Buried

by Robin Merrow MacCready

“Hey, talk to me,” I said.

  She began to sob. “Mom just called,” she said, grabbing the phone. “Dad’s gone. He took off last night.”

  “He hasn’t come home?”

  “No. Poor Mom. She never said anything this morning, but now she wants me to come home as soon as I can.”

  I hugged her and let her cry awhile. It felt good to be able to help. “Don’t freak out. He’ll probably be home by the time school’s out.”

  She nodded and wiped her nose. “Mom sounds calm. Too calm. You know?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Maybe I should go home now. What if he gets in a car accident—what if he hits someone?”

  The cafeteria sounds were building as more kids arrived. I leaned in toward her. “Let’s think this through. Is there anything you can possibly do to change it?” She shook her head and tore at her tissue. “Your mom said there’s no news, right?” She nodded. “Will it help your dad if you miss your classes?” She smiled a little and shook her head. “Let’s finish the day and then give your mom another call.”

  “But Mom said—”

  “But nothing. You need to take care of you.”

  She nodded. “Thanks, Claude.”

  We walked side by side down the hall. “I’m sorry about your dad, Liz.” Something about her made me want to protect her.

  As soon as the dismissal bell rang at the end of the day, I went to my locker. Liz waved her cell phone at me from across the hall and motioned to the door. I was anxious to get home and work on the list of chores. I had a wash to do and cupboards to rearrange. There would be no more crap in the house, only healthy food. Instead of chips, there’d be bread and cheese, vegetables and fruit. Instead of soda, there’d be juice, tea, and maybe coffee. I had to think about that one. The health food brainstorm had come in gym class when the teacher talked about the effect that nutrition had on our thinking. Sugar gives extreme energy but sends you crashing. I thought a nutrition overhaul might help me with the shaky feeling I was having.

  When I came out the front doors, Liz was sitting on the steps waiting for me. I sat next to her. “How’d it go?”

  She smiled big and said, “He’s back, and he wants to talk to Mom and me.” She covered her face and screamed into her hands.

  “Are you okay?”

  She was fine. She was grinning all over. “Sorry. That was a happy scream. I’m glad he’s not dead, I guess.”

  I scratched at the mica flecks in the steps. She nudged me.

  “What?” I said, nudging her back.

  “It hasn’t been easy for you either,” she said.

  “No . . .”

  “Have you heard from your Mom?”

  I closed my eyes. “Just that message.”

  “You ought to send her a letter.”

  I thought of the letters in the back of the notebook. “She’s not ready for those quite yet,” I said.

  “No, don’t send her any of those. A regular letter, you know.”

  I nodded and picked more mica chips.

  “You coming?” She stood up and grabbed both my backpack and hers.

  “To group? We can’t ditch it?”

  “No. Not today.”

  Lydia was putting the folding chairs in a circle when we arrived. Blake was following behind setting a clipboard down on each one. Matt and Deb laughed about something at the other end of the room, and Cindy and Hanna sat quietly side by side, each in her own world.

  “Okay, time.” Lydia set her coffee on an empty chair beside her. “If you need me, I’m here. Otherwise the floor is yours. Who wants to start us?”

  Liz raised her hand. “Me, I’d like to share.”

  “Okay, Liz,” Lydia said.

  “My name’s Liz, and I’m the daughter of an alcoholic.” She bit her lip.

  “Hi, Liz,” we said.

  “My father hit bottom. Last night he took off when he was drunk. He didn’t come back until this afternoon.” She looked at me. “Claudine helped me get through a hard day. I couldn’t have done it without you, Claude.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. I was shocked at her honesty, the way she easily spilled her guts to them.

  “Dad wants to talk to Mom and me when I get home. I’m not sure what to do or say.”

  “Just take it one day at a time, Liz,” Deb said.

  “Right. You can’t cure him; you can only take care of yourself,” Hanna said.

  Liz nodded. “Well, he’s definitely out of the Pleasure Zone now. I can’t trust him anymore.”

  “Pleasure Zone?” Lydia said.

