Buried (17 page)

One thing I knew was that if something was bugging me, I could substitute it with another thing. On the way to school I focused on other things—the drive, counting telephone poles along the way
. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five.

I arrived late, ten minutes before first bell. Ms. Frost and Mr. Springer just stared at me. “I'm sorry,” I said.

“Your clothes,” he said.

“I fell down,” I said, wishing I'd washed the pants. As soon as I said it, I felt my skin crawl with germs. Soil, especially wet soil, is teeming with bacteria.

“We're closing at noon to get the gym ready for anyone who needs to stay here,” Ms. Frost said.

I dug into my backpack and took out the application envelope. “Here,” I said. “And thanks.” I got up to go.

She brightened. “Wait,” she said, pulling out the pages.

“Maybe we ought to reschedule this,” Mr. Springer said, looking at the clock.

Ms. Frost nodded. “Okay, right after dismissal. Be right here.”

No,
I thought. “Okay,” I said.

“Gert may pass, but to be safe, are you staying with the MacPhees? You can also stay here with me at school and help with emergency management. Mostly ladling soup.”

“I haven't decided.”

“Just check in before you go.”

Mr. Springer jiggled the change in his pockets, studying me, brows in one uneven line. He glanced over at Ms. Frost.

“I have some concerns,” he said.

“You're not my parents,” I said. I left the room and walked down the hall, out the door, and to the car.

I drove along the shore and turned into Deep Cove Downs, where the MacPhees lived. The roads were shiny with the cold rain that had blown into Deep Cove. The MacPhees' house and yard were the prettiest of them all, with fall decorations that achieved the perfect balance of autumn cheer and nonchalance, even in the face of Gert's wet wind.

I pulled over, debating whether to get out or not. The windows were lit up with a warm yellow glow, and a thin stream of smoke meandered from the center chimney. Two blue cars were parked in front of the garage—her mother's Saab and her dad's Grand Cherokee. I watched as Liz passed by the living room window carrying a bowl of something. Her father pretended to grab it, and they played at dodging each other.

I'd always liked being at the MacPhee house when they were like this. They made everything special, even storms. A sleepover wasn't just sleeping over, it was an event, with pizza, videos, and pretty sleeping bags. Mrs. MacPhee even bought me my own Little Mermaid sleeping bag. She'd told me that Mom's sleeping bag, the one I'd brought with me, had been accidentally taken out in the trash. From then on, my sleeping bag and nightgown stayed right there, where they were washed and folded until the next sleepover.

I think I knew what was going on, since everything I owned stunk like the trailer, like Mom. People didn't have to use words; I knew I smelled when they held their noses and moved away from me on the bus.

My heart ached as I looked into the house. I could have that again. If I asked, they'd let me stay over during the hurricane, but something kept me from getting out of the car. I was seventeen, not ten, and I didn't need Marty MacPhee providing me with fresh-smelling clothes, or Liz counseling me.

A gust of wind picked up a pile of wet leaves and swirled it into a loose tornado. I drove to the beach and parked by the seawall instead of heading right home. The ocean and the sky were the same color of moody gray, and the wind slapped the rain against the car. I rocked inside, watching the windshield blur with rain, and mentally finished the letter to Mom.

I put my wrist to my nose and closed my eyes as the musky perfume took me to her. I let myself remember the garden as she had expanded it last summer. A combination of a high tide and spring storm had washed in an assortment of knobby wood, smashed wooden lobster traps, and sections of an old skiff. We'd spent days hauling driftwood home in the back of the car to make raised beds.

I wish I'd told you how proud I was
.

A wave broke over the seawall and sprayed the car. I turned the key and drove toward home. Inside the trailer, the lights blinked. The fridge groaned back on, the baseboards ticked, and the answering machine flashed red and spoke to me.

“Answering machine is on. You have one message. Eleven thirty-five.” After the long beep came a breathy sound, maybe a whisper, and then a click. “Mom?” I said. There was another soft click.

