Buried

by Robin Merrow MacCready

  A tear fell on my hand, and she wiped it off with her apron. “Oh, hun, don’t cry. I’ll come stay with you until we hear from her.” She pulled me over to her bed and hugged me hard. “What do you say I keep you company?”

  “No,” I said. I shook my head against her shoulder. “I mean, no thanks, Candy.”

  She patted my arm and smoothed my hair.

  “Call me whenever, then. Okay?” She stood up and handed me a pair of latex gloves. “Use ’em.”

  I worked them onto my hands and started back in on the bed.

  “Let’s make these up together. It’ll go a lot faster.” She kneed the corner of her bed out and got behind it. She edged the bottom sheet over so I could reach it, and we pulled the elastic corners down on all four sides. I pulled down the edges to smooth out the wrinkles.

  “Claude, did your mom ever tell you about the time you were born?”

  My hands froze on the bed. I hadn’t put Candy and Mom and my birth in the same thought ever, but they had been best friends since Mom moved here in high school.

  “Serena was so big with you, and you know how tiny she is. Man, she was as big as a house.” She snorted and snapped out another white sheet. It floated down over the bed, hovering for a moment before it settled. “Don’t just stand there, girl.”

  I smoothed out my side and sat down on the opposite bed.

  “Claude?”

  The numbness that had been running through my veins, keeping me going and pointed in one direction, began to recede, and I felt icy cold. I willed myself to stand up. “I’m just beat, Candy. I have so much homework to make up.”

  “Oh, well, I remember. That’s gotta suck.” She threw me a pillow. “Do them up and then you go.”

  I unfolded the pillowcases and shook out the pillows from their dirty cases.

  “Your mom was so freaked when she went into labor. Your grandmother was still in Florida with her boyfriend, and she wasn’t okay with the whole baby thing anyway, so I went with your mom to the hospital. She was so scared.”

  I stuffed a pillow in a case. “The whole baby thing?”

  “You.”

  Mom wouldn’t have wanted to be alone. It was weird to think that I hadn’t been there to get her through it step by step, picking up the pieces for her, coaching her through labor. I pictured myself with a hospital gown and mask, telling Mom to Breathe! and Push! A laugh escaped.

  Candy flicked her lighter. “It ain’t funny. Just wait until the day it happens to you.”

  “It’s not going to happen to me. Maybe I’ll choose it. Maybe I won’t.”

  “Well, anyway, she hadn’t gone to one labor class. Not one. In fact, she didn’t tell the guy she was knocked up until the day he was packing to move out of town. And, as you know, he never came back neither.”

  “Candy—” I placed the pillow on the bed and picked it back up.

  “And, you know, I didn’t know she was pregnant until she started to show, and then she wouldn’t even admit it right off.” She snorted. “She kept saying she was eating too much, had a flu, filling out.”

  I held the pillow tightly against my chest.

  “She was so scared. That’s why she never would talk about it.” Candy looked out the sliding glass door with her hands on her hips. “She was so freakin’ scared.”

  “I bet.” I went around and picked up the dirty sheets and stuffed them into the empty pillowcases.

  “So.” Candy turned around. “Were you saying something?”

  I threw the sack of linens by the door. “Yeah, am I done?”

  For once Candy’s hard face had a softness to it. “Not quite.” She handed me the window cleaner and paper towels. “I’ll go do the bathroom.”

  I squirted the glass and watched tiny blue rivers run to the bottom of the sliding glass door.

  Candy’s voice echoed from the bathroom. “The whole time she was in labor, you know what she screamed?”

  I shook my head and wiped, hoping she wouldn’t tell me.

  “She screamed, ‘Don’t leave me!’ Over and over, ‘Don’t leave me!’”

  I shut my eyes, not wanting to see Mom’s panicked face, but there it was, reflected in the glass. Hollow eyes, matted hair, dry, unspeaking lips.

  “Claude?”

  I squirted again and wiped at the face. I wiped and wiped, over and over. Five wipes and one squirt, five wipes and one squirt.

