Buried Seeds

by Donna Meredith

  My hub ambles over and kisses my cheek. “You’ll beat them next year, Ange. Keep the faith. I’m taking off to the barbershop.”

  “Not too short in back.” I wink at him. “Those little curls on your neck are kinda cute.”

  “Yes, Miss School Marm.” He grins because he knows I hate it when he calls me that, and off he goes, just the right amount of bounce to suggest he’s easy in his own skin. He jokes about having Dumbo ears and crooked teeth. He never lets these distinctions bother him the way my clunky bones and long nose bother me. But he hadn’t grown up comparing himself to MacKenzie, she of the roses and cream complexion, the petite upturned nose, the fine bone structure.

  I deposit Poppy on the bench beside MacKenzie and Mom, who have overtaken us. We watch the next match. Then those winners are pitted against MacKenzie and Mom, who win again and are declared this year’s champs.

  Afterwards, MacKenzie prances over to the bleachers and tugs me to my feet. Her eyes roam over the slightly rumpled big shirt I wear to disguise the fact that I no longer have Scarlet O’Hara’s waistline. Not that I ever did.

  “I’ve been playing a lot of tennis,” she says.

  “You do look fit. Very buff .”

  “It has done wonders for my muscle tone. Angela, you should give it a try.” She jabs a forefinger toward my midsection in case I missed her hint.

  “Sure, Mac, one of these days I hope to retire, and then I’ll be more than happy to trade work for play.”

  Mom laughs—and when she does, she is so beautiful, those blue eyes shining, each wrinkle a testament to a life well-lived. “You have a lot more free time, MacKenzie.”

  “Understatement,” I grumble.

  Mac’s pert little nose comes up. “You did have the whole summer off.”

  “Newsflash—I taught summer school and then Dewey and I took a bus load of students on a camping trip to Dolly Sods, Cranberry Glades, and Seneca Rocks to expose them to the botanical and geological wonders of our state. Trust me—it was no vacation supervising those little squirrels.”

  “You are a very devoted teacher, Angela, better than the ones around Charleston. That’s why I home-schooled my kids. Ted and I were concerned about what kind of values they might pick up in public schools.”

  What I’m thinking: Yeah, we public school teachers are a dangerous lot, encouraging wickedness and rewarding criminal behavior every chance we get.

  What I say: “You’re a very devoted mother.”

  My niece and nephew seem to have turned out all right—not that I know them very well. Neither has married, though both are past thirty. I expected Mac to push them into youthful marriages if only to protect their virginity so it could be sacrificed at the altar. God only knows how she will react when she spots Trish’s swollen abdomen, but my daughter is twenty-eight. Old enough to know what she wants. And what she doesn’t want.

  I swipe sweaty palms against my capris.

  Poppy stares suspiciously at MacKenzie and tugs on Mom’s flowered shirt sleeve. “Helen, who is that woman? Do we know her?”

  Mom and I freeze, watch as MacKenzie’s face cracks into a million pieces.

  After what seems like an eon later, Mom’s tinkling laugh shatters the silence. “Oh, honey, you remember MacKenzie. She and her husband sent us on that cruise to Alaska. Remember that?”

  Poppy’s face lights up. “We saw bears.”

  “That’s right. And whales.”

  “Lots of whales. And moose. We saw Mickey Mouse, too, with the girls.”

  “Let’s get out of this sun.” Mom guides him toward the parking lot.

  MacKenzie shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Well, I’d better go.”

  “And I’d better unlock the car and get the AC on for the folks. You’re coming out to the farm for dinner, right?”

  MacKenzie nods. I still can’t believe she would choose to stay in a hotel instead of at the farm or with me and Dewey—don’t want to inconvenience anyone, she says. Ha—more like she doesn’t want to inconvenience herself by slumming with poor relations.

  We walk back to our cars in sunlight so bright it pains my eyes despite dark sunglasses. “Thanks for coming back for the tourney.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it.” The usual brass is absent from her voice. “I think this will be the last time Poppy will be able to play.”

