Buried (15 page)

I heard Candy light a cigarette, and I emptied an ashtray into the garbage and offered it to her.

“Thanks,” she said.

I tossed clean sheets onto both of the beds and started in, but she sat and nodded to the other bed for me to sit opposite her.

“What?” I asked.

She waved her arms at the smoke that hung between us. “Claude, I have to tell you something, hun.”

My stomach jumped. “What? Tell me what?”

She blew smoke over my shoulder and winced. “Linwood suspects something is up with your mom, so I told him what I think is going on.” She took a long drag on her cigarette.

I was frozen; my eyes stayed on her shiny pink lips as they closed around her cigarette. Tell Linwood what? What did she tell Linwood? The ash drooped precariously, and I jumped up, took the ashtray from her hand, and held it under the cigarette.
Tap, tap
.

I ran and opened the window behind her, gulping the damp, salty air and waiting for her to say it.

“Sorry about the smoke. I should know better, huh?” She squashed the butt in the ashtray and tapped out another one from her pack. “Come sit down.”

I brushed invisible dust off the mattress pad and sat again.

“I'm sure you know that your mom's been seeing Gary on the side.”

I stared out the window at the ocean behind her.

“Well, Linwood suspected something was up, and I had to tell him the truth. That your mom's pulled another disappearing act.” She watched my eyes.

I nodded.

“She's taken off to Seattle with him, and I don't think we'll hear from her for a while.”

My mind raced back to the morning I woke up and found the mess she'd left.
Mom, why did you start again?

“Although actually, Claude, in a way it really don't make sense. She usually don't run off without tellin' me all the dirt.”

My cheeks grew hot, and my hand went to my chest where my heart was knocking. I took a deep breath and let it out a little at a time to slow the beating down.

“Oh, hun,” she said, leaning toward me, “you just hoped she'd gone to rehab.” She scooted to the edge of the bed until our knees were touching. “You're a sweet girl, Claude.

You always try to help her, but remember, she's been here before. And she always falls off the wagon and falls in love instead. This ain't nothin' new.”

“That's not true anymore. Mom was fine until this happened. She would've stayed recovered if we hadn't screwed up!”

My hands were shaking in my lap. I squeezed them between my knees to stop it, but not before Candy took my wrist.

“Holy shit, girl!” She turned my hand in front of her face, and then she put her cigarette between her lips and took the other wrist. “Mother of god, girl, what happened?” She dropped them and went to the cart. She glared at me as she gathered supplies.

“It's nothing, Candy,” I said.

She dumped latex gloves, complimentary hand cream, and Band-Aids on the bed. “You know, I've been working here twenty years and look at my hands.” She held them out. They were chubby and tan with long pink nails, unchipped and decked out with a ring on every finger. “I clean all day, I smoke, I drink. But I wear gloves when I scrub.”

“I do, too,” I whispered.

She took a hand between hers, squirted lotion into it, and massaged each finger. Then she did the same for the other one. A tingle of warmth crept in, and my eyes filled with tears. “Stings like a bastard, don't it? It'll fix you right up, though.” She took gauze from the first-aid kit on the cart and wrapped the tips of my thumbs and index fingers and taped them with Band-Aids.

A tear fell on my hand, and she wiped it off with her apron. “Oh, hun, don't cry. I'll come stay with you until we hear from her.” She pulled me over to her bed and hugged me hard. “What do you say I keep you company?”

“No,” I said. I shook my head against her shoulder. “I mean, no thanks, Candy.”

She patted my arm and smoothed my hair.

“Call me whenever, then. Okay?” She stood up and handed me a pair of latex gloves. “Use 'em.”

I worked them onto my hands and started back in on the bed.

“Let's make these up together. It'll go a lot faster.” She kneed the corner of her bed out and got behind it. She edged the bottom sheet over so I could reach it, and we pulled the elastic corners down on all four sides. I pulled down the edges to smooth out the wrinkles.

“Claude, did your mom ever tell you about the time you were born?”

My hands froze on the bed. I hadn't put Candy and Mom and my birth in the same thought ever, but they had been best friends since Mom moved here in high school.

“Serena was so big with you, and you know how tiny she is. Man, she was as big as a house.” She snorted and snapped out another white sheet. It floated down over the bed, hovering for a moment before it settled. “Don't just stand there, girl.”

I smoothed out my side and sat down on the opposite bed.

“Claude?”

The numbness that had been running through my veins, keeping me going and pointed in one direction, began to recede, and I felt icy cold. I willed myself to stand up. “I'm just beat, Candy. I have so much homework to make up.”

“Oh, well, I remember. That's gotta suck.” She threw me a pillow. “Do them up and then you go.”

I unfolded the pillowcases and shook out the pillows from their dirty cases.

“Your mom was so freaked when she went into labor. Your grandmother was still in Florida with her boyfriend, and she wasn't okay with the whole baby thing anyway, so I went with your mom to the hospital. She was so scared.”

I stuffed a pillow in a case. “The whole baby thing?”

“You.”

Mom wouldn't have wanted to be alone. It was weird to think that I hadn't been there to get her through it step by step, picking up the pieces for her, coaching her through labor. I pictured myself with a hospital gown and mask, telling Mom to Breathe! and Push! A laugh escaped.

Candy flicked her lighter. “It ain't funny. Just wait until the day it happens to you.”

“It's not going to
happen
to me. Maybe I'll choose it. Maybe I won't.”

“Well, anyway, she hadn't gone to one labor class. Not one. In fact, she didn't tell the guy she was knocked up until the day he was packing to move out of town. And, as you know, he never came back neither.”

