The Secrets We Bury

by Stacie Ramey

  “And shrimp and grits,” Sophie says from the bed.

  Everyone laughs.

  “Well, not to break up the fun, but we’ve got some paperwork to do at the station to release Dylan back to your custody, Mrs. Taggart,” Officer Stanton says.

  “Unless we don’t actually bring him to the station?” Officer Nice Guy suggests.

  “Nah. This isn’t one of those cheesy good-time movies. The kid comes in, we do the paperwork, and he goes on his way. By the book.”

  “It’s only a few months until he’s eighteen,” Sophie says.

  Officer Stanton runs his hand over his stubble. “How many months?”

  “Three-ish,” I say. The weight of the consequences I could be facing now finally gets to me, and it settles in my stomach like a rock.

  “Seems like a lot of paperwork for three months,” Sophie’s dad says.

  “Let me make some calls and see what they recommend.” Officer Stanton wipes his glasses with a cloth from his pocket. “But if the DA wants you to come downtown, that’s what we do.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Don’t get all celebratory yet, we’ll see what he says.”

  Chapter 29

  At the airport, Mom and I sit at our gate waiting to board. I’m fidgeting, having just taken a Dramamine, counting the pulsing in my ears, waiting for it to kick in when Mom reaches into her purse and takes out my iPhone. My real phone, the one I used when I lived at home. “I almost forgot. It’s charged for you.”

  She holds it out like one of many peace offerings that we will have to make with each other. Each one feels slightly less awkward than the previous, but it’s still weird. “Thanks,” I say without holding eye contact, which in this instance I think even my social skills teacher would forgive.

  I flip through my screen, landing on my previous texts with Emily. My finger toggles over her name, and I want to text her. I have no idea what to say, so I scroll to my downloaded music and my heartbeat calms just seeing the chants. Drums. Sounds of nature. I slip in headphones and start listening. Man, that feels so good.

  Soon, Mom prods my elbow, and I look up. It’s time to board. We shuffle to the walkway and then board the plane. We are in seats 9A and 9B, a window and an aisle. In the past, this would have been a huge point of contention for me. I usually have to be on the aisle in an airplane, but Mom likes the aisle too. For years, she’s given it to me, and she starts to again, but I say, “It’s okay. I’ll take the window.”

  She gives me an approving nod then goes to answer her phone. “Yup. I’ve got him. We’re heading home. We’ll get in around six.” She smiles at me then mouths your brother. “He looks fine. Really good. Whatever you get is fine. Yes I’m sure he’d love that.” Then to me. “Brad wants to know if Joey’s Pizza is okay with you when we get home?”

  “It’s fine.” I put the shade down and close my eyes. The emotions of the last few days have left me exhausted. It was crappy saying goodbye to Sophie.

  Mom and Sophie’s dad gave us a few minutes of “alone time.”

  “Alone time?” Sophie laughed. “What are we, five?”

  I put my forehead against hers. “I’ve got like five hundred dorky things going through my mind right now.”

  “What does that look like?” she asked.

  This girl. I pulled my head back, moved my chair closer to her bed, I reached for her hands. “Is this okay?” she nodded so I held both of her hands. “You really want to know?”

  She nodded. “Plus you owe after digging up my notes.”

  I almost corrected her and said that debt was paid when she saw me lick spilled coffee grounds in the dirt. Instead I said, “It’s like reading a comic or a graphic novel or manga. You ever read those?”

  “Death Note.”

  “You and every other dewy-eyed teenager.”

  She punched me in the arm, the same way I’ve seen Emily punch boys. “So…”

  “Ouch.” I pretended to rub the sore area, and then said, “It’s like how they have those speech bubbles in comics. I see them filled with things I could say or want to say or definitely should not say.”

  “How do you choose?”

  “Well, I don’t always choose carefully, as you have witnessed.”

  She laughed. “True.”

  “But choosing first lines or last lines, that takes a special art. Like how you begin or end a book.”

