The Secrets We Bury

by Stacie Ramey

  Brad, Christian, Abby, and Uncle Bill would all come out, and we’d run around like mad. I was good at catching the football. We played two-hand-touch, but I loved to tackle and be tackled. Part of my whole sensory deal. Touch me and I get enraged, but tackle me and I’m good. And rolling around on the ground? Heaven. So we’d do that, roll around, jeans stained at the knees. Mom would act like it was a huge deal, but there’d be a smile on her face, so I knew she didn’t really mind. Dad and the older cousins got competitive, but Emily and I just liked to have fun. Every once in a while, I would come through on a key play, creating a lane by juking the blockers, and make it to the end zone. I’d throw my arms, up, yelling, “I’m open!”

  Dad would see me, smile, and chuck the ball my way. When Mom and Aunt Mary called us all in for dinner, Dad would tell me, “That’s my boy. Came through in the clutch, didn’t you, Dylan?” And he’d ruffle my hair. Even though it was dorky and cliché, I’d eat it up. It was as if my chest was opening for an entire universe of good feelings to fill it. Mom would put her hand under my chin and kiss me on the cheek as she told me to clean up. I usually hated being kissed, but after that much contact in the game, and all my good feelings, I’d be totally fine with it. Emily would smile at me too, like she knew that moment of being the golden child happened so infrequently for us, but for me, especially. And the entire world would make sense and I’d feel like I was glowing.

  “Dylan?”

  I almost call her Emily. But it’s not Emily’s face that stares at me now. It’s Sophie’s. And she looks worried. At least I’m relatively sure that’s why her eyebrows all scrunched together. Like an actual emoji.

  “Dylan. Yoo hoo.” She waves her hand in front of my face. “You in there?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I say, a little grumpy.

  “You’re so far away.” She pokes her index finger into my forehead.

  I stare. “Sorry. I was just remembering how I used to play football with my Dad and family.”

  “Tell me about your football games. They sound fun.”

  “Well, my family’s super competitive, so they weren’t always fun. Or more like they were fun for a while, then someone would get mad and there’d be an argument about a play and… We still had the best time.”

  “Did your family fight a lot?”

  I think about that question for longer than I should, I guess, because she touches my arm. I shrug. “The normal amount. You know,” I reply.

  “I don’t. My family was Mom, Dad, and me. They didn’t fight that much, and I never had anything to fight about.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “You would think so, but it was mostly lonely. Our house was quiet. Like living in a museum or library. Even before…”

  I think about asking how her mother died, but even in this foggy state, I know that’s not a cool question. She’ll tell me if she wants me to know.

  We keep walking, silence surrounding us like a mist, and I realize that if Emily saw me act so calm and comfortable with a girl, she wouldn’t believe it at first, and then she would pester me and punch my arm and demand I tell her more. A hollow feeling in my stomach makes me stop walking. Sophie turns and calls for me to catch up, and I follow the up and down of her backpack as she leads me out of the forest. We go down this incline that reminds me of the hill on the Cape, but I don’t let my mind go there.

  “Hey, trail magic!” Sophie announces, and sure enough, there’s a cooler with sodas and a basket of chips and chocolate bars sitting next to the trail.

  I’m starved in addition to caffeine deprived, and for a second, a bubble of hope rises inside me. Caffeine! But then we get there, the only drinks left are some weak-ass shit like root beer and Sprite and Mello freakin’ Yello.

  “Aaaaagh.” I actually feel like crying, so I’m pretty proud of myself for not outright sobbing.

  “I know you were hoping for Mountain Dew. But look,” she hands me a Snickers.

  “Great,” I sort of grumble, but start eating it anyway. There’s five milligrams of caffeine in a Snickers bar.

  “God, this tastes good,” Sophie says as she chugs a root beer. Then she opens a bag of chips. When she’s finished, she pours the crumbs into her mouth. It’s so cute to see that huge smile on her face. She grabs a Hershey’s bar and a bag of Doritos and points. “Take more. It’s cool.”