  “Claude!” The voice was closer, and I turned. Candy was leaning against the bathroom doorframe.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “You’re gonna rub a hole in that glass.”

  I looked at the place where Mom had been and wished she was back.

  “Anyway, that’s why I can’t believe she’s off at rehab. She ain’t the type to do something like this alone. Not without telling me.”

  “You said that already.”

  I looked outside the sliding glass door at a couple on the lower deck. They had their bags packed and were ready to go. The man was dressed in lime green golf shorts and had a pink shirt on. The woman was in pink shorts and a lime green shirt, her shoulder bag hung neatly at her hip. He placed his hand on her bottom, and she smiled up at him. I watched them for another second, grateful for their absurdity, hoping they wouldn’t move.

  “Don’t you think it’s more like her to go off with Gary? Even though she didn’t tell me?” I turned at the sound of Candy’s voice. She was rapping the toilet brush against the doorframe and looking like she wanted a cigarette.

  I put the bottle down on the table with a smack. “Stop it! Why is it so fucking hard to believe that she finally got it together? Why, Candy? Mom and I tried so hard, so many times. I told you before. This time she made a commitment to get sober for good. For real.” I smacked the bottle down again. “Jeezus! What’s wrong with everyone?” I whirled around and picked up the wet paper towels off the floor and threw them on the cart.

  “Well, let’s see, Claudine,” Candy said calmly. “How many times has she gotten it together and then fallen off the wagon? Hmm?” She bent over and jiggled the brush around in the toilet. Popping her head back in the doorway, she said, “I ain’t wicked smart, but I do know that your mother is kind of needy. She don’t do anything alone.” She turned back and flushed. Above the gurgle, I heard her mumble, “And I don’t believe it cuz it ain’t true.”

  Later, Candy followed me out to the car. She handed me my payment for the hours and held the door while I got in. Shifting from one foot to another, she reminded me of one of the rowboats tied up to the dock, rocking with the tide.

  I started the motor and put the car in gear. Still, she held the door. “What makes you think your mom’s at rehab?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Come on, Claude, don’t you think we ought to contact Gary just to be sure? Or, I hate to suggest it, but should we call the police?”

  “No! She’s at rehab, Candy. I should know. I put her there.” I pulled the door shut and backed out, leaving her shaking her head.

  Candy and Linwood didn’t believe me. But that’s how it is with alcoholics. They alienate people all the time, and Mom had alienated her best friends and left for rehab without telling them. I guess they didn’t like being out of the loop.

  The unaddressed letter to Mom lay on the passenger seat. I went past the turnoff to Sea Spray Acres and drove to the post office. I pulled alongside the mailbox, addressed the letter to Serena Carbonneau, Jackson Heights, Portland, Maine, and popped it in the chute. Why did I wait so long to write her? The poor thing was probably wondering why I’d abandoned her. She’d get it in two days. I would write her every day from now on to make up for my neglect.

  My shaky legs quieted as I walked into the fresh-smelling kitchen. I hung up my coat, left my shoes on the mat, and checked the messages. There was one from Candy, apologizing if she upset me and offering me a job until Mom came home.

  I went to the chart. I probably wouldn’t sleep. There were things that had to be fini
shed tonight, and then I had the application to do. All-nighter tonight.

  The first thing on the list was to go over the schedule to see if I was forgetting anything. I’d learned my lesson with Moonpie’s mistake. I hadn’t caught up with the laundry or the dusting. Even though the place looked great, I knew it would be a mistake to skip anything on the list because they’d just catch up with me later. Still, I found myself at the sink, washing my hands, wiping down the counter after I got suds on it, pushing in the chairs, doing things that weren’t on the list.

  I went back to the cupboard doors with Saturday and Sunday on them and read down the list until I got to the last item: dusting. Dusting could wait until Sunday, and I’d do it along with the polishing. Instead, I dragged the vacuum into the living room and plugged it in. I turned on the TV, and by the time the local news came on, I was done.

