Buried (19 page)
Authors: Robin Merrow MacCready
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I took the snow globe back to the grave. The rain had washed off the dirt I had dumped, and a blue edge of tarp peeked out again. A taunt.
I took the snow globe back to the grave. The rain had washed off the dirt I had dumped, and a blue edge of tarp peeked out again. A taunt.
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“I can't take it. I've done everything. I've tried to help you many times over, and I've finally realized something. It's not my job to fix you.” You smirk at me. You're pretty far gone, I guess.
“I can't take it. I've done everything. I've tried to help you many times over, and I've finally realized something. It's not my job to fix you.” You smirk at me. You're pretty far gone, I guess.
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I would have had to dig all day if I wanted the tarp to stay covered. I dragged a pine bow over to the grave and covered her foot and the blue plastic that stuck out. A few more trips and I'd have it covered. The garden was a mess, full of blowdowns.
I would have had to dig all day if I wanted the tarp to stay covered. I dragged a pine bow over to the grave and covered her foot and the blue plastic that stuck out. A few more trips and I'd have it covered. The garden was a mess, full of blowdowns.
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You throw your cigarette at me and laugh like it's funny. Snap. I tip over your beer. You try to save it, but you're too drunk. “Get me another and empty this, too,” you say, handing me your ashtray. Instead of my usual lecture about smoking and the general nastiness of the habit, I dump it in your lap. You stare at the mess for a long time, and when you finally look up at me, you laugh. I snap again. I imagine brittle twigs breaking off one by one. I am breaking off piece by piece.
You throw your cigarette at me and laugh like it's funny. Snap. I tip over your beer. You try to save it, but you're too drunk. “Get me another and empty this, too,” you say, handing me your ashtray. Instead of my usual lecture about smoking and the general nastiness of the habit, I dump it in your lap. You stare at the mess for a long time, and when you finally look up at me, you laugh. I snap again. I imagine brittle twigs breaking off one by one. I am breaking off piece by piece.
I hurl all five of your empties across the room and into the wall. One, two, three, four, five . . .
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The grave was covered in sticks and twigs, but nothing was satisfactory about it. The rain continued down. Periodic gusts blew some of the lighter sticks off. I dragged over more limbs from the tree.
The grave was covered in sticks and twigs, but nothing was satisfactory about it. The rain continued down. Periodic gusts blew some of the lighter sticks off. I dragged over more limbs from the tree.
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I reach into the fridge for number six. The one you've been hiding. I throw it like a missile. It hits the wall above your head. You are soaked. It's my turn to laugh. When you look up, you're crying like a baby. I feel bad but only for a second because I realize how good it feels to trash the place. I've been missing something. I swipe my arm across the table, just like in the movies. Papers, silverware, everything flies through the air and onto the floor. I pull out drawers and dump them onto the floor, then shake boxes of cereal and crackers onto the living room floor. The cupboard must be emptied, too. Everything. It feels so good.
I reach into the fridge for number six. The one you've been hiding. I throw it like a missile. It hits the wall above your head. You are soaked. It's my turn to laugh. When you look up, you're crying like a baby. I feel bad but only for a second because I realize how good it feels to trash the place. I've been missing something. I swipe my arm across the table, just like in the movies. Papers, silverware, everything flies through the air and onto the floor. I pull out drawers and dump them onto the floor, then shake boxes of cereal and crackers onto the living room floor. The cupboard must be emptied, too. Everything. It feels so good.
You look like you might be sick, but you stand up and act all sorry, swaying and trying to hug me.
I can't believe this is you again. All over again. I bragged all over town about your fantastic recovery and how you'd done it all by yourself. I even bragged to the MacPhees.
You cry in great sobs. “I'm sorry, Angel, I'm sorry, Princess, I can't do it. I guess I can't handle bad news very well.” While I pour potato chips on the rug, I am learning something. I am getting it. This is what I get, finally, after so many years of fixing you, Mom: it won't work unless you fix yourself, and if you don't, that's your problem.
I crack a chair against the counter. I'm scaring myself and I need to leave.
“Mom, you can clean up your own messes from now on.”
I walk out the door without looking back. You stumble after me.
“Don't leave me, Angel! You can't leave me, Baby Princess!”
I turn and see you hanging onto the doorframe. “Don't leave me alone!” You fall, but I'm not going to help you up this time. You are drunk and begging, and it's starting all over again, but not for me. I'm not going to help you. This time you're going to get yourself out of this mess. You are going to get yourself out of this mess.
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I turned over the bucket and sat in front of the grave. The rain kept falling from the sky as if the whole world were crying. It pounded away at the soil, and I watched as dots of blue tarp appeared before my eyes. I got up and ripped the pine boughs off and sat back on the bucket.
I turned over the bucket and sat in front of the grave. The rain kept falling from the sky as if the whole world were crying. It pounded away at the soil, and I watched as dots of blue tarp appeared before my eyes. I got up and ripped the pine boughs off and sat back on the bucket.
