Buried (2 page)

My mind was a blank slate. No thoughts came, and for a panicky moment I forgot where I was. I looked up at Mr. Springer, and he nodded to me.

“It's your turn,” he said.

My heart thumped in my chest. My turn? What was I supposed to be doing?

Liz pointed to the text, and I read each word separately and unrelated to the one before or the one after. When white space appeared, I stopped and looked up at him.

He raised his eyebrows. “Okay,” he said. “For homework, come up with three Maine poets to share tomorrow. Class dismissed.”

Liz was in my face immediately. “What was that? You sound like a zombie.”

“Tired, I guess.”

She looked at my hands. “Helping in your mom's garden?”

“What?” I looked at my black crescent nails. “Yup.” I picked at them as we headed down the hall toward the double doors.

“Need a ride to group?” Liz asked. We backed up to the lockers as a clutch of noisy girls passed us. “I did that letter-writing exercise last night,” she said.

“That was stupid,” I said. “If you can't tell the truth face to face, why do it on paper and then throw it away?” Lydia, the facilitator of our group, Teens of Alcoholics, suggested writing our feelings to our alcoholic parent and then throwing the letter away. She thought it would help.

We stepped out into the sunlight, and I set down my backpack to fish out my sunglasses. “I didn't do it. And I think I'm getting sick of that group.”

“Claude, you're the one who got me to go in the first place.”

“I'm just not sure I need it anymore.” I started down the granite steps ahead of her.

“You're lucky,” she said.

I looked back at her suddenly. “Lucky?”

“You're so over it now. Just last week you were calling your mother twice a day. I need some of whatever you've got.”

“It's just experience, I guess.”

“Will you come anyway? I don't want to go alone.”

 
The group met daily at the Community Center near the church, but wasn't affiliated with any group or any religion. It only offered the promise of anonymity and support. Liz and I went every other day when we could. I'd been going off and on for the last year. Knowing other people had the same problem always helped. But today I felt itchy and claustrophobic.

Every time I came into the high-ceilinged room, a wave of memories hit me and I felt like I was four again—pants dirty, my hair a tangled mess, my nose red and crusty. I went to preschool here. The Blue Bus picked me up and dropped me off every day.

I remembered the long tables and the tiny wooden chairs splattered with paint. This was where I learned how wonderful peanut butter was on graham crackers. This was where I loved to play house and make art. Every morning before snack we gathered in a circle on our mats and had Show-and-Tell. During Choice Time I climbed onstage and ran through the red velvet curtain over and over again just so it would caress my face. Sometimes I just wrapped myself in it and hid.

Now ten metal chairs scraped across the floor as the group gathered in a circle. I sat beside Liz, and Hanna sat beside me. I knew Hanna from school, but we never hung out together. She was captain of the cheerleading team. The clipboards came my way, and I took one. There were two pieces of paper on them: the steps to recovery and the beliefs.

Lydia, our facilitator, held a paper coffee cup and waited for the clipboards to make the rounds. She seemed a little nervous and nitpicky today, nodding as each person took one, like she had someplace to be. As soon as the last person got one, she tucked her red hair behind her ears and sat up straight. “My name's Lydia, and I'm an adult child of an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Lydia,” the group said.

I jumped. We did this every time, but it snuck up on me today. I alternately clung to my clipboard and picked at my cuticles, hoping for relief.

“As I've told you before, I'm just here as a facilitator. I'll only join in if you need me, or if I see a need.” She looked at me expectantly. “Can you start us today, Claudine?”

I looked at Liz, then back at Lydia. “Okay. I'm Claudine. I'm a child of an alcoholic.” My chair creaked. I sighed.

“Hi, Claudine,” the group said.

I lined up my papers so the edges matched perfectly.

“Let's go around the room.” By the time the greetings were done, I had to have one of the steps picked out to discuss or another focus for the meeting.

“My name's Liz, and I'm the daughter of an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Liz,” we said.

Feet shuffled as each member of the group introduced himself or herself.