  I plopped on the couch and turned the sound off. Rain came in easygoing spurts, like the conversations Liz and I used to have on the phone.

  Liz would say, “I forgot to tell you what Mom said to Dad last night.”

  After we’d laugh about it, there would be an easy silence. Then I’d say, “Did I tell you what that dub Linwood did?”

  Again, we’d laugh. Pitter-patters of conversation that didn’t require hard answers.

  Dear Mom,

  It’s day 13 now, and I am so proud of you. You have a lot of doubters. Sorry, I had to tell you that. The odds are against you, if you believe in them. I don’t. I believe that if you believe enough about anything, you can make it happen. You know what I mean? Like that one time when we were hungry and your check hadn’t come and we had to eat popcorn for two meals. We pretended it was exactly what we wanted for supper. And at breakfast the next morning you said, “I feel like popcorn again.” I agreed that it was exactly what I wanted, too. We put in a video and crunched away until the mail came. We did that more than once.

  Now it’s your turn to believe:

  Believe you are sober, and that sober is the way every day.

  Believe in the group.

  Believe that you deserve this chance to recover.

  Believe in me.

  —Claude

  The rain was like that most of Saturday night.

  Around midnight I began the essay. It was about giving back to the community. My education is my past, my present, and my future. Sounds good. Therefore I blah, ba-blah, ba-blah. Sounds nice. After I graduate, a significant part of my free time will be devoted to blah, ba-blah, ba-blah.

  When I finished, I didn’t look it over too hard. Did I even care? I didn’t know. What would I do at college? I didn’t know. What did I care about? I couldn’t see beyond today’s list. Today’s list had ten items plus add-ons.

  14

  Sunday LAUNDRY DAY

  WHEN I WOKE, IT WAS NEARLY NOON, and the political round tables were wrapping up and the weatherman was the first thing on the news. Gert was gaining strength and heading for New England. I didn’t pull up the shades, didn’t even look outside. I still had work to do. A bowl of Swiss muesli would power me up for everything I had left. The bios still weren’t done. Mr. Springer was probably right about me not turning them in. The application needed to be finished, and I needed to do the essay over, or at least add to it.

  The cupboards were stocked with unprocessed organic food. I felt strong and safe just looking at the boxes and jars lined up in straight rows. The cookie jar was filled with my homemade muesli. It had organic oats, powdered oats, raisins, dates, walnuts, flax seeds, and cinnamon. Way easier to make than granola, which had to be cooked to a crisp.

  I sat at the table grinding away, studying the organic milk carton. It said the dairy farm had happy cows and that meant healthy milk. I was about to swallow another mouthful of muesli when I felt a small but definite movement on my tongue. I spit it out and looked into my bowl. Something moved between the lumps of dates and walnuts. I stirred my spoon around, revealing several pointy ends that wriggled away from the light. Scraping away more, I saw that they were all tail. Worms. Maggots. How many bites had I taken? Bitterness filled my throat and I gagged it all onto the table, over my bowl and splattering the application envelope. How many bites? Why didn’t I count? I gagged again. I should have counted.

  In the bathroom I brushed my teeth and wondered what Liz would say if I told her. She’d say: There’s a reason the health-food stores keep nuts in the refrigerator. There’s a reason companies process foods.

  I spent the afternoon sprinkling food on the counter to search out maggots. If a bag looked good, it went into the fridge. Oats and walnuts bad, the flour good. Fruit good. By the six o’clock news, the cupboards were bare again, but the fridge was full of bags and jars.

  The weatherman was very grave. Probably Tuesday.

  He insisted that people get duct tape, buy flashlights and batteries. I wasn’t going out. I hadn’t written my letter to Mom, and the post office wasn’t open anyway. No, I wasn’t even going to look out the window.

