Buried (14 page)

“No, this is great, Liz.”

“And this one is the Responsible One.” She spun her around. Long brown hair in a clip, jeans, T-shirt, a pencil and list in one hand and a broom in the other.

I stared at the mini-me.

She touched my arm, and I flinched.

“Don't be mad.”

I kept my eyes on the spinning girl with the list.

“I told the librarian to tell you to meet us at the movie. We were going to be late for it. She said you ran out before she could stop you.”

I didn't move or look up.

She hopped up on the table beside me. “Claude, you're a mess. You need to talk to someone.”

I moved away and looked out the basement window. I could see people getting into cars and a corner of the track where the cross-country team was gathered.

“You've helped me so much, Claude. I never would've started group, or understood the roles we play when someone we love is addicted, if you hadn't helped me to understand.” She put her hand on my back. “I never would've gotten this report done without your support. You taught me a lot, Claude.”

So she was all done with the health report.

“But I know from everything I've learned that you need help. You're deeply codependent.”

“Oh, please!” I said, jumping down.

“You're codependent and something else. Look at your hands! They're practically bleeding from all the washing and picking you do. And you take so many showers that your hair is going to fall out.” She put on the confused-pity look and stepped closer. “You've always been a little obsessive-compulsive. It was kind of funny. Remember? But now—”

“What?” I put my hand to my head and felt the crispy ends.

“You're out of control. Claude, you haven't changed your clothes since you bought them.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “That's so not you.”

I looked up at the mobile that had finally stopped moving and ripped the Responsible One off and whipped her across the room.

 
At group I sat on the other side, away from Liz. Today it wasn't hard to be out of my regular seat. Everything looked different from the other side, and I liked it. I could see the kitchen where the potluck casseroles were heated up, the piano room where I'd banged on the keys and got in trouble, and the corner where they put a wingback chair for Santa Claus. When I was seven, my wish for Christmas had been to have a father. I was sure that's what Mom needed. Soon she had Linwood.

Matt sat with his elbows on his knees and his eyes on some invisible spot on the floor. He looked like he might punch out someone if they got too close. Chris and Deb talked quietly, looking over at him every once in a while.
Something's up with him,
I thought. Willa and Hanna were passing out clipboards, and Liz and Lydia were talking. The whole place had the feeling of a funeral home.

Blake sat down next to me.

“Who died?” I said to him.

“Matt's dad. He drove into a stone wall.”

I saw Matt look away. He'd heard me. I'm an idiot.

“I'm sorry, Matt,” I said, knowing it was a ridiculous thing to say, and not even a little helpful.

Lydia set her coffee on the table behind her and stood up. “Well, Matt's asked that . . .” She shook her head and gestured to Matt with her hand. “Matt, please tell the group what you told me. I think you can speak on this better than I can.” She sat back down and quickly reached for her cup.

“My dad's dead.” He kept his eyes on the floor. “I don't want to talk about it, so I'll keep it simple for now. He was drunk when he died. He drove the car into the big stone wall on O'Henry Corner. I mean, who wouldn't see that comin'? I don't know. Today I can't really talk about it, but I will sometime, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm glad you'll all be here to listen when I'm ready.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed hard. My own eyes stung, and others cried openly.

For some minutes it was quiet except for a few sniffs and shifting feet. I wanted Chris to move so I could sit next to Matt and tell him that the aching, empty hole he felt inside was normal, that it stays with you day and night, and that after a while it becomes a part of you and you kind of befriend it. I wanted to ask him if he had night-mares and memories that swept him away from real life. I wanted to suggest that he write his dad a letter.

“Matt,” Blake said, “I think I need to go.”

Everyone looked at Blake like he was some kind of heartless monster. But Matt said, “No problem, man. This is probably a bad time to talk.”

“It's just that this has me thinking I ought to talk to my parents,” Blake said.

“It's whatever you guys think,” Lydia said. “We can finish early today unless anyone wants to talk.”

“Yeah, maybe I should go, too,” Chris said. “Can I give anyone a ride?”

“Me, please,” Deb said, getting up.

Soon the room was cleared except for Liz, Lydia, Matt, and me.

I walked toward his chair and stood there, not knowing what to say.

He leaned back so I could see his eyes. Tears and pain.

In my head I was thinking,
Anytime you want to talk, Matt.
But what came out was a sigh and, “It sucks, doesn't it?”

“Jeez, Claude,” Liz said. I heard her walk out the door with Lydia.

Matt nodded and stood up. I could smell his sweat. “You got that right.”

“You need a ride?” I said.

“No, I'm going to the beach.”

We walked down the steps. “It's not what you expected, is it?” I said.

“No, I still keep thinking he's going to be at home in the chair.”

“Call me if you want to talk.”

“Thanks, Claude,” he said, giving my arm a soft punch.