Matt from English class was also there. He'd come two other times, but when he talked, it was only so he could disagree or scowl at what was being said. The only time he'd ever talked to me was at a junior high dance, and when I'd said I wouldn't dance with him, he'd punched me in the arm. He was much cuter now, and his long, dark curls fit his bored expression. Now I'd probably dance with him if he asked.

As each person was greeted, my stomach became tighter, and I picked away at my skin as I weighed my options. I could pass a clipboard and have everyone take turns reading a step from the paper, or we could share our experiences with the letter writing. What could I say? I hadn't done a letter. Three more people. Three more people to go. No, two.

Now Chris wanted to talk about her letter to her mother that she'd torn up. This was supposed to be greetings, not share, but it worked for me. I sat back and crossed my arms.

“Why'd you tear it up?” Matt asked.

Chris shot him a dirty look. “Because I'm not cruel like you. I wrote it for myself, not my mother.”

“You're just chickenshit,” he said.

“And you're mean when you don't need to be.”

I tried to imagine the letter I would've written if I'd done the exercise. My breath caught in my throat. It was almost my turn to speak. One more. Hanna piggybacked on Chris's comment about how freeing the letter writing was for her.

“But I gave it to my mom,” she said, looking proud.

The group gasped in unison.

“Are you crazy?” Chris said.

Liz covered her mouth.

“It wasn't bad, really. I just expressed my feelings and told her it hurt me when she drank.” Hanna looked at the floor. “She cried.”

The room grew silent. This wasn't the cheerleader I knew.

Then all eyes were on me. A chair squeaked on the other side of the circle. My mind went to the scene I'd left at home that morning. I shared the only story I could.

“My mom's gone.”

Liz grabbed my arm. “Gone? What are you talking about?”

I didn't know.
Why had I said that?
I didn't want to go over all the details of Mom and her screwups. Everyone knew her story, that she'd taken off before, but she'd been sober since spring. The longest time ever. I'd believed it was over.

“Did she take off with that guy again? What's his name, Dubwood or something?” Deb said.

The group laughed.

“That's what you call him, don't you, Claude?” she said.

“Oh, man, Claude. I can't believe she fell off the wagon again,” Cindy said.

“Oh, no,” Liz said. “I'm so sorry.”

“That's how it goes. You knew it would happen,” Matt said.

The floor blurred before me. I saw the broken bottles and I saw the crumbs. The silverware was in piles on the rug, and the spills, the stains, all of it, would be there forever. It was Mom's M.O. Make a mess and leave it—and leave me, for a while, at least. And when she came back, I'd have it all cleaned up for her, and then we'd act like nothing had ever happened.

Not this time. This time was different. I hadn't seen this one coming, and now I had a feeling of dread about it. There was a blackness to this that I couldn't identify.

So I lied.

“No. She didn't take off. Mom's in rehab.” I put my fingertips on my lips as if to put the words back in.

“Rehab? That's great, Claude!” Liz said, slapping my back.

“Thanks,” I said.

Chris and Deb looked at each other.

“I know I said she was doing great. She was, too, but she had a relapse. This time, instead of trying to do it on her own again, she decided to go for professional help.” A few thumbs went up, a couple of smiles. I drank them in.

“So was it a fight?” Matt asked.

I fiddled with my clipboard while my face flushed. “No. Not at all.”

“You're lucky,” he said. “Getting my dad to do anything like that would take me and my brother a few hours. We'd probably have to carry him there.”

It was the second time that day I'd been told I was lucky. I liked the idea of Mom in rehab, in the process of recovering. “In process” sounded like recovery was some sort of art or something. It was definitely better than running off with her boyfriend, Linwood, who was no prize, or with her friend Candy.

I leaned forward and rested on my elbows. “She was in process many times and always relapsed. The difference this time was the talking. We really communicated about it this time, and I let her know how I felt. She really heard me. Not just listening,
hearing
.” I touched my ear. “You know what I mean?”

There were murmurs and nods. Lydia took a sip of coffee and sat back in her chair. Willa, one of the nicest girls in school, smiled and nodded once.