“Candy—” I placed the pillow on the bed and picked it back up.

“And, you know, I didn't know she was pregnant until she started to show, and then she wouldn't even admit it right off.” She snorted. “She kept saying she was eating too much, had a flu, filling out.”

I held the pillow tightly against my chest.

“She was so scared. That's why she never would talk about it.” Candy looked out the sliding glass door with her hands on her hips. “She was so freakin' scared.”

“I bet.” I went around and picked up the dirty sheets and stuffed them into the empty pillowcases.

“So.” Candy turned around. “Were you saying something?”

I threw the sack of linens by the door. “Yeah, am I done?”

For once Candy's hard face had a softness to it. “Not quite.” She handed me the window cleaner and paper towels. “I'll go do the bathroom.”

I squirted the glass and watched tiny blue rivers run to the bottom of the sliding glass door.

Candy's voice echoed from the bathroom. “The whole time she was in labor, you know what she screamed?”

I shook my head and wiped, hoping she wouldn't tell me.

“She screamed, ‘Don't leave me!' Over and over, ‘Don't leave me!'”

I shut my eyes, not wanting to see Mom's panicked face, but there it was, reflected in the glass. Hollow eyes, matted hair, dry, unspeaking lips.

“Claude?”

I squirted again and wiped at the face. I wiped and wiped, over and over. Five wipes and one squirt, five wipes and one squirt.

“Claude!” The voice was closer, and I turned. Candy was leaning against the bathroom doorframe.

“Yeah,” I said.

“You're gonna rub a hole in that glass.”

I looked at the place where Mom had been and wished she was back.

“Anyway, that's why I can't believe she's off at rehab. She ain't the type to do something like this alone. Not without telling me.”

“You said that already.”

I looked outside the sliding glass door at a couple on the lower deck. They had their bags packed and were ready to go. The man was dressed in lime green golf shorts and had a pink shirt on. The woman was in pink shorts and a lime green shirt, her shoulder bag hung neatly at her hip. He placed his hand on her bottom, and she smiled up at him. I watched them for another second, grateful for their absurdity, hoping they wouldn't move.

“Don't you think it's more like her to go off with Gary? Even though she didn't tell me?” I turned at the sound of Candy's voice. She was rapping the toilet brush against the doorframe and looking like she wanted a cigarette.

I put the bottle down on the table with a smack. “Stop it! Why is it so fucking hard to believe that she finally got it together? Why, Candy? Mom and I tried so hard, so many times. I told you before. This time she made a commitment to get sober for good. For real.” I smacked the bottle down again. “Jeezus! What's wrong with everyone?” I whirled around and picked up the wet paper towels off the floor and threw them on the cart.

“Well, let's see, Claudine,” Candy said calmly. “How many times has she gotten it together and then fallen off the wagon? Hmm?” She bent over and jiggled the brush around in the toilet. Popping her head back in the doorway, she said, “I ain't wicked smart, but I do know that your mother is kind of needy. She don't do anything alone.” She turned back and flushed. Above the gurgle, I heard her mumble, “And I don't believe it cuz it ain't true.”

 
Later, Candy followed me out to the car. She handed me my payment for the hours and held the door while I got in. Shifting from one foot to another, she reminded me of one of the rowboats tied up to the dock, rocking with the tide.

I started the motor and put the car in gear. Still, she held the door. “What makes you think your mom's at rehab?”

“Because it's true.”

“Come on, Claude, don't you think we ought to contact Gary just to be sure? Or, I hate to suggest it, but should we call the police?”

“No! She's at rehab, Candy. I should know. I put her there.” I pulled the door shut and backed out, leaving her shaking her head.

Candy and Linwood didn't believe me. But that's how it is with alcoholics. They alienate people all the time, and Mom had alienated her best friends and left for rehab without telling them. I guess they didn't like being out of the loop.

The unaddressed letter to Mom lay on the passenger seat. I went past the turnoff to Sea Spray Acres and drove to the post office. I pulled alongside the mailbox, addressed the letter to Serena Carbonneau, Jackson Heights, Portland, Maine, and popped it in the chute. Why did I wait so long to write her? The poor thing was probably wondering why I'd abandoned her. She'd get it in two days. I would write her every day from now on to make up for my neglect.

My shaky legs quieted as I walked into the fresh-smelling kitchen. I hung up my coat, left my shoes on the mat, and checked the messages. There was one from Candy, apologizing if she upset me and offering me a job until Mom came home.

I went to the chart. I probably wouldn't sleep. There were things that had to be finished tonight, and then I had the application to do. All-nighter tonight.

The first thing on the list was to go over the schedule to see if I was forgetting anything. I'd learned my lesson with Moonpie's mistake. I hadn't caught up with the laundry or the dusting. Even though the place looked great, I knew it would be a mistake to skip anything on the list because they'd just catch up with me later. Still, I found myself at the sink, washing my hands, wiping down the counter after I got suds on it, pushing in the chairs, doing things that weren't on the list.

I went back to the cupboard doors with Saturday and Sunday on them and read down the list until I got to the last item: dusting. Dusting could wait until Sunday, and I'd do it along with the polishing. Instead, I dragged the vacuum into the living room and plugged it in. I turned on the TV, and by the time the local news came on, I was done.

I plopped on the couch and turned the sound off. Rain came in easygoing spurts, like the conversations Liz and I used to have on the phone.

Liz would say, “I forgot to tell you what Mom said to Dad last night.”

After we'd laugh about it, there would be an easy silence. Then I'd say, “Did I tell you what that dub Linwood did?”

Again, we'd laugh. Pitter-patters of conversation that didn't require hard answers.