by Amy Allgeyer
I nod, but my mind’s fixed on something else—something abnormal in the valley. Something that might be causing all those health problems. And that something is bright orange.
Ten
We schedule the x-ray, but the clinic is busy and the earliest they can work us in is the middle of March. Three weeks away. I try not to think about how much tumors can grow in three weeks.
“Earth to Liberty. Come in, Liberty.”
My head snaps up from the book I’m reading to find Cole standing next to me. “Hey.” I wrap my arm around his waist. “Did the bell ring?”
“Five minutes ago.” He takes the chair next to me, dropping his backpack on the table. “I’ve been looking for you. What’re you doing in the library?”
“Literature class was last period. We had to pick out a novel for a movie trailer project.”
He turns over the book in my hands to read the spine. “Mountain of Coal. This is a novel?”
“Um, no.” I rub my eyes. “It’s a … sort of a history of coal mining.”
Cole drops the book onto the table. “Sounds gripping. That’ll make one helluva movie trailer.” He smiles at me, white teeth and sparkly eyes, and I almost forget about the book.
“It’s not for class. It’s for Granny,” I say. “We went to the doctor yesterday. They think she might …” I’m not ready to say the C word. Saying it might make it true when maybe, hopefully, it’s not. “She’s pretty sick. The doctor ordered an x-ray of her lungs.”
“Aw, Lib.” He wraps his arms around me, smashing my face into his shoulder. I turn my head and rest it against him. It feels so nice to have someone to lean on. I wrap my arms around him and sink in. “I’m sorry. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
“I hope so,” I say as I pull away. “But it sounds like a lot of people on the east side of the mountain are getting sick. So I’m just wondering if it doesn’t have something to do with the water.”
“You’re not on about that again.” Cole shakes his head. “It’s been tested.”
“I know. It’s just … orange. And lots of people are sick,” I say. “Seems like too much of a coincidence.”
“People get sick, Lib. Everywhere. It just happens.” He leans forward and kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry about your granny though.”
“Thanks.” I lay my head on his shoulder, staring out the windows at the weak afternoon sunlight.
“I gotta run. You want a ride home?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I drove Granny’s car today.”
“A’ight then. See you tomorrow.” His kisses are absolutely the best thing about this place—all soft, warm, and Tic-Tac-y. “And, Lib?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t go around talking about the mine. It ain’t a good idea.”
I nod once, very slowly, as he picks up his backpack and heads for the door. Cole’s clearly of the belief that rex non potest peccare: the king can do no wrong. And by king, I mean Peabody Mining Company.
The school library didn’t have much to help my research. So on Saturday, I go to the library in town, which I’m minorly creeped to see is called the “Peabody Community Library.” Inside, next to the public message board, is a framed photo of Robert Peabody. He reminds me of an aging movie star—chiseled jaw, fake tan, faker smile. I don’t think I like him.
His library is a far cry from the marble-and-glass temple of information we had in DC, but it does have a couple ancient PCs in one corner with a dial-up Internet connection. I sign up for thirty minutes of computer time and pull up Google.
“Mountaintop Removal Mining” turns up a gazillion pages, mostly environmental groups posting interesting statistics about MTR communities. Interesting meaning scary.
Children born in communities near mountaintop removal mines are 42 percent more likely to be born with birth defects.
People living near mountaintop removal mines have cancer rates of 14.4 percent, as opposed to 9.4 percent for people living in other parts of Appalachia.
I’m staring at the numbers on the computer screen, but I’m seeing the kids at Granny’s church, the ones with leg braces and harelips, the baby we prayed for last week who was stillborn.
I read further.
Statistics for coal-mining areas of Appalachia show that these regions have had the highest mortality rates for every year from 1979–2005.
People living near mountaintop removal mines have an average life expectancy five years lower than for people living elsewhere in the United States.
Clicking through the data, I come across some photographs that could have been taken in Ebbottsville. They show the same boarded-up stores, the same chewed-up landscape, even the same sludgy containment pond.
I’m wondering why there’s not more press on this. I mean, until I moved here, I’d never even heard of mountaintop removal mining. But it’s been going on a long time.
In 2000, a containment pond in Martin County spilled 300 million gallons of toxic sludge into two rivers and killed everything downstream for hundreds of miles. The EPA called it the worst environmental disaster ever to occur in the southeastern U.S.
How can an environmental disaster thirty times bigger than the Exxon Valdez oil spill happen a few hundred miles west of the capital of the free world and not make the news?
Glancing at the clock, I realize my half hour is almost up. I fish ten cents out of my backpack to print the statistics. The librarian looks hard at the copy before she hands it across the desk and frowns at me. I can’t decide if it’s because she doesn’t approve of the subject matter or that’s just her normal sunny treatment of strangers.
As I drive home, I wonder why the hell nobody’s worried about the water. It’s bright freaking orange—not like any rust I’ve ever seen. But Granny said the county tested it and found it safe. And numbers don’t lie. But after what I’ve read … I’m just not sure.