I continued on. “I knew when I told her the truth about what she was doing to me that it would make a difference. It did. We cried and then we hugged. It was really pretty simple.” I looked over at Matt and smiled.

Liz leaned toward me and whispered, “I can't believe you didn't tell me.”

I shrugged. “It's been a little crazy, I guess.”

“Okay, time,” Lydia said, putting down her cup. “Think about doing more letters. Remember, throw them out, tear them up. Whatever. You don't have to share them unless you think it's the right thing to do.”

 
Liz dropped me off, and I walked across Sea Road, where the big summer cottages lined up side by side and faced the ocean. I took the path between the Smiths and the Gordons and crossed Beach Road. We lived on the corner of Sea Spray Acres. Our single-wide trailer and garage was the only property in the whole development, except for one new Cape way back on the cul-de-sac. When I was little and the bus picked me up on the corner, they called it Stinky Acres instead of Sea Spray Acres. I didn't figure out right away that it was me they were talking about. Once I did, I waited for the bus on the seawall, hoping the wind would blow away the stink.

Mom got offers on our place all summer long. A full acre of land was hard to come by so close to the ocean. She liked to pretend she'd sell it, but the place wasn't hers to sell; it belonged to my grandmother who lived in Florida. She threatened, off and on, to move back and build a rental. She wasn't happy about the deck Linwood had built over the roof of the garage, or the unruly garden Mom had created. “The place is an eyesore,” she said.

Moonpie, our double-pawed cat, had been watching from the deck, and as I approached he padded down the stairs to me. He rubbed against my leg, but I ignored him and steadied myself for what I knew I'd see next.

I yanked the rattling storm door open and stepped into the trailer. At the sight of the room, I began to sweat, my heart rising with each beat.
Nobody can see this mess; nobody can know.
I whirled around and locked the door.
Breathe,
I told myself.
This is a disaster, but you know how to deal with it. It's your specialty, Claudine.
I navigated the trash and peeked into Mom's room. It was exactly as I'd left it. It was true, she was gone for sure. But why did she always do this to me?

I waded back through the mess and got the rubber gloves from the kitchen sink. I grabbed the garbage bag I'd started with the night before and began with the biggest chunks of brown glass.
One thing at a time,
I thought.
Just pick up the glass first.
I listened to the
clink-clink
as I tossed them into the trash bag. In an attempt to go faster, I gathered too big of a handful, and glass shards poked through the gloves, piercing my already raw skin. But I continued the job, double bagging the broken bottles and setting them aside. I started a different bag for the ashtrays, food wrappers, and general garbage. Any items that looked even remotely like trash were thrown in with the rest of the garbage. Old calendars, posters of places far away, half-melted candles. Anything that looked used, I tossed.

I vacuumed using all the attachments. I did the floors, the walls, the ceiling, the rugs, and the furniture. I lifted the window shades and sucked up the flies buzzing against the warm glass. Even the quickest ones were no match for me. It felt so good to be getting the place back to normal.

I vacuumed the foldout couch, the cushions, and the beds. Then I stuffed the sour-smelling sheets in the washer and cranked the knob to HOT. I held my stinging hands under the water while the machine filled. I washed load after load while I scrubbed the bathroom and kitchen. And then there was the stain by the door.

The tan wall-to-wall carpeting was from the '70s, and I didn't have much hope of getting the stain out, but I had to try. I attacked it with a nailbrush from the bathroom and poured on stain lifter in a steady stream, but it only spread. It faded slightly but got bigger. Next I used rug cleaner that foamed. Even as I scrubbed the stain into a pink froth, I knew it would be there forever.

Under the kitchen sink was a half-empty bottle of pine-scented cleaner. I cleared the sink of soggy pizza crusts and poured it in. While the hot water foamed up billowy and high, I let the water soothe my burning skin. I held my hands out, my skin a deep pink against the white enamel sink, and inhaled the strong pine smell. It comforted me as I stared into the bubbles. I thought about how Mom hated to clean and how she knew I couldn't stand things dirty. It made me feel nervous when the trailer got cluttered, so I'd clean it for her and she'd let me.