  The inevitability of that loss lodges in my throat. A loss my sister would share. I squeeze her shoulder and quickly stride away. Mac’s finger-pointing at my midsection replays in my mind. I entertain excuses for my extra pounds: Poppy’s cooking, no time to work out, menopause. I swat Mac’s insult away. I refuse to judge myself by the shape of my body. I am more than that.

  I am driving my folks back to our farm just outside of town so I can help Mom prepare a feast for MacKenzie. Grass-covered meadows hug both sides of the road, broad green expanses brightened by flashes of color: buttery giant swallowtails floating above purple ironweed, candy-corn blooms of butterfly weed, white swaths of Queen Anne’s Lace and poison hemlock. Behind a barbed-wire fence, Herefords graze and lumber about, captives bored by the tedium of their day. Vultures scatter on my car’s approach, temporarily abandoning the remains of a possum they are cleaning from the asphalt.

  We pass by grassy mounds I’d climbed countless times as a girl so I could launch myself downward, arms spread wide, wind and seeds tangled in my hair, defying gravity for long seconds, airborne, a human kite with sky dreams. Behind those hills lie secret patches of thimble-sized wild strawberries, known only to me and my sister. On the other side of the road, we had tromped through sumac-laden meadows with our mother where raspberries and blackberries brambled promiscuously, begging to be plucked, simmered in sugar, and ladled into Mason jars. I had made sure my daughter grew up knowing the thrill of riding a silver saucer down the snow-covered hill behind the house, just as Mac and I had. Poppy almost always went down first so his extra weight would pack the fresh fallen snow. We zipped downhill ever faster as the morning wore on and the path grew slick with ice. If we didn’t veer hard right at the bottom, we’d slam into the white aluminum siding that girded the crawlspace under the back porch. The siding still bears dimples and dents from our mishaps. Mac and I had such fun as kids.

  I glance at Poppy in the seat beside me and briefly let my eyes flick to the rear mirror at Mom. I am grateful, overwhelmingly grateful, to have been adopted into such a loving home. I blink furiously to disperse the unshed tears that threaten to cloud my vision. Gotta cut out this foolishness. Keep my mind clear and focused on my driving—lives depend on it. Hasn’t Mom emphasized that repeatedly since she first let me behind the wheel when I was fifteen? A car is a lethal weapon, she says.

  As if I don’t know. As if I could ever forget the day my Daddy died.

  We were on the way to Myrtle Beach, Daddy, Mom, Grandmother Adams, MacKenzie and me. A family vacation, the first we’d ever taken. MacKenzie and I were both five years old. We shared the back seat of our ancient baby blue Ford sedan with our grandmother. The car’s swooping side fins resembled wings—a big blue bird ready to fly down the highway.

  Summer 1972

  I slide down to the floor behind my father to play with Barbie. Mine has long brunette hair bunched behind her head. Her bathing suit is hot pink with greenish stripes along the sides.

  “Angie, you shouldn’t sit down there,” Grandmother says. “You’ll get your shorts dirty.”

  “I like it down here.”

  “The rumble will make you carsick.”

  “I like the rumble.” Besides, I don’t like to see the scary dropoffs. Down here I can pretend they aren’t right outside the window.

  Daddy’s calm voice floats over the seats. “It’s okay, Mom. She sits down there all the time.” Daddy is almost always calm. Laid-back, Mommy calls him. It makes me think of Daddy’s brown chair. You could lay back in it, which is lots of fun—even though Mommy says his chair is ratty. Not even fit for a yard sale.

&
nbsp; “Well, I don’t want a carsick child sitting near me.”

  “She never gets carsick.” Mommy’s voice grows sharp edges when she speaks to Grandmother Adams.

  “I don’t see why she can’t be good like her sister and sit on the seat by me.”

  “Both my girls are good children, thank you very much, very good, very precious.”

  Grandmother’s nose wrinkles as if she smells something nasty. She pretends to study the view out her window. I can tell she’s pretending because I feel her eyes stab me every few minutes.

  I clamp my teeth together. Why had we brought her along? She always makes trouble. Like the time she scolded Mommy for overcooking the steaks. Grandmother likes her meat red inside, juicy, she says. What she means is bloody. Gag a maggot. Besides, Daddy grilled the steaks, so why did Grandmother blame Mommy? They argue about even more stuff than me and MacKenzie: was it okay for us girls to wear slacks to church, had the vacuum cleaner bag been changed since Christmas, why did Mommy insist on keeping smelly food scraps in the kitchen for composting. The worst argument of all was over weeds on the back porch, which was just crazy. There aren’t any weeds on the porch, just Mommy’s pink begonias.