I slow down and take a right onto Oak Street. It’s March already but half-frozen drizzle is clicking against the windshield. Even with the heater going full blast, there’s a chill in the car that keeps my teeth chattering. Winter and spring seem to be battling it out. Today, winter is kicking spring’s butt.
There’s a girl walking across the Kroger parking lot as I drive past, and it takes me a second to realize it’s Ashleigh. It takes me another five seconds to work up the guts to turn in. I pull up in front of her and roll down the squeaky window.
She pulls out an earbud and frowns at the car. “Nice ride.”
I stare at the three heavy bags of groceries she’s hauling on foot. “Yeah, you too.” At least I have a ride.
She shifts them to her other hand. “What do you want?”
What I really want is not to be talking to her at all. I’d love for there not to be a reason I need her input, but I do. “The water,” I say. “What do you know?”
I can’t see her face in the shadow of her raincoat hood, and for a minute, she says nothing. But her mouth is moving, like she’s chewing her words before she spits them out.
“Why?” she says at last.
I don’t want to tell her Granny’s sick. It’s none of her business and I don’t need sympathy. I just need information. “You keep talking about it like it’s poison. I’m just wondering if I should drink it or not.”
“Yes, you should.” She plugs the earbud back into her ear. “Absolutely. Drink lots.” She walks around the back of the car and heads for the sidewalk.
That went well. I turn off the ignition and climb out of the car as fast as the thousand-foot-wide door will let me. “Wait. Ashleigh, wait.”
She stops but doesn’t turn.
“Look, let me give you a ride home,” I say. “We can talk.”
“I’d rather walk,” she says over her shoulder. “On hot coals.”
But she isn’t walking. She’s standing in the rain,
waiting. For something.
I cross over and stand in front of her. Now I’m chewing my words. How much does she know? And how much do I need her?
“My granny might be sick,” I say. “I need to know about the water.”
Her face softens a little, like I saw at church. She hands me one of the bags and heads for the car. “Don’t think this makes us friends.”
I swallow some unchewed words and follow her. Ashleigh’s tugging on the passenger door handle. “You have to yank it,” I say. “Unless you want to ride in the back.”
“Funny.”
I’m pulling back onto the street when Ashleigh says, “I’m sorry about your granny.” She’s staring out the passenger window. “I like her a lot.”
“Thanks.”
“My granddaddy’s sick too.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Gallbladder.”
“I’m sorry.” I feel like I ought to leave it there, to be polite, but I need to know. “Was it the water?”
She shrugs.
“Do you know anything about it?”
“It’s orange.”
I snort. “Yeah, no shit.”
Her baby doe eyes go all death glare. “Why’re you such a bitch?”
“Me? You’ve been on full snark since the minute I met you.”
“So? Am I supposed to fall down at your feet and declare my BFF-ness just ’cause you’re new?”
“No, but you could at least be polite. Or if that’s too hard, just try for something below raging hag.”
“Right. ’Cause you’re from somewhere else and therefore deserve my best behavior.”
She’s back to staring out the passenger window. We’re nearing the edge of town and I realize I have no idea where I’m going.
“Where do you live anyway?”
“Turn left up there,” she says. “It’s a half mile past the concrete plant.”
We ride in silence as the wet trees and dripping rocks roll by. The heater isn’t doing a thing to alleviate the chill in the car, though now I don’t think it’s actually weather related.
“Look,” I say. “Everything I’ve read says mountaintop removal mining causes all kinds of health problems—lung problems, tumors, brain cancer, emphysema.” I pause for effect. “Gallbladder problems.”
“And?”
“And? What do you mean, and? If that’s the case, we need to let people know.”
“You think it matters if people know?”
“Are you on crack? If people know, they’ll stop drinking the water. And Peabody will stop mining. And they can fix this mess, so no one else gets sick.” I realize about halfway through my soliloquy that I sound like MFM. It makes me itch, like I have mosquito bites all over the inside of my skin.
“Pull over,” Ashleigh says.
“Here?” We just passed the concrete plant and there’s not a driveway in sight.
“Here,” she says. “Right now.”
I slow the car down and pull off on the narrow gravel shoulder. She grabs her bags and uses her shoulder to bang open the door. The rain is coming down steady now, filling the ditches on each side of the road.
“What is your freaking problem?”
She ignores me and tries to get her bags balanced while not slipping in the mud.
“You’re going to get hypothermia,” I say, half hoping she does. It would serve her right.
She leans down before closing the door. “Here’s the thing, Erin Brockovich. You don’t understand anything about this town. You come waltzin’ in here, trying to save us like we’re a third-world country or something.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Why? You think we’re too stupid to notice the water’s orange? Too ignorant to know mines can be dangerous? Did it occur to you there might be a reason nobody says anything?”
My eyes blink while I try to make sense of that. “What possible reason could there be not to do anything about poisoned water?”
“It’s complicated. We’re not just a cage full of lab rats. And FYI? You should be a lot more careful who you talk to about Peabody Mining.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“Robert Peabody’s my uncle, dumbass.” She slams the door and starts walking.