  “This is not a last line. Just tell me you’ll see me soon,” she said.

  “I will.”

  “I want that.”

  “Me too.” I leaned my head against hers again. We stayed like that until Mom and her dad decided it was time for us to go.

  Now sitting in the plane, I think about Sophie. I think of the notepad she gave me to write to the people I need to, packed away in my carry-on right now. I pull it out and start a note to Emily.

  Em,

  I know I've crossed the line so many times over all the years, and you always defended me. I know the boat thing was my fault. Not yours. Real-world consequences for the choices I made. I am so sorry for everything I've done. I love you.

  Dylan

  I sign it using my real name this time, not our fake names.

  I fold it up into fourths. Then eighths. Then in half one more time. I pat Mom on the shoulder. She takes her headphones out.

  “Can you get this to Em for me?”

  “Of course.”

  I put my headphones back in and I think about my life back home, what it will look like, how it’ll be, and how I will be. My eyes close, and I sleep the rest of the way to Connecticut.

  • • •

  Coming home is exactly as weird as I think it will be. Part of me hopes that Emily will be sitting in my living room, but only Brad is there. He must hear Mom’s car pull up, and he meets us at the front door. I guess that means he’s glad to see me, but I can’t hide my disappointment when Brad and I untangle from our two-second man hug and go inside. My gaze sweeps the living room looking for her.

  Mom puts her hand on my shoulder. “I thought it would just be us tonight. The rest of the family will come over this weekend.”

  When Mom leaves the room, Brad picks up on my mood and says, “You know she’ll get over this. She’ll be over here soon. You two are close. She’ll come around.”

  “Thanks, man. Hope so.”

  I nod. Will Emily come or will she make some stupid excuse? Then it hits me. This is the summer before she goes to college. It was supposed to be our last time together. And I ruined it. I think of all the plans we’d made. We were going to go back to the Cape house and make Uncle Bill take us parasailing and to see the seals at Chatham and going Banana Boating. All of the dorky touristy things we never did as a family. We were going to go into Boston and do a Duck Tour and walk the Liberty Trail. I ruined that. If only I could have stayed in school for two more months, April and May, I would have been able to spend an entire summer with Emily. We could have taken my boat out. My boat.

  I am here now in this world I’ve made. My world without Dad. Without my boat. Without Emily.

  Brad lumbers by with my gear. Mom makes a face. “Stick that in the garage for now, okay?” It does smell pretty bad.

  We eat on paper plates in front of the television watching the first Harry Potter movie, because the first and the last are my favorites. But it makes my heart hurt, because I always, always did this with Emily.

  So I send her a text. Hey Em. I’m home. And I’m sorry.

  A calm comes over me. She’ll get this. She’ll text back. All will be fine. But for the entire movie, I keep checking my phone, but there are no messages. I try not to let Mom see me check. I try to keep my mind on the movie. Sometimes you’ve got to fake it for other peoples’ sakes.

  I’m on my third slice of cheese and Brad is on his fourth when Mom g
ets up to make popcorn.

  Brad tries to act like he’s not stressed to be here instead of back at school. I try not to look like I wish my phone would beep. Mom comes back carrying a big bowl of popcorn with a shaker of parmesan cheese and a bowl of caramels. Emily and I have a long-standing argument about popcorn mix-ins. She’s pro mix-in, and I’m con. At least when it comes to popcorn. There’s nothing wrong with eating a piece of popcorn and following it with a caramel chaser. Why do you need to mix them?

  I force myself to focus on the screen. My neck is tense, and my ears are listening for any sound of life from my phone. It’s dark out now, and for me, the guy who just spent the last few weeks on the trail, this sends a strong signal to go to sleep.

  When the movie finally ends, Brad stands, stretches. “Glad you’re home, little brother,” he calls from across the room. Then he gives Mom a hug. She holds it longer than she usually does. “I’ll walk you out,” she says.

  I use that as my exit. “Going to bed,” I call.