Outside there was another sound, a whirring sound above the rain. The wind had suddenly picked up speed.

I put my lips close to the speaker. “Is that you? Mom, it's me,” I said. “Why won't you answer me?!”

The power blinked off and on, and the machine clicked again. “Answering machine is on. You have no messages.”

I sat down on the couch and turned on the TV just in time to see a picture of a monster hurricane over southern Maine. We were just to its north.

A sharp crack sounded above me as a limb hit the roof. A ceiling tile fell, and powdery beads scattered on the living room floor. I moved toward the closet for the vacuum but stopped short of it when the phone rang.

“How are you doing over there, dear?” Mrs. MacPhee said. “You know that Ms. Frost and I talked about having you stay with one of us, don't you?”

“Hi, Mrs. MacPhee,” I said. “Yes, I know.”

“Well, I'm sending Tom over to get you right now.”

“No, no, I decided to stay with Ms. Frost. I'm on my way out right now.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I was just leaving when you called.”

“Oh, good. Well, I feel better then. I understand you and Liz had words. She wants to talk to you.”

“I—”

“She just has your best interests in mind, Claudine.”

I didn't really feel like talking, but I stayed on the line.

“Hey, Claude, you're coming over, aren't you? We need to talk.”

“Talk? I don't think so. You pretty much said I was crazy.”

“I didn't say that. I said you need to talk to someone. Why is it—”

“I'm helping Ms. Frost, you know, giving back to the community.”

“I can't hear you very well,” she said. “Claude?”

The phone line went dead. I turned on the TV. Dead. Lights, dead.

Outside, Moonpie meowed. I looked at the mess in the living room. I wanted to suck it up with the vacuum and make it clean again. I took out the broom instead and brushed it into an unsatisfying pile. The beads popped and flew over the rug, too light to stay put. I caught sight of my knees and wished I'd done a wash after school, and my hands were grimy from touching my pants.

When I had them all soaped up and the hot water running full tilt, I realized that it would run out. The water was on an electrical pump system, and now I didn't have power.
How many flushes? How many times can I wash my hands? I have to be able to wash my hands.

I lifted the shade and looked out. The sky was an eerie green, and rain poured from it. Moonpie cried, but when I opened the door, he wouldn't come to me. I pulled it closed and latched it. I paced and thought about Liz. Why didn't I tell her to take care of her own problems? Tell her to change what she could change—herself?

There was a pop as a branch smashed in the bottom half of the kitchen window. The glass clinked into the sink, and a cold rain blew the ceiling tile beads across the rug again. I stuffed a couch cushion into the broken window and swept the beads into a corner.

Moonpie's cry was coming from somewhere behind the steps. It made me crazy. I undid the latch, and the door was sucked from my hands and slammed against the trailer.

“Moonpie, here, kitty-kitty,” I called. My voice was carried off into the wind. “Moonpie, here, boy.” He stopped crying when he heard me, but he wouldn't come. He crouched among the buckets and blocks of wood, old toys, and discarded tools. I crawled toward him and he moved farther away, rubbing against some wood and then setting on his haunches just out of my reach. “You'll just have to stay there, cat.”

I stepped back through the doorway. Before me was a rainbow tornado of Post-its. They swirled in a crazy dance around the kitchen and living room. The cushion had fallen out of the kitchen window and a cross-draft had been created when I opened the door. The Post-its had peeled off the cupboards and walls and countertops, and now they flew toward me from all directions. It was like being in the world's biggest vacuum.

I pulled the door shut behind me, and the colored squares fluttered down around me like one giant to-do list.

For a moment I stood and stared at my Post-its. The only sound was the whining wind outside.
Just breathe and think. Think. Don't panic
, I told myself.
The daily jobs only represent seventy or eighty Post-its.
Then I remembered all the extras I'd made, thinking it was a good idea to get ahead. I swallowed a stone in my throat and sat down on the floor in the middle of the bright fluorescent squares and surveyed the damage. Every surface was covered, and each had a task written in my perfect lettering
. It's just work. It's doable. You can do messes, Claudine. You clean up very well. Take it one Post-it at a time, Claude, one Post-it at a time.