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I walk to the beach and sit on the seawall. I think that maybe Liz will drive by and I'll sleep at her house. Then I realize something. I've made a decision. I was right. Not about how I
lost control, but about one thing. You do have to do the work of recovery yourself. I was wrong about how I handled it. I can still support you without doing it all for youârecovery, that is. I decide not to sleep at Liz's house, and I walk home.
I walk to the beach and sit on the seawall. I think that maybe Liz will drive by and I'll sleep at her house. Then I realize something. I've made a decision. I was right. Not about how I
lost control, but about one thing. You do have to do the work of recovery yourself. I was wrong about how I handled it. I can still support you without doing it all for youârecovery, that is. I decide not to sleep at Liz's house, and I walk home.
I apologize to you in my mind as I walk toward the trailer. I practice saying I'm sorry. I'm ready. I'll say it out loud, too. We'll straighten everything out. I'll help you get on your feet again.
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I heard a voice calling though the rain, making it sound fuzzy. I peeked around the corner of the workshop and saw Candy and Linwood going into the trailer.
I heard a voice calling though the rain, making it sound fuzzy. I peeked around the corner of the workshop and saw Candy and Linwood going into the trailer.
I shivered and put my hands into my pockets. I felt the folded envelope and remembered the curlicue handwriting. Mom was so young stillâshe even dotted her i's with tiny circles. I missed her so much that my heart ached. I knelt down in front of the grave and lifted the tarp.
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I step into the room. The place is a mess, still. I didn't really believe you'd clean it up, but I hoped a little. I lock the door, ready for the deep cleaning.
I step into the room. The place is a mess, still. I didn't really believe you'd clean it up, but I hoped a little. I lock the door, ready for the deep cleaning.
“Mom?” I walk into the living room, stepping around potato chips and crackers. “I really lost it, huh?” I kick aside a pizza box and go into your bedroom. You're on your side facing the wall, under the covers, and I feel little again. I pull the shades and make it dark. This was our after-school routine for so many days of my childhood. I sit on the edge of the bed and look at your shape, your small waist and dark hair. You're so much more beautiful than I am, even though
you're seventeen years older. I know that, and so does everyone else.
you're seventeen years older. I know that, and so does everyone else.
“Mom, let's start over. I realize some things that I didn't before I left today. I was wrong when I freaked out. I was mad, but I shouldn't have scared you like that. I was right about the recovery, thoughâyou have to do it yourself. I'll support you, but it's up to you, and I'll do whatever I can to stay out of it. Maybe we should see someone together.”
She's out of it, I think. Maybe I should save this until later.
I give you a gentle shake of the shoulder. Your body falls back on the pillow. What I think is your dark hair is really your blood. Your mouth gapes open and a thin string of spittle trails your cheek. Your half-lidded eyes look ahead at nothing.
I jump back. “No,” I say. Then I lean over and jiggle your arm. It just flops.
“Mom!” I bend close and lift the mat of sticky hair. You have a three-inch slice in the back of your head. Blood has drained into the bed and covered the pillows and sheets. I'm wobbly, and the room goes from dark to pinpricks of white, but I can't faint. I have to be with you.
I lean over you and yell in your ear. “Mom! What's happening?” The odor of vomit wafts up from your lips, and I can see where it has dried your hair in stiff clumps and gone into your ear. “No, Mom, don't leave me, don't leave me now. It'll be okay. I figured it out today. We just need a balance. That's what we never had, a balance. It's always one way or another. I just never figured it out until today.”
I lie beside you and put your smooth hand on my cheek. “That fight was good, you know. It was the snap in my head that changed everything. That snap was good.” I pull up the quilt and entwine our arms. You're cool and limp. No wiry feeling, no pointy limbs and fast moves. “I snapped and got really mad, but at the same time I realized some important things. I just learned them too late. I'm so sorry, Mom. I can fix it.”
I snuggle closer and smell the musky scent of your hair mixed with cigarettes and beer. These are scents that I know, but the metallic smell of blood makes me shake.
“Mom, I'm scared.” I lace our fingers together. “I never told you about another time I was scared, and I always thought I should.” Moonpie hops up on the bed and sniffs your mouth. He turns a circle and lies down on your stomach.
“The time the social worker came, when I was in third grade, it was because of me.” I try to relax the lump in my throat by breathing, but the smell of blood is frightening. “I couldn't get you out of bed one day. Nurse Gooch told me to call her if I was ever scared, and so I did. As soon as I told her you wouldn't get out of bed, she got so freaked out and her voice started to get loud and high and I wished I'd never called her. So I lied. I told her that you were up now, just going into the shower. I said it was a big mistake, that you were just sick, but she must have called the social worker because a lady came. I made sure the trailer was clean and you were beautiful and sober. But it was my fault that you got in trouble that day.”