 
I bought ten packs of three-by-three fluorescent notes—everything they had in bright colors. At the last minute, I grabbed a large-size Post-it pad with blue-green lines. That would be for things to do that weren't daily jobs: the long-term projects. I saw myself getting up on time and checking in with a morning list, being ready for each day and going out the door prepared for whatever would come my way. Every time Liz came into my head, I let her fly back out. I never thought of her for more than a second. I stayed on task.

In the kitchen, I designated each day with one color and made columns of squares on each cupboard door. I wrote the daily chores on each of them and gave each day a special job, like Laundry Day, Change the Sheets Day, Shopping Day, and Extra Chore Day. And, of course, every day could use a little vacuuming.

13

Saturday CHANGE THE SHEETS DAY

I HOPPED OUT OF BED and ran to the kitchen to see the bright blue vertical column that designated Saturday on the cupboard door.

This will be so much easier, I thought as I sat at the kitchen table with my coffee and granola. I looked around in satisfaction. I was doing it: keeping a well-ordered, clean, and cheerful house.

The phone rang while I was in the middle of washing the coffee pot.

“Is she back?”

“Candy?”

“No, Shania Twain.” She broke into song.

I groaned at her poor imitation and said, “Sorry, Candy.”

Candy waited.

“Nope.”

“I need help this weekend.”

“You can count on me. I just have to do a couple of things around here, but—”

“Either you're working, or you're not. Which is it?”

“I'll be there.”

The stain by the kitchen door had spread to a watery rust color, and even though most of it was under the rug, the edges of the stain peeked out and reminded me every day. I lifted the corner and sprayed rug cleaner without looking, then scrubbed up the lather.
I'll vacuum it later,
I thought.

The Saturday chores were done, and now I had to rake up the mess I'd made with the vacuum bag; also, the flower beds were a wreck. They needed major weeding and thinning out.

On my hands and knees, I moved the catnip Moonpie had destroyed and thinned the marjoram. Fall was the time that Mom transplanted a lot of her beds. She said she liked to do it then instead of during the spring because the plants were up and she could see what she was doing. Beside the catnip was a needy-looking purple flower I didn't know. The clusters drooped anemically. The silver artemisia needed to be reined in, and the thyme was spreading out of control.

There was so much to do. How could she leave these plants here? How could she leave me?

 
When I walked back into the trailer from the garden, I found two things: the red message light blinking and a mound of cat poop on the rug, not far from where Liz had spilled her soda. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. How did that happen? Before I did anything, I washed off the garden soil. I used the vegetable brush with concentrated dish soap. Running the water as hot as I could stand it, I scrubbed deep in the cracks of my skin to get the soil out. I felt a bristle pierce my index finger, and a dot of blood grew. I rinsed it off and brushed again and again until I felt more and more sharp pains and more dots of blood appeared.

“No,” I said, panting over the sink as I washed. “Stop it! Stop it, now! It hurts! Why can't I stop? Make me stop!”

Moonpie yowled to go out.

“Goddamn cat!” I pushed off the faucets without drying my hands and chased him around the trailer until he scrambled under Mom's bed.

“Shit!” I said, lying back on the bed. “You pain-in-the-ass cat!” How did I forget to let him out? It was right there on the list. I sat up and stomped my foot on the floor, and he shot out from under the bed and made a beeline for the door.

I washed up again and pushed the blinking red light. “You have one message,” said the machine voice. “Ten thirty-five.”

“Man, Claudine, you're starting to act just like your mother.”

I was late for Candy.

I went to the sink and washed my hands and face again and set to work on Moonpie's stain. The job would be much more involved than Liz's soda stain. No doubt about that.

 
I drove, listening to the weatherman.

“You can expect a drab and dreary day today,” the weatherman said. “Rain starting tonight with Hurricane Gert possibly turning our way. Stayed tuned for the latest updates.” I turned the radio off.

It was true what Candy had said about Mom. She'd blown her off many times. It was typical Mom behavior. But if anyone ever forgot her, or was late and didn't call, she would be frantic. Frantic like one of those psycho-dogs that eat the carpet if you leave them alone.

When I came around the beach into Deep Cove, I passed Linwood and his buddies leaning up against Robbie Holt's truck at the boat ramp, laughing. He raised his beer to me and smiled. I looked straight ahead and kept driving until I pulled into the Seaside and parked beside Candy's green Impala.

She was just coming out of the door carrying a pile of dirty linens and heading into the washroom. When she didn't look up, I knew there was trouble. I ran after her. “Candy!”

Her back was to me as she stuffed sheets into the washer. “What? It's a little late.”

“I'm sorry. I had a mess at home, and then Mom's garden, too,” I said.

She huffed. “Christ, Claude.” She shut the lid and cranked the knob.

“I'll go finish up in the rooms,” I said.

“There's only one left, and I could do it alone, but since you're here, well, come on.”

I followed behind her substantial hips as we climbed to the second-floor rooms. Silently, we each stripped a double bed. I left the sheets in a pile and emptied the garbage cans and collected wrappers and magazines and a
New York Times
.