I got on all fours to pick them up, collecting the yellows first. Some were jobs I'd already done.
Wipe the insides of the utensil drawers.
Why hadn't I thrown that Post-it away after I'd done the job? Why was I so smart in retrospect? I put the pile on the counter and felt the rush of wet wind smack me in the back.

It was Linwood. “What the hell? Serena?”

I crouched back down and began on the pink ones.

“What the—” he said, staring down at me openmouthed.

He shook his head. Pink, blue, and green squares swirled about us.

“Shut the damned door, Linwood!”

He stepped around the counter and looked at me. Again he shook his head and walked off toward the bedroom, his weather radio scratching out the NOAA broadcast: “Winds seventy-five miles per hour, the eye of Hurricane Gert bearing down on Deep Cove.”

“We should get a break in a while. The eye's almost here,” he said from down the hall. “Whole damned town's a disaster area. The seawall's in the middle of the road, and it ain't even high tide yet. You might even get some water back here.”

I leaned against the cupboards and wrapped my arms around my knees to stop the chill that grew in my body.

I heard Linwood in the living room. “I thought you was Serena sittin' there in that mess. I guess it's a good thing she ain't here. You know how she can't stand a storm.” I scanned the kitchen floor, my eyes resting on a drab yellow note. I scrambled to it and put it in the yellow pile, but it didn't match the fluorescent stack. It was Ms. Frost's telephone number. I put it in my pocket and sat back down.

I looked at my fistful of Post-its. It was a stack of multicolored squares. What a mess. My teeth chattered. “Damn you, Linwood. I lost my place.”

He ignored my comment as he came into the kitchen. “Hey, you seen my flashlight? I'm helpin' down at the Seaside. It's a mess.” He reached into the junk basket, and the stack of yellows scattered to the floor.

“Shit!” I said.

“Crissakes, Claude. It's no big deal.” He scooped them up and set them back on the counter. “All cleaned up, see?”

Oh my god. I can do this
, I thought
. I'll just do it square by square.

“You really need dry clothes and a blanket, girl.” He opened the hall door, and a tower of stuffed garbage bags fell to the floor. Kicking a bag out of the way, he said, “Holy shit. What's all this?”

“No,” I whispered.

He tore open a bag. “Jeezus. What a friggin' mess!”

I covered my face. “No.”

He pulled out a sweater and threw it at me. “How'd you get so wet anyway?”

The scent of Mom's cigarettes rose from it, and my throat tightened. “Moonpie's out there.”

He caught sight of the silver around my ankle. “And why you wearin' that? I gave that to your mother.”

I shrugged. “And she gave it to me.”

He swallowed and then adjusted his hat. “Right.” He took a flashlight out of a drawer and shined it on me. “You need to put on a sweater or get under a blanket.” He opened the door, stirring up the colored squares again. “I'm getting my saw out of the shop, and then I'm going to help Candy. You sit tight.”

When he shut the door, I watched the Post-its settle to the floor, but I didn't move to collect them. Instead I thought of the three plastic bags. Everything Mom owned was in those garbage bags. I knew that, and I wanted to open them and inhale the scent of cigarettes and vanilla musk.

Moonpie howled under the trailer. I tried to focus on the stack of Post-its in my hand, sorting them by color. I stood up and surveyed the room. It was a multicolored world of things to do, but I didn't move to fix it. Instead I sat beside a bag of Mom's things. I pulled out a blue mohair sweater and held it to my face. Mom. With shaky hands I pulled it over my head, and with it came the memory of her wearing it with her favorite black jeans. I could see her long fingers holding a cigarette, hear her laugh rising above all the others at a party, feel her dark, wavy hair touching my face. My mother gone away. I dug down into a bag and found her makeup kit. I took it to the bathroom and applied her dark brown eye shadow, mascara, and maroon lipstick. Putting on her gold hoop earrings made her appear in the mirror.