  “Yeah, the P.Z. Dad used to handle it okay. You know, not too drunk and not too sober. His Pleasure Zone. But now he can’t control it. He’s crashing.” Liz started to tear up. “It was bad last night; he acted just like a real drunk.” The room grew silent. Except for an occasional sniff from Liz, nobody spoke.

  Mom always acted like a real drunk, but Liz’s dad could be smashed and function at the same time. I was always jealous of that. I tried to catch her eye, but she wasn’t looking anywhere but at her clipboard, where a pool of tears had collected.

  “You knew it was a myth that alcoholics could control their drinking,” Hanna said. “You knew it, right?”

  “Yeah, but like I said, I didn’t think he was a real drunk. I guess—” She blew her nose. “I guess I thought he was different. Better.”

  Matt let out a dramatic sigh and stretched his legs. “You mean better dressed.”

  Deb laughed and kicked Matt’s boot.

  “Matt, that was so low,” Cindy said. She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Low.”

  “Well, yeah, sorry. I’m just so sick of people not saying what they think. When my old man gets smashed, I just tell him off and leave. When he sobers up, I come back. Simple. You can’t do nothin’ about it,” Matt said. “Why’s everyone so friggin’ polite all the time?”

  “I’ve never told him what I think about his drinking,” Liz said. “It wasn’t a big deal until this year.”

  “I didn’t talk with my parents at first either,” Cindy said. “But you’ll find out it can be rewarding to share your feelings. I did with my parents, and we all cried and now we share all the time.”

  I stayed as still as possible. I didn’t want to be in this conversation.

  Matt said, “That’s a crock. You think that’s how it works for everybody? We all cry and then have a group hug?” He threw up his hands. “You realize that you sound excruciatingly superior?”

  Cindy looked pale.

  He sat on the edge of his seat. “People, listen to me. The reality is that you can’t trust a drunk with your feelings.”

  Lydia cleared her throat. Here it comes, I thought, she’ll take over. But it was just that: throat clearing.

  Matt was right about the trust thing, but I wasn’t in the sharing mood. I wanted to disappear.

  Friday night was mall night, but Liz announced that she was going to spend it with her family, since her dad was going through a bad time. That was good—I wanted to spend some time rearranging the kitchen. After stocking up on groceries at High Tide Health Foods, I dove into a cleaning frenzy. In the kitchen I reorganized the fridge and threw away anything that was opened and anything that could be thought of as junk food. I wiped down the counters and cupboards and restocked them with oats, wheat berries, whole-wheat pastry flour, dried fruits, and pastas.

  I consulted my list on the fridge door. It said: Clean the toilet and sink. I scrubbed away at the rust stains, but nothing helped. I poured bleach into the toilet bowl and washed my hands in the sink. Goose bumps rose on my forearms as hot water pounded my hands. I felt someone near me, but it couldn’t be true—I’d locked the door. I looked in the mirror. Nobody. Just me, a pale, thin stranger with a halo of something white behind my head. Was it someone’s clothing, hair, scarf? I had to look. I counted one, two, three, four, five, and turned. Of course, a towel. It hung on the door, used and unfolded. That should teach me to be neater.<
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  Even though it had only been a towel, I was still jumpy when the phone rang. Before I picked it up, I turned on the TV so I’d have some background noise after I hung up.

  “Claude, you were awesome today.”

  “Thanks, Liz. But, awesome?”

  “You were there when I needed you.”

  “Thanks. How’s it going with your dad?”

  “He’s sorry, and he says he’s got a drinking problem.”

  “Really? He’s brilliant.”

  “Yep. He even cried. It was hard to see him like that.”

  “Big, tough Tom MacPhee?”

  “And he’s going to go to meetings and maybe to Jackson Heights.”

  My throat closed up and I couldn’t breathe.

  “Claude?”

  I forced myself to breathe through my nose while I held the phone to my pounding heart. I was dizzy with the effort and tried to swallow, which made me cough. I gasped and took a breath.

  “Claude! Are you okay?”

  “Right here,” I said, panting.

  “Maybe you ought to take a day off. You haven’t been looking so hot lately.”