  Dear Mom,

  It’s day 14. I’m remembering being sent home from school in a snowstorm and finding the house cold and the power out. It was freezing, so I crawled in bed with you and told you princess stories. I piled blankets over us and made the princess’s hidden village in the folds. The snow globe sat high up on your hip, an empty bottle on the side table was an attacking soldier from another kingdom, and your wavy hair the ogre in the valley below.

  We’re going to have a hurricane. If you were here, you’d be scared, but I’d keep it together for you.

  —Claude

  15

  Monday SHOPPING DAY

  AT SCHOOL IT WAS ALL I HEARD. “Gert’s coming.” “Batten down the hatches.” “We’re gonna get slammed, man!” When the bell rang for lunch, I saw Liz go the opposite direction of the cafeteria with Jenna. I headed to the library. Just as I opened the door, Ms. Frost touched my elbow.

  “Claudine, we need to talk about that scholarship. You haven’t done anything with it and I know a student who could use it and he’d get it into the mail by . . .”

  I knew I wanted it, but I didn’t even know why anymore.

  There was a seed of something inside that said, Hang on to it, Claudine. You will want it later.

  “No, I’ve got it—” I patted the backpack in my hand. “Well, it’s not here, but it’s done.”

  “If you’re serious about this, we need to go over it before tomorrow and put it in the mail. Why don’t you stay after school and we can talk a minute?”

  I moved toward the library door.

  Her hand was on mine. “Claudine, look at me.”

  I turned away, not daring to meet her eyes. They’d be full of concern.

  “Claudine, let’s have a meeting with Mr. Springer tomorrow morning before school.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s concerned, and he understands, too.” I shrugged.

  “I heard about your Mom going off with a new boyfriend.”

  “That’s just a rumor.”

  “Mrs. MacPhee has offered to have you until your mom gets back, or you can stay with me. Whatever you decide.” She handed me a drab yellow Post-it with her number scribbled on it. “Call me. Don’t lose it; it’s unlisted.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And don’t forget the meeting. Seven-thirty in my office, and bring the application. Deadline tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got it. No problem,” I said.

  I sat in the library at the window that overlooked the field. A line of cross-country runners jogged along the field. I counted them as they disappeared into the woods.

  I drove by the Community Center and saw that Liz’s car was there. I couldn’t go do the group thing. I couldn’t see her now. Matt wasn’t there anyway. I came around the breakwater and saw his car parked with the nose pointing toward the ocean. I pulled in beside him. The ocean was swelled and bursting close to the shore. The water was greener, and a warm wind blew with an undercurrent of electrici
ty.

  He stood in front of my car and banged once on the hood. I got out, and we walked to where the waves broke.

  “I guess you didn’t go to group either,” he said.

  “Not today.” I let a wave soak the bottom of my pants. “Does it help? I mean did it help before?”

  “Before Dad drove drunk out of his mind into a stone wall?” He worked his bare feet into the sand. “I’d told Frost I’d try it, and I didn’t think I’d go more than once, but I did. And now with relatives here and the funeral and the hurricane, I just wanted to be alone.” I felt his eyes on me.

  I worked my feet into the sand, too, and took a look at him. His curls almost made me forget that I had a million things to do.

  When I got home, I went to Mom’s room and wrapped myself in her quilt and slept with Moonpie at my shoulder. Branches thrashed the side of the trailer, and I woke up and lifted the shade. Trees and sunflowers bowed down for the arrival of Gert.

  I turned on the light and brought my binder into the bed.

  Dear Mom,

  Day 15 and no word from you yet.

  Every time I tell you something that I kept a secret, I feel closer to you, but with that closeness comes a dark blanket of dread. I feel it creeping toward me daily. It seeps into me while I sleep. Even now, after sleeping in your bed for half the night, I feel it.

  I stopped writing and noticed my toes. The toe ring was gone. Did I lose it at the beach with Matt? I saw us digging our feet into the sand while we talked, but I couldn’t remember if it had been on my toe at the time. Why did it matter anyway? It was just a toe ring.

  Maybe it mattered because my mind wouldn’t hold on to things the way it used to; it was operating independently, like someone else was making the decisions.