  “I didn’t know if it was a one-per-customer situation.”

  She laughs. “Maybe. Under normal circumstances.”

  “Our circumstances aren’t normal?”

  “Let’s see,” she holds up her fingers to make each point. “We have no food thanks to a rogue bear, I’m hurt, you’re zoned out, and people are on the hunt for you.”

  I wonder if anyone is looking for her too. I think of her silent family and how weird it would be to live in a house with no mom and just a dad who doesn’t talk. At least my house has the cozy sound of arguments and discussions, even with Brad away at school, Aunt Mary would come over or Mom would be on the phone with her. After Dad died, it was quiet for a while and that quiet made it so uncomfortable to be around that I turned on Brad’s iHome and Mom’s TV downstairs. I needed noise, and she seemed to get that even though she didn’t do a whole lot of talking. She mostly just stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on nothing, as she sipped her tea. I felt so bad for her. And there were times that I did things to irritate her just to break the silence. Mad Mom was better than faraway-sad Mom. God, I’m an idiot.

  But before Dad died, I remember negotiations and back-room brokered deals with Mom, who always said no at first but could be talked into almost anything as long as you could back it up with facts. Dad would intervene on my behalf with calm patience and tons of facts.

  Standing here in the forest surrounded by the silence and Sophie, the knowledge that my family is totally pissed at me presses down on me from all sides. Maybe Mom would have relented if I’d just spoken with her. Emily was sure she would have, and honestly, that’s how things usually happen in my family anyway. First, a lot of drama and even yelling and maybe tears, and then there’s a slow understanding from both sides and a meeting in the middle.

  Maybe running away was all a big mistake. Maybe I should have stayed and talked. “I’m…”

  “We may change your trail name to Space Cadet.”

  I laugh, but I know it isn’t convincing, because she’s right. I am getting super spacey.

  Sophie wipes Dorito dust on her shorts. That makes me wonder if her tongue is orange like her fingertips. Which makes me wonder what it would taste like to kiss her. Would she taste like root beer or potato chips or Doritos?

  She says, “We better get going.” Then she bends over and grabs the last two bags of chips and the remaining candy bar. I guess we are pretty desperate for food.

  “How many more miles until Deep Gap?” I ask, watching how her body moves in little hops because of her injury. The other muscles in her back and hips will surely start to hurt soon since they are accommodating her injury. I’m not sure if that’s the kind of information people want to be told, or if it’s rude or insensitive to point out, so I don’t say anything.

  Dad broke his foot when I was thirteen. Mom got mad at him because she said he never went to the doctor. Even then he didn’t want to go.

  “Fit as a fiddle,” he said, and he pounded his chest. He eventually went to a walk-in clinic and got an X-ray three days later, but by then the bone had already started resetting and it healed a little wonky. They gave him a crutch to use, but that didn’t help much. He stopped running after that and stuck to the rowing machine in their bedroom. Mom was so annoyed with him for never taking care of himself. She was always after him to go to a doctor get a physical, but he always put it off. She said he made things harder on himself by being so stubborn, but I always thought he was so cool, because he didn’t listen to anybody, he just did what he th
ought best.

  But remembering him on his one crutch reminds me I could get Sophie a walking stick to help her. And once again, I want to hit myself in the head. So I do. Like three times, which is okay, because Sophie is walking in front and can’t see me. But she must hear me because she asks, “Dylan, what are you doing?”

  I drop my pack and start searching the downed trees and tree limbs for a good walking stick. I must look frantic, because she shouts at me, “Dylan, stop! You have to get back on the trail!”

  Finally, my eyes fall on a good candidate. I pick it up, bumping my hands, and the pain screams through my body. Pain is not as good as coffee, but it does give me some adrenaline clarity. The branch is a bit too tall, but I put it over a rock and stomp on it to make it the right size.