  “I just had something in my throat. I’m fine.”

  That night I couldn’t sleep. I puffed up my bed with extra pillows and blankets, thinking I needed to be more comfortable. Something was nagging away at me. I felt the way an oyster from the cove feels when a grain of sand gets between its soft body and its shell home. After so much irritation, it creates a little pearl. I went over and over the meeting at the Community Center. What was irritating me? Maybe I was just creating a pearl.

  I finally fell asleep half sitting, half lying down with Moonpie on my shoulder.

  I jerked awake with a heavy feeling of dread. Something was wrong. I looked around, touching my cheek where I’d felt a whisper of something. Had someone called my name? Nobody was there. Moonpie was gone. The night was bright enough to make shadows of sunflowers and cosmos on my floor. Out my window, the moon hung over the workshop like an overripe melon.

  I picked up the cat, who was waiting by the door, and went down the steps to the garden path in my underwear and T-shirt. The shells were sharp, and I tiptoed as I made my way to the center raised bed. I heard the whoosh of a car on Sea Road and then the pounding of the surf. Moonpie squirmed out of my arms and into the catnip patch. He rubbed up against the long stems and rolled to the ground.

  A twig broke, and I stiffened. “Is someone here?” My voice sounded thin and raspy. “Don’t hide.”

  Snap!

  Moonpie had rolled again and broken off a stem of catnip. “Goddamned cat! You scared the hell out of me.” He flattened his ears and ran off. I threw a shell after him and went back inside.

  I stayed up and rearranged the cupboards so that the cereal goods would be right next to the fridge. While I wiped down the counter, I thought of something else I had never let Mom know.

  Dear Mom,

  I never told you about the time I wet the bed. I was about seven years old, and the police had been at the trailer that night because of a noise complaint. When they came, I didn’t know it was the police. There were no sirens or blinking lights. I just remember how the party noise changed from laughter and fun in the living room to swearing and bottles being gathered up and the stereo being turned low. I opened my bedroom door a crack to see what was going on, and two big guys in uniforms were in the middle of the living room. They were so clean. Not a wrinkle or a speck of dirt on either of them; their buttons and badges and shoes were so shiny. One turned around and tipped his hat at me. I shut my door and ran back into bed. A few minutes later my door opened and he stood there in the doorway. He didn’t move, and he didn’t say anything. I didn’t either. I just lay still as a statue, holding my breath, quiet as a rabbit. As soon as he shut the door, I let out a huge breath and flooded the bed with pee I didn’t know I’d been holding. I was surprised by the heat of it, and then surprised by the coolness of it when I threw off the covers to see what I’d done.

  Later, when I heard the car doors slamming and your bedroom door shut, I carried my sheets and pajamas out to the backyard and dug a hole and buried them.

  I never told anyone. Not you, not Liz. Nobody.

  I’ve been holding that in for a long time.

  —Claudine

  6

  THE FIRST THING THAT ANNOYED ME Saturday morning was the sloppy stacks of magazines on the coffee table. It was a mess again, and I had vowed to keep it neat and organized. The whole place could use some help,

  I thought. I started with the oven. It had brown stains from cooking French fries and fish. I moistened some steel wool and got it soapy. On my knees I scrubbed until the speckled pattern showed once again. I wiped it clean. It gleamed.

  Once, when Mom and Linwood had a bunch of friends over to party, she’d told them that I was her maid. I think I was around seven years old.

  “Look—I got her trained,” Mom said, throwing a handful of chips on the floor. I rushed over and picked them up and put them on the table like it was a big emergency. Everyone cracked up. I smiled a little. I was a good girl, and they could see that.

  I started to walk away, but then Candy tipped over her beer. I ran to the sink and got a roll of paper towels, knelt down, and mopped it up while they laughed over me.

  An ashtray dropped beside the beer. “See if she’ll take care of that,” someone said.

  “No doubt,” Mom said. “She can’t let anything go. She’s a regular Heloise.”