  “Okay, Sweetie. Good night. So good to have you home.”

  It’s been over twenty-four hours since Mom first walked into Sophie’s hospital room, and neither of us has brought up the real issues that have to be ironed out. Like why I left, if I will run again, and what I’m going to do about school.

  I don’t know what to make of the cease-fire, but I think it’s probably good we each have a cooling-off period. That way we can say the important things that people almost never say to each other before we start hammering out our demands and differences (two points) to find common ground.

  I walk up the stairs to my room, my legs exhausted, like my mind. Once I walk in my room, the memories push me into a mess of sadness.

  My gaze circles the room, taking the tour a second or two ahead of my heart. Straight ahead is my desk centered under the window. On either side of the window are white shelves with Harry Potter figurines, Star Wars Lego men, miniature stuffed Wild Things, and Lord of the Rings action figure sets.

  My bed has one of the original stuffed animal Ewoks that Emily bought me on eBay for my thirteenth birthday. My bookshelves are arranged first by genre, then by author. I’ve got sci-fi on top, then mystery, then fantasy, then nonfiction. I have every single Old Farmers’ Almanac since I was born. I have a collection of books on stars and constellations, and a book on frogs, because I used to be sort of obsessed with those. There’s a small gap on that shelf, and I’m pretty sure a book on birds in the wild might fit perfectly.

  I lie on my bed, the flannel sheets that smell like the lavender rinse Mom always uses. I bring the sheets to my nose and breathe in so strong I practically inhale the sheets. Tears well in my eyes. I press against them with the heels of my hands. I want to text Emily. I need to. So I do.

  Em. C’mon. You can’t stay mad at me forever.

  It takes twenty-seven seconds for her to respond, which is ridiculously long for her, since she’s sort of tethered to her phone. I’m pretty sure that means she’s still pissed. Like she had to figure out to respond. Plus she only writes two words: I know.

  I try not to let my annoyance get to me. I try to see it from her perspective. All of these possible replies dive-bomb my mind. My fingers itch to take direction from any one of them. They don’t really care what they type or how the words will be received. Honestly, part of me is just as angry as Emily is, but being angry isn’t going to help anyone. So I close my eyes and shut out the suggestions from my impulsive brain. I try to think with my heart about how I feel.

  I feel really badly about how things went.

  How so?

  She’s talking to me, so that’s good, but I can read between the lines. So I write, I should have come home when you asked me to. Or at least written Mom.

  Yes. You should have.

  Will you forgive me?

  Eventually.

  But not now?

  Not now.

  Part of me is angry at her for being stubborn. But deep in my heart, I know I deserved that and more. So I type, I sent you a note. Mom’s going to deliver it, and close my eyes, resting my phone on my chest.

  The phone beeps again, and, because I’m not expecting it, I jump. Has she changed her mind? Has she forgiven me? But when I check the screen, it’s not Emily who texted. It’s Sophie.

  Hey stranger.

  Hey back.

  Wrote you a note. But didn’t bury it.

  A smile lifts the corners of my mouth. Good. Because I wouldn’t dig up your notes and read them again. That would be wrong.

  Her next text makes me so happy. You made me laugh. For real.

  That’s my job.

  Write me a note?

  What kind?

  I don’t know. I’ll text you my address tomorrow so you can send it. Promise you will?

  Yes.

  OK. Tired. Going to sleep.

  Gnite. Sweet dreams.

  Sweet dreams to you too. I sleep better when you are here.

  Me too.

  She sleeps better when I’m there. So that decides it. I have to be there as soon as I can. But I have to do it with Mom’s blessing this time. That means I’ve got to finish high school. I put my phone back on my chest and let my body relax into the Tempur-Pedic bed my mother bought me because she read it helped kids like me sleep better. Kids like me. The ones who need labels. The angry. The out of control. Kids like me. But maybe if I use the things I learned on the trail, I can be less angry and less out of control. Maybe the school Mom wanted to send me to can teach me those things too.