  “Oh,” Sophie says, apparently on board with my plan, “I should have thought of that.”

  She shouldn’t feel bad. We are both making a slew of stupid decisions these days. I wonder if that’s because life on the trail doesn’t feel like the real world.

  I drag my pack to me and pull out one of my rank sweatshirts, tie it over and around the top of the branch. All of this makes my hands ache like mad, but I say a cheerful, “Voilà,” even though my mind is going to some of my prehike reading: Trail mistakes can be more deadly, like running out of food, losing a water bottle, or not taking care of an injury properly. I’m not just thinking of what happened with Dad’s foot not healing properly, but I’m also thinking of the other complications of not treating a broken bone correctly. Infection. Compartment syndrome. Death.

  Sophie’s face lights up. “You’re a genius. This is awesome.”

  This moment feels good, but it is followed by doubt. I feel like I have to decide between helping Rain Man and Sophie. My dad couldn’t run after his improperly treated foot. What if Sophie’s injury is more serious? It’s only a hunch that Rain Man intends to hurt himself. What if, in the next town, we send someone to help him, and I take Sophie to the hospital?

  Mom yelled at Dad after the doctor and said he had broken his foot. “You could have gotten a blood clot! A—”

  Dad said, “Come on, Lily. You always think about the worst-case scenario. None of that happened. I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her on the top of her head, but she pushed him away and went into the bedroom to cry. He looked at me with a wry smile, one I understood. “That’s women for you, Dylan.”

  I laughed at the time. But Mom was right. If Dad had gone to the doctor regularly, they would have caught the arrhythmia. They could have done something to help his heart. Anger grows inside me, but this time I’m mad at my father. I’ve never felt that way before.

  “Dylan?” Sophie injects herself into my fog. “You ready to start back up?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Let’s stop here tonight. Deep Gap is just ahead.”

  “What about coffee for you?”

  “I’ll be fine for one more day.”

  “Okies dokies.” Even though I hate sayings like that, it sounds cute coming from her, so I forgive it, the way Mom forgave Dad that night after their fight about his foot, when he made us all homemade pizza with the whole grain crust, the kind Dad and I hated, but Mom said was healthier for us.

  Chapter 19

  There isn’t much to cook for dinner, since we’ve got almost no food left, but we arrange it all on a towel. Two bags of chips. A candy bar. One bag of noodles. One bag of oatmeal.

  “So half a bag of noodles for dinner, with half a candy bar for dessert?”

  “Sounds perfect.” Sophie slips off her boot. Her face is all scrunched up and I see her ankle is swollen with purple marks all over it. “Oh, man. That looks bad.”

  “Yeah. I was thinking about soaking it in the creek.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “I can get there.” She picks up the tree limb crutch I made her and limps down to the water.

  I follow her.

  She puts her foot in the rushing creek and moans a little. Last time I checked, there were six Advil. Thank God the bear didn’t take those. I fill our water bags while Sophie sits on a rock and soaks her foot.

  “So…does my crutch invention buy me a question?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What’s your connection to Rain Man?”

  Her face falls. She lifts her foot again to examine it, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to ignore my question until she says, “He knew my parents.”

  Then she looks me square in the eyes. Her shoulders back, head high. This is a no-negotiation stance if I ever saw one. “Look, Dylan. I’m not ready to tell you my life story. Some things are just for me.”

  “I know.”

  She looks at the ground and picks at her sleeve the way I do.

  “I want you to know you can write your notes again. I promise I won’t dig them up anymore,” I offer.

  She laughs.

  This totally annoys me and confuses me at the same time. “Why are you laughing?”

  “Because you make us sound like dogs. All the burying and digging up things we cherish like dogs with their bones.”

  “Is that what your notes are?”

  “Ha, I guess. Today I wrote to Mom about the trail things I remember. Like how she always fried eggs for us whenever we’d find a resupply and how I’d love waking up to the sound of the eggs in the pan and the smell of the coffee brewing.”

