.

  Stupid, I said to myself.

  Matt said, “Why write it down and burn it or whatever? Why not just say it?” He kicked out his legs and crossed them.

  I had to agree. It seemed like a wasted step, but then Mom wasn’t around to talk about this stuff. And even if she were around, she wouldn’t listen—not when she was drunk.

  “I like it,” Hanna said. “I need the space to think. On the paper, you know? It helped me to figure out that I’m not as upset with Dad as I thought.”

  Lydia was watching, but I couldn’t tell how she felt. She was such a stone face. Blake was another one, but he always looked a little sad. But it could just be the extra folds of fat in his face.

  “Well, I like it, too,” Liz said. “I wrote a ton of letters and threw out each one. They started angry and didn’t make any sense at all. Just a bunch of screams on paper, I guess.” She laughed and a few others did, too. “Then I started talking to myself. It was so cool. I think I get what I’m upset about now.” She sat back and grinned.

  “So, what about you?” Matt asked.

  Liz poked me with her elbow.

  “What?”

  “Matt asked you about your letters.”

  “Oh. Well, before Mom left for rehab, I forgot to tell her how proud I was that she was making such a big commitment. So I used the letter as a way to write it all down. Maybe I’ll send it to her at Jackson Heights.”

  “Wow, Claude, you’re lucky to have a parent who gets it,” Deb said.

  “Well, it’s been a few years of back and forth. So I guess it’s finally time. She’s doing well. I heard from her last night. She left a message on the machine.” I shifted in my seat and looked at the group.

  “You didn’t tell me that!” Liz said. “That’s great!”

  There were nods, and even Blake managed to curve the edges of his mouth into a grin. Everyone was smiling at me. Except for Matt.

  After group we took the long way around the beach, around Deep Cove and Mother’s Beach, with the windows rolled down and the music turned up, feeling the last bit of summer in the air. Already the wind had shifted, and we were getting hints of fall storms, but the lightness of the sky still said summertime.

  “Last year was so easy,” Liz said. She turned down the radio.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “What changed?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked away.

  “Claude, you’ve known my dad a long time. Why do you think he won’t stop drinking?”

  “Actually he doesn’t drink that much, only till he reaches his Pleasure Zone, right?”

  She downshifted and turned onto Beach Avenue. “He used to do that, but now it’s more and more.”

  “You want to borrow that book with the exercises in it?”

  “Maybe.” She closed the window. “I guess.”

  “Remind me when we get inside.”

  “Maybe I just need to talk to him. Like you and your mom did.”

  An unexpected lump filled my throat, and I swallowed hard as we turned the corner of Sea Spray Acres, pulled over, and parked in front of the trailer.

  “Thanks for helping me with this report. I’d be dead without you.”

  I stared out the windshield at the nose of Mom’s white VW, parked like she’d never even left. My heart thudded, and for a second I thought she might be home.

  “Claude?” Liz shook my shoulder. “Claude?”

  “It’s nothing.” I got out of the car and walked to the steps.

  Liz lagged behind, looking out at the garden. “Wow, I haven’t been here since—”

  “Forever?”

  “Yeah, since that time—” she said.

  “That time you came to pick me up for a sleepover and Mom was smashed out of her mind and tried to hug you and you freaked out and waited in your van with your freaked-out mother.”

  She laughed. “I was a little surprised, that’s all.” She stepped closer to the garden. “But wow,” she said, looking around. “When did she do all this? She really pulled it together.”

  After that episode with the hugging, I’d banned Liz from the trailer and always had her pick me up at the seawall. I never invited anyone over when Mom was drinking. Just like Liz never invited anyone over unless her dad was in his Pleasure Zone.

  The giant sunflowers nodded against the trailer, covering the rust. In front of them were hollyhocks, mallow, and a crawling yellow flower that filled in the empty spots. The individual beds of herbs, perennials, and annuals spread out from there, spilling over onto the paths that connected the beds to the workshop.

  “She does okay in the summer,” I said. “Better than before, anyway.” I remembered the trailer during the bad times: shades down, filled with smoke, Mom’s unwashed hair and rumpled clothes. A million years ago, it seemed.

  But this time I walked up the steps and opened the trailer door without a trace of anxiety. “Come on in.”

  “Wow, this place looks incredible,” she said. “What’d you do to it?”

  “I cleaned it out. No big deal.” I caught her staring at my red hands, and I put them in my pockets. “Put your stuff anywhere,” I said.

  Liz threw her coat and backpack on the couch and went to the kitchen. “Can I get a drink?” she asked.

  I told her where the soda was and asked her to bring the brownies I’d made. I moved her things off the couch, hung her coat on a hook, and put her backpack out of the way of traffic. The slipcover had come out of the cracks of the couch and I straightened it out. When I turned around, Liz was staring at me.

  “What?” I said.

&
nbsp; “You’re every mother’s dream,” she said.

  We sat cross-legged on the floor and ate brownies and talked about guys and who was with whom this year. Every once in a while I got a jolt of panic and wondered if Mom was going to blow in with Linwood or Candy or Gary and settle in to party, but then I remembered that it was just me and I laughed a little louder, felt a little happier. It was like having my own apartment.

  “While you’re in this great mood, Claude, can you get me started?”

  “Oh, yeah, no problem.” I spread her notes out on the floor and took a look.

  “I have to write a report for health about a current topic.”

  “You mean like cloning,” I said.

  “Like any current topic,” she said. “But it has to be written”—she made quotation marks in the air—“through the lens of a scientist.”

  “It’s obvious, Liz. You have the perfect subject at home.”

  She gave me a blank look. “Home?”

  “Yeah, make it about alcoholism.” I jumped up and ran to my room. I came back with all my books. “I don’t need these anymore. You can cover the history of alcohol use, the beginnings of AA, current thoughts, health dangers. Everything.”

  She didn’t look thrilled. “Maybe I’ll make it about drunk driving. Maybe.”

  I got her another soda and opened up a book of affirmations. “Listen to this,” I said. “‘Denial is a river in Egypt.’” I laughed and slapped her knee. “That’s where you are, in denial.”

  Liz was staring at the books like they were poison. She bit her bottom lip. “What are you talking about? I’m not in denial. I know my dad has a problem.”

  She had so much to learn. This would be a great project for her. “What do you think?” I asked.

  She shrugged.

  “Brainstorm first,” I said.

  She picked up her notebook and sighed dramatically. “Okay, shoot.”

  “Are you waiting for me to come up with the idea?” I shook my head.

  “Yeah, just get things going for me. You always help me think.”