  Chapter 30

  Mom is sitting at the breakfast table when I come downstairs. Her bowl of oatmeal is beside her, her hands are around a mug of coffee, and she’s reading the paper. The smell of coffee is so compelling I want to pour myself a bowl of it, but I am sidetracked by Mom’s comical expression.

  “What are you doing up?” She taps her phone on the table. “It’s early.”

  I run my hand through my hair. “Bad habit I picked up on the Trail.”

  She gets up from the table, walks to the cabinet, and takes out my favorite coffee mug and fills it for me. “I think I like that new habit.” She opens the fridge and stops. “You still take cream and sugar?”

  “If I can get it.”

  “You can.”

  I sit at the table as Mom serves me the coffee, which is not usually how breakfast goes in my house. It’s usually help yourself, except on my birthday. The smell is incredible, But I resist the urge to guzzle it, letting the anticipation build.

  “You hungry?” Mom asks, not understanding that she’s interrupting my private moment with coffee. The old me would have growled at her or made a face. The new me puts my hand over my stomach. “Always.”

  “Oatmeal okay?”

  “It’s perfect, Mom.”

  I allow myself my first sip of coffee as Mom ladles the oatmeal into a bowl. Part of me believes I don’t deserve this rock-star treatment, but another part of me screams to drink the coffee, so I do. Mom adds some butter and salt to the bowl, then she brings it to me and I think about how unfair to Mom I’ve been.

  I stare at my phone, drink more coffee, stare some more. To text or not to text. Because I know Mom probably already got the note to Em. I stare at my phone. Should I?

  So I do.

  Emily. I sent you a note, which I’m pretty sure you got. You said last night you’d eventually forgive me. I feel like if I keep texting you, keep asking you to forgive me, that maybe I’m dismissing your feelings or being too pushy. So I won’t. I’m sorry. And I want us to be good.

  Meanwhile, Mom is busy preparing the rest of my oatmeal feast. First she fills another bowl with brown sugar and puts in the sugar spoon, the round one that I always used to eat with when I was little. I remember she told me it was my special spoon, because it was shaped like the full moon. I was dor
ky enough to believe her until my cousin, Abby, filled me in over one of our big summer breakfasts at the Cape. “It’s a sugar spoon, you dork.”

  Aunt Mary smacked her across the arm. “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you leave the little kids alone?”

  Abby and Christian and Brad left, all riotous with laughter and Emily took my hand. “They’re the dorks. We are awesome.”

  And we did a two-sugar-spoon salute and went back to eating.

  Mom fills the creamer with half-and-half and adds it to the tray she’s making for me. Golden raisins go in a small tea bowl. She looks at the pantry, cocks her head, and then sticks her hand in and comes out with raisins and slivered almonds. They each get their own bowl and small spoon. A warmth spreads over me as I remember all of the times she made me this exact breakfast. We used to call it a build-your-own. Mom figured out I would eat all sorts of things mixed together if I was the one who did the mixing. I add all of the toppings to my steaming oatmeal while she dusts cinnamon on top and I remind myself that I am so lucky to not only have a mom, but this one in particular.

  The smell is insanely good. I take a swig of coffee and follow that immediately with a little bite of heaven that is this bowl of oatmeal.

  Mom gets her coffee and sits across from me. I can see she’s working on her crossword puzzle. It’s a perfect peaceful moment. Warmth spreads inside me. I’m happy to be home. Really happy. Which is weird because no matter how tough or dangerous the trail was, I was happy there also. I think about telling Rain Man that. So I pull out that little notebook I’ve been carrying around with me since the trail, and I start a note to Rain Man.

  Rain Man,

  I'm sorry. I know you're probably angry with me for what I did, but I think it was the right thing.

  Mom takes a sip of her coffee, looks at me writing, her eyebrows raised. “Everything good?”

  “Yeah. I started writing to people about things I’m having a hard time saying.”

  “Another trail thing?”