  “Does that make you sad? To remember that?”

  Sophie picks at the bandage around her foot. “Not always. Sometimes I remember things like the birds Mom liked and that makes me feel like she’s still with me.”

  I nod. I want to tell Sophie her Mom still is with her because people tell me that all the time about Dad. But I don’t know if it’s true. I want it to be though.

  “What about your Dad?”

  “I’d rather talk about my dog. I had a rottweiler once. His name was Max, and he was the best.”

  “Max. Like in the story.”

  “Exactly. He was the best.”

  “Was? What happened to him?”

  “He had cancer. At the end, he hid in our laundry room. The vet said a lot of dogs find a quiet place to die when they’re ready. To be alone.”

  “You think Rain Man…”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Did you ever think maybe he’s in too much pain to live?”

  “Maybe. But it’s hard to be left behind. How it’s going to feel for his kids and grandkids and their dogs and their dogs’ fleas…”

  “Their fleas?”

  I shrug. She smiles.

  “It’s all so much, you know? After they’re gone, it feels so surreal. Like it can’t be true. Like you’re living some weird alternative universe.” My hands go to my head. “I don’t know.”

  “I know. Sometimes I think Mom is still alive. Actually I think it a lot.”

  I nod.

  “Sometimes,” Sophie adjusts her leg, moving it with her hand so her foot stays deep in the cold water, “Sometimes I wear Mom’s things and stare in the mirror, and…Dad always said I looked just like her. My eyes especially…and I wonder…”

  “What?”

  Sophie stares at the water. “I’m just babbling. I just miss her.”

  I don’t know if it’s okay to touch Sophie, because I hate when people touch me, but I feel her sadness and want to help, so I shift over to the rock she’s sitting on and sit next to her. I put my arm around her, and she rests her head on my shoulder and we sit like that for a while.

  Then she says, “You should soak your hands also.”

  She’s right, but I’m not looking forward to this. I unwrap my knuckles, thrust my hands in the water. It hurts like hell and I try to make my mind go elsewhere even as I hear myself scream.

  I think of th
e time I fell out off of my bike on a dirt road and scraped my face and both of my knees pretty badly. Mom put me up on the counter in the kitchen. She wet some cotton balls and dabbed at the area. She held my leg still with one hand and picked the gravel out of the cut carefully with the other. As I tried to pull away, she looked me straight in the eye. “Dylan. I’ve got to clean this out so you’ve got to try to be somewhere else while I do it. Okay?”

  I nodded but didn’t know what she meant.

  “So,” she said, “first rule is you can’t look at what I’m doing. Okay?”

  “Yeah.” I could do that.

  “Second rule, keep talking. Name all the states and capitals. In alphabetical order. Go.”

  I didn’t ask if she meant putting the states in alphabetical order or the capitals. I just went with the states, because that meant the most sense to my mind. By the time I’d reached Lincoln, Nebraska, she was done. And I barely felt it.

  “That’s my little warrior,” she said. “Your mind is always going to be your best escape.” And she kissed me on the forehead. I still remember how light that kiss felt. Light but good.

  My skin feels uncomfortable. The muscles in my calves are tight and want to spring and recoil and spring again. I bounce on the balls of my feet like I’m getting ready to swim a big race. “Let’s go back to the campsite.”

  “Help a girl out?” She lifts her hands, and I go to her side and bend down so she can slide her arm around my neck.

  She starts to limp toward our campsite and my heart starts to feel as knotted as my calves. So I crouch down.

  “Piggyback?”

  I carry her on my back to our campsite. Her body is so small. She feels like a little bird, hurt and discarded. But her weight is enough to make me feel grounded, like when I wore that weighted vest and that helps to make my muscles feel less nervous.

  I set her down as gently as I can in front of her tent. “We should probably get some sleep,” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  I push my hands into my eyes. The massive headache that has been building all day is now in full force.