  I make my Barbie hop toward the Grump Hump that divides the floor into two equal halves, one side for me and Barbie, the other for grumpy grandmother’s feet. The hump could be a diving board.

  “Look, my Barbie’s diving into the ocean,” I tell MacKenzie and swoop Barbie headfirst toward the floor. Can you dive into the real ocean? I’m not sure. I’ve only seen the ocean in pictures.

  “My Barbie’s diving into the ocean, too.” MacKenzie drops her blonde Barbie onto the car floor. “Let’s trade dolls,” she says.

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to.” I set blonde Barbie back on the seat beside my sister. Our Barbies’ hair matches our own. Mine is almost as dark as Inky the Cat’s fur; MacKenzie’s, light as duck down.

  Grandmother Adams strokes MacKenzie’s hair with her wrinkly hand. “Your Barbie is prettier, anyway. The one with dark hair looks like a dirty wop.”

  “What’s a wop?” my sister asks.

  Mommy hisses, “See, Joe? See what your mother is teaching the girls? I won’t stand for it, I just won’t.”

  “Helen’s right, Mom. Little pitchers have big ears. We don’t use that kind of language.”

  I know me and MacKenzie are the pictures, but pictures of what? Doesn’t make sense. Daddy and Mommy use that funny expression when grown-ups talk about bad stuff, stuff children aren’t supposed to know about. What does that word—wop— mean? Whatever, I’m glad Daddy let Grandmother Adams know she isn’t the boss, even if he is still using his easy-chair voice. Grandmother Adams isn’t boss. He is. And Mommy.

  MacKenzie snatches my Barbie right out of my hands and stands up on the back seat, shrieking, “I got her!”

  “Give her back!” I reach for my doll.

  Grandmother Adams swats my hand. “Let MacKenzie have it a while.”