The night creeps in unnoticed, and I make a list in my
mind of things that I haven't told Mom. No more secrets between us. The front door rattles. It's Linwood. I look at the clock. Typical. It's ten o'clock and he wants to see Mom. I stay as still as a mouse. He swears and thumps down the steps. I hear the roar of his engine as he revs it before backing out.
mind of things that I haven't told Mom. No more secrets between us. The front door rattles. It's Linwood. I look at the clock. Typical. It's ten o'clock and he wants to see Mom. I stay as still as a mouse. He swears and thumps down the steps. I hear the roar of his engine as he revs it before backing out.
I lie still and tell Mom the things on my list. About the time I buried my pee-soaked sheets and pajamas in the backyard before it was a garden. I couldn't let her see; I couldn't bear the look she'd give me. I tell her other things.
A blanket of peace wraps around me and I sleep. When I wake, I know what to do. I don't know how I've figured it all out, just that we've made this decision together, Mom and me, and I feel peaceful.
When I lift her from the bed, I hear the clink as her anklet falls to the floor, but I keep moving through the mess I made, and past the bloodstained rug by the door. I carry her, Moonpie following, through her favorite place, her garden, and lay her behind the workshop.
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“Claudine!” Candy's voice traveled through the rain to me, but I stayed with Mom. I felt for her fingers and made myself small. The rain beat my back in a steady stream.
“Claudine!” Candy's voice traveled through the rain to me, but I stayed with Mom. I felt for her fingers and made myself small. The rain beat my back in a steady stream.
“Claudine!” Her voice was closer now, but I didn't move.
“The storm's over!” It was Linwood.
I could hear them open the shop door and call from inside.
Moonpie scrambled out of my arms and scooted around the shop.
“Mom?”
“Hey, Angel,” she said.
In the dying wind, I looked around at the destruction. A spruce tree was down, pine limbs littered the garden, and water crept across the road.
“We made it, Mom.”
“It's not really over. There's always the cleanup.”
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How deep do you dig to bury your mother?
How deep do you dig to bury your mother?
The ground gives way to the spade. It shouldn't be this easy. I grip the handle tighter, refocus, and plunge the blade into the sweet, musty earth. The soil tumbles into the hole. Bending and scooping, I place it carefully in a pile to my right and kneel down.
How long should it be? I stretch out beside it and press the back of my head into the ground to make an indentation and dig my heels in to mark the length. I have a ways to go. I walk over to the blue tarp and grab one end. I feel the hard knobs of Mom's ankles through the blue plastic. My stomach lurches.
“It's just a heavy tarp,” I say, dragging the body toward the end of the grave. I drop the legs when my palms get sweaty. “It's just a heavy tarp.”
I walk backward as fast as I can until she's even with the end of the hole. Her chestnut hair peeks out from under the plastic, and I squeeze my eyes shut and mark the length with the spade.
How long? Another two and a half feet? With four neat, quick efforts, I finish the length. I dig out the inside and realize that the deeper I dig, the harder it is. Composted garden soil is easy, but below is stubborn, untended earth. I think there must be a reason they say “six feet under.”
I draw her body toward me, feel the weight of her, and wonder if I can let her go. The hole is black. It might be two feet deep, maybe less. I don't know, but I let go and she thuds to the bottom. It's an unnatural sound. I paw the earth on top of her, and I shovel until I can't shovel more. I want to be done.
I rest in the garden and look toward the beach. The moon has sunk behind the trees, and the sky over the sea is pink and purple, a hint that it is morning in Deep Cove.
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“What the fuck!” Linwood and Candy stood at the corner of the shop with shining flashlights even though it wasn't dark.
“What the fuck!” Linwood and Candy stood at the corner of the shop with shining flashlights even though it wasn't dark.
“Oh my god, Claude. What are you doing out here?” Candy said.
I went back into my head and made pictures of Mom at Jackson Heights with her therapist, but it didn't work. I saw Mom in a white tractor-trailer sitting close to Gary in the front seat. I added details like music. They listened to Mom's favorite hard-rock station and ate snacks.
Candy scooched down and rested her hand on my leg. I pulled away.
“Claude? Come inside. You'll get sick.”
“I can't.” I took a handful of wet soil and patted it on some blue tarp that showed through. A few soggy flowers tumbled down.
“What the hell is this?” Candy said.
I looked at the muddy ground, then my dirty hands, and finally the tarp.
Linwood knelt beside me and put his head in his hands. “Oh my god.” He took my arm and swung me toward him, his cap pouring off rain in streams. “What did you do?!”
I closed my eyes; I closed the door to his voice. I heard nothing.
Candy held me in a bear hug. Linwood got up and paced up and down in front of the grave like some kind of wild animal. The door in my mind opened again, wide, too wide, and a screeching light flooded my mind. I tried to hide from the noise.
It was Linwood's cry for Mom, and it blew the door wide open. His dying animal cry cut right through me, and I opened my eyes again to a blast of white pain.
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