  They roared as the ashes dissolved in the watery mess. I worked as fast as I could, but one by one, the rest of the group added to the pile until I had a mound of beer, pizza crusts, chips, butts, and soda. I kept my mind on the task. If I sniffed, they’d know I was crying, so I let my snot drip onto the mess. I kept my head down and blocked them out. Eyes on the floor, I told myself. Eyes on the floor. I got the broom and silently loaded the whole pile onto a pizza carton. By the time I spilled it into the garbage can, the laughing had stopped and an eerie silence filled the room.

  “Weird,” someone said.

  “She’s always been like this.” Mom leaned toward me. “You can’t stand the clutter, right, baby angel?”

  I kept my head down to hide my running nose.

  “Candy, you wanna borrow her?” Mom asked.

  “No thanks, Serena. She’s a little twisted.”

  “Hey, watch it. I love her.” Mom grabbed my arm and pulled me to her. “Right, Princess?” My wet face was buried in her dark, wavy hair. It smelled of her vanilla musk and cigarette smoke. She squeezed me hard, and I stiffened. I wiped the snot from her hair and went to my room for the rest of the night.

  I shook off the memory. In the living room I looked more closely at the three piles of magazines. I’d divided them equally by topic: Cosmo, Better Homes and Gardens, People. For good measure I arranged them left to right in order of importance: Better Homes and Gardens, People, Cosmo. Perfect. Except, beside Cosmo was something tiny. I held it close. My stomach turned over in recognition. It was a small silver loop. Mom’s toe ring. I went through the past few days and tried to remember if I’d set it there. I knew I hadn’t, and my stomach flipped over again. But Liz had sat right there, and she might have found it and set it beside the magazines.

  I wanted out. I got in the car. At the mailbox I grabbed five days’ worth of overflowing mail. I dropped the heap in the passenger seat and wrote out a Post-it reminding me to get the mail every day.

  It was mostly junk, but two were bills for phone and power and another was a slim envelope with a shiny window and the name SERENA M. CARBONNEAU peeking out. In the upper left corner was the familiar address. My hands trembled. “Yes!” I said to no one.

  I looked in the mirror. With a snap, I unclasped my barrette and let down my hair. Mom’s dark lipstick was in the glove compartment. Instant transformation.

  I got in line at the drive-through window on the far side of the bank. I signed the welfare check and put
it in the vacuum tube.

  “Hey, Serena. Cash or checking?” the speaker said.

  Shit, who was that? “Oh, all cash please.” It was impossible to see through the other car windows to the person talking, but I waved anyway.

  The tube landed with a smack outside my window.

  “Don’t spend it all in one place!”

  I parked in the power company parking lot and stuffed a fat envelope with two months of late payments. I did the same with the phone bill. I dropped each payment in the night depository boxes at their billing offices. It was a good feeling, like when all the socks in the laundry pair up perfectly.

  I drove along the shore, watching the horizon line, imagining Mom in rehab. Blue lights flashing froze me behind the wheel. My heart hammered in my chest. I pulled over.

  “Miss,” an officer said, tapping on the glass.

  I rolled down the window.

  “License and registration, please.”

  I took them from the glove compartment and handed them to him.

  “Do you know why I pulled you over, Miss Serena Carbonneau?” he asked, ducking down to see my face.

  Tears appeared from nowhere, and I blinked them onto my cheeks. I looked up at his mirrored sunglasses and through the blur I saw Mom looking back at me. I couldn’t turn away.

  He patted the roof. “Your back left taillight is out. You’ll have to signal manually until you get it fixed.” He waited for a reaction, then smiled, handing back the license and registration. “Registration is due next month, too. On your way, then.” He gave a nod. “And drive safely.”

  I crept away from the side of the road, both hands clamped to the steering wheel, watching the cop in my rearview mirror sitting in his car, talking into his radio, getting smaller and smaller. “Only a taillight, only a taillight. Remember to signal.” I counted cars as they passed: One, two, three, four, five, one, two, three, four, five.

  I drove around the beach and up to town and back down again until somehow I was in the MacPhees’ driveway. I could smell the grill and guessed it was burgers. Brandy barked and came running from around back, with Liz just behind. She leaned into the driver’s seat window.