  The car swerves hard to the left and Mommy screams. My head crunches against the car door. My Barbie’s headless body flies by, bounces off the back of Daddy’s seat, and dive bombs onto the ocean floor.

  ~~~

  Later Mommy fills in the missing parts of that day. My father had swerved across the center line, skidded off the road, and smashed into a pine tree. MacKenzie broke her arm; Mommy cracked her collarbone; Grandmother ruptured her spleen. I hurt my head, a mild concussion, Mommy explains.

  Daddy’s funeral is held a week later. At the funeral home I can hardly breathe. I feel sick—the fragrance from three walls stacked from floor to ceiling with rainbows of lilies and tall flowers Mommy calls glads; the crowd of grown-ups, pressing in on all sides, towering above me, brushing fingers against my cheeks or latching onto my hands; the big box in front of the room. Mommy says Daddy is lying under the lid. Not asleep. Dead. I understand, sort of. I saw Laddie, the neighbor’s dog, hit by a passing truck, lying stiff and still beside the road. And Inky, the cat, sometimes deposits trophies on our doorstep: a dead robin once, another time a field mouse. But I hadn’t known dead could happen to people. To Daddy. I wonder if he is stiff and still like Laddie. Can he breathe under that lid—or is the odor of the flowers smothering him the way it is me? Will dead happen to Mommy? To me and MacKenzie?

  When MacKenzie whispers that she needs to “go,” I am happy to leave the room, so heavy with smells, long faces, the box. MacKenzie needs help with her clothes, what with her arm wrapped up in that cast. I help her pull her underpants down, and a few minutes later, help her tug them back up.

  Holding hands—MacKenzie’s good hand—we return to the viewing room, quiet as little mice. I hope no one else will pat our heads and pinch our cheeks. We linger in the back. Everything about this place feels strange. Why do they call it a home? Who lives here?

  In the sea of strangers I find Mommy’s face and relax a little— until I see who she is talking to. I tug on MacKenzie’s hand. I don’t have to tell her why. She sees Grandmother too, in a wheelchair, black hat, scratchy-looking veil covering most of her gray hair and her eyes, a woman in baggy white hospital clothes resting big knuckles on the chair handles.

  “Honey, you shouldn’t be here.” Mommy uses her worried voice, the one for bike spills, skinned knees, coughing, croup, and finding money to pay the bills. “The hospital wanted to keep you another week.”

  Grandmother’s voice, loud and mean, washes over the room, drowning out every other sound except the buzz inside my head. “You should be ashamed.”

  The sea of visitors slowly drifts away, a few steps at a time, edging toward the door.

  “A decent wife would have left off having the funeral until his mother could attend.”

  “But it’s been a week already. The doctors said they didn’t know when they could release you, when it would be safe. At least another week, they said. Did the doctor release you?” Mommy looks at the hospital worker, who shakes her head. Mommy bends over grandmother, taking both her hands. “We’d better get you back to—”

  Grandmother jerks away. “My son would still be alive if you hadn’t adopted that child. With that complexion and hair she surely has Tally blood. Maybe even a touch of Colored. Most likely her mother was a drug addict, a whore. That child’ll never amount to a hill of beans.”

  I know she means me, but I’m not dirty. I take baths and Mommy is my mother.

  Mommy steps backward as if Grandmother had smacked her. “What a despicable thing to say!”

  “Everybody knows it, the Tallies are just as bad as Colored. Why, in my day, their sort weren’t allowed to buy homes in the good neighborhoods. Said so right in the covenants. Couldn’t swim in our pools, either.”

  The buzzing in my ears grows louder, like a swarm of crickets rubbing their wings together. I can’t breathe—is it because of the lilies? I feel myself swaying and in the distance I hear MacKenzie calling my name. An arm encircles my shoulders and another slips beneath my knees. One of my mother’s friends carries me to a folding chair and props me upright. MacKenzie climbs onto the empty chair on my other side.

  “Is Angie going to die too?” my sister asks.

  “Of course not, sweetie.” Mommy’s friend calls out, “Helen, Angie needs you.”

  Mommy rushes over and kneels down on the carpeted floor. “Oh no, my sweet girls, you didn’t hear that, did you?”

  Guests eye each other nervously. Cocooning us in her arms, sobbing, Mommy sweeps us away into the private room the funeral home keeps for family members who are crying.

  Grandmother is left alone in front of the big box.

  August 2017

  It was not the best way in the world to learn I was adopted. Oh, Mom explained she and Daddy had been overwhelmed with joy when they brought me home from the adoption agency, that they had longed for a child and after a decade of marriage despaired of ever having one. She explained how MacKenzie probably would never have happened if it weren’t for me, a strange
and wonderful blessing occurring sometimes after adoption. Sudden fertility.

  Mom insisted I should forget every unkind word. “Older people sometimes hold onto bad notions they were raised with, ugly prejudices we want nothing to do with now.”

  Still, I couldn’t erase the feeling that I was inferior to MacKenzie. Even worse, I was the reason Daddy died. If only I hadn’t been fighting with my sister.

  Grandmother Adams’s words planted seeds of shame in my soul. Yet from that dirt grew a blessing, the gift of recognition. If one of my students had no one to lunch with, I invited him to hang out in my room and shared apples and crackers. Or if a girl carried the shame of being dateless to Homecoming or Prom, I complimented her new haircut or her smile. If they were teased for wearing the same jeans for weeks on end, I offered wage-paying jobs: babysitters for Trish when she was young or farm hands to help Poppy with haying and harvesting.

  My grandmother was right about one thing: in Clarksburg’s not too distant past, those of Italian heritage were forbidden to live in middle class neighborhoods, forbidden to swim in community pools. We were not welcome. At one time or another, most ethnic groups found themselves labeled and dumped onto the wrong side of the social spectrum: kikes, micks, dagos, dumb Polacks, jigaboos, slant-eyes, bohunks, redskins, and wetbacks. So ugly, those labels. Even though courts had struck down the restrictive covenants my grandmother revered, and my rational mind understood how wrong ethnic divisions were, I couldn’t quite erase the feeling I was not good enough.

  And the odor of hothouse lilies or bloody steak? Gag me with a spoon.

  ~~~