Oh.
Shit.
Eleven
I make a clumsy U-turn in the middle of the road and head up the hill. There’s no way I could have known Ashleigh was related to Peabody, but I still feel really, really stupid. Halfway home, I pull off at an overlook where I know I can get a cell signal and dial Iris.
“Hey, it’s Liberty.” I feel like I need a friend right now, and Iris is an excellent sympathizer. Unfortunately, she’s not picking up.
“Call me when you can.” I end the call and then click over to my text messages. One from Iris earlier—jazzing about some internship she applied for. Then I check my email though I’m not sure why. The only person who ever emails me is MFM. Sure enough, there’s a new message. This one with the subject line “Progress.” I delete it without reading. I don’t care how much closer she is to being declared guilty or innocent. Either way, it doesn’t affect me.
I stare across the parking lot where I’ve pulled off and watch the fog roll around the tops of the hills. It swirls and drops, deeper into the hollers, filling them with pillows of white. It’s beautiful but I wonder … if the water here’s poisonous, is the fog dangerous too? Is it going to turn bright orange, like some funky breed of mustard gas, killing everything as it creeps through the valley on little cat feet?
Funny. But not.
Granny’s napping on the couch when I get home. I let her sleep and start putting dinner together, which calms me. I like to cook. When we lived in DC, I used to pull recipes out of Food & Wine to try out on the weekend. I’d make a huge dinner with a fancy dessert … which I usually ate by myself because MFM ended up not coming home from one of her rallies or protests or special projects.
I know all about her special projects now. Thanks to the reports from the DC Police Department.
Staring into the cabinet with my stomach gnawing at my spine, I’m wishing for a Food & Wine feast. Instead, my options are ramen or canned soup, which I’ll serve with frozen broccoli and a piece of toast. Not the healthiest of meals, but at least I’ll have invoked some green matter. When I think about all those dinners I cooked and ate alone—paella, gazpacho with homemade croutons, scallops Alfredo—I wish I could have a do-over, so I could share them with Granny. She deserves scallops.
Each week, I do my best to stretch the food stamps and the little cash we have, but it doesn’t cover shellfish. Not that they sell shellfish here. This week was even harder. Thanks to Shark Week, I had to buy a box of tampons that took almost a fifth of our food money. So, no apples, no Mountain Dew. And we’ll be eating ramen a lot between now and Saturday.
“Liberty?”
I leave the water simmering and poke my head around the corner. “Hey there. How are you feeling?”
“I could stand a drink a water.”
I get a bottle from the fridge and sit down next to her. “I’m making dinner.”
“That’s sweet of ya, sugarplum, but I ain’t terrible hungry just now.”
She never is anymore. It’s all I can do to get her to eat one decent meal a day.
“Maybe you can eat a little ramen. Just a few bites?”
Frowning, she says, “You gonna fly them bites into my mouth like a airplane?”
I don’t want to argue with her. When she gets riled up, she starts coughing. “Only if you say pretty please.”
“Your mama called,” she says as I walk into the kitchen.
I ignore her.
“She said you ain’t been answering her emails.”
The water for the broccoli is boiling now,
steaming up the window over the sink. I stare through the mist at the darkening gray hillside in the backyard. Anything I say to Granny about MFM will cause a fight, and I don’t want her expending a bunch of energy arguing with me. Because there’s no point.
I pull the bread across the counter and undo the twist tie. The counter is gritty with dust again.
“Liberty? You hearing me?” Her voice is getting louder.
“I am, Granny. But I don’t want to talk about it right now. Let’s just have a nice, quiet dinner.”
“She said she ain’t heard from you at all.”
“Do you want to eat in there or at the table?”
“Here on the couch suits me. But don’t go changing the subject on me. I ain’t done with you yet.”
Once everything’s ready, I take Granny’s tray to her then go back for mine. After we say grace, Granny starts in.
“Now then.”
“Eat,” I say.
“I been listening to that cockeyed ‘I-ain’t-got-a-mama’ story o’ yours since you got here. And I ain’t said nothing ’cause I know she hurt you, real bad. But she’s paying for her mistake. And it seems to me, if the police and the courts are willing to let her do some kinda penance, then her own flesh and blood surely oughta be able to forgive her.”
Staring at the rain pouring off the roof, I wish it could be that easy. “I don’t care about the crime. She can blow up whatever she wants to. All I ever wanted was for her to be a mom. But there was always something more important. Everything, in fact, was more important.”
Granny reaches for my hand. “She loves you, Liberty. Problem is, y’all two is just too much alike.”
“What?” I turn so fast some ramen sloshes out of my bowl. “There is absolutely no way in which we are alike. None. Zero.”
“Mmhm.” She picks the noodles up with her napkin. “Your mama—”
“Stop calling her that!”
“Blessed baby Jesus! Fine! My daughter says you ain’t said word one to her since you left DC.”
“So?” I think back to the last phone conversation I had with MFM.