Buried (3 page)

I turned off the tap and squeezed out a sponge in the soapy water. Starting with the walls, I wiped off the sticky beer. With a swipe down the dark paneling, the streaks were gone. It seemed a waste to clean only the walls, so I did the trim in the kitchen and the living room. I'd never washed the wood, and I was sure Mom had never done it either. With every wipe, I washed away a party or a boyfriend who smoked or a bad day. With every swipe, a little of the past was gone and my future materialized. I had a fresh start, a clean slate, a new beginning.

I stood on the counter and straddled the stove. The first sweep over the top of the cupboards brought a rain of black jelly beans clattering to the floor. Like a flashback in a movie, it was suddenly sophomore year, a time when Mom was handling her drinking. It wasn't abstinence, but she was managing well. With her new outlook, she decided to do Easter, but by the time she got her act together, all the jelly beans in the stores were gone, except for the black ones. When I woke up that Sunday morning, I played little girl for her and found most of the beans, but it got a little creepy with Mom acting like I was precious all of a sudden. I ate some to keep her happy, so she'd stay in a good mood, but when she wasn't looking I threw them out with the rest of the garbage. In the end it didn't matter—she got drunk that afternoon anyway, and soon things were back to the way they'd always been.

I jumped down and sucked up the dusty black beans with the vacuum.

When I was through with the woodwork, greasy dust floated on top of the black water. I wondered how many years of cooking, of partying, of screaming at each other it represented. I rinsed out the sponge and pulled the plug.

As the sky darkened, I took the blankets and sheets outside, shook off the cigarette smoke, the beer, the memories, the mess, and one by one, hung them over the line to be blown clean by the September sea breeze.

Now it was my turn to get clean.

I ran the water hot and steamy. I covered a shower puff with citrus body wash and lathered myself from head to toe, letting the dirty water run down my arms and legs. I took the nailbrush and scrubbed my toes clean, carefully picking out the dark grime with my fingernails. All of the day's dirty mess pooled at my feet in a soapy mud puddle and swirled down the drain.

When I came out of the bathroom, fresh and clean, my eyes were drawn again to the stain in front of the door. It didn't look much better. Maybe it had spread more. It was darker, not just wetter. The rug cleaner directions said I could vacuum it up in two hours. I'd have to wait to see.

I went to Mom's room. A crisp, clean sheet covered her king-size bed, and only Moonpie lay curled in the center of it. I'd taken care of everything.

Being alone would be okay. I could do this. I'd done it before. Yeah, Mom was gone, but I should be okay with that, right? I lay next to Moonpie and dialed Liz's number. When she answered, I couldn't stop myself. I had to say it out loud again.

“Mom's gone.” And again my hand went up to my mouth as if to stop the words, but they had come on their own.

“Claude?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Mom's gone.”

“I know. You told us, remember? So, is it a twenty-eight-day thing?”

“I don't know.”

“Are you okay?”

I looked out to the living room. It was neat and tidy. No cigarette smoke hung in the air, and the only sounds came from my breathing and Moonpie's purr. “I'm fine. I just miss her even though she does stupid things sometimes.” I held my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose and squeezed, trying to hold back the tears. I imagined the group where Liz and I had been that afternoon and pictured Mom sitting there instead of driving down Route One in Linwood's pickup truck to god-knows-where.

“I still can't believe you didn't call and tell me,” Liz said.

“Yeah, sorry. I was just surprised. I couldn't believe she started up again.” I got up and opened Mom's closet. Empty, except for her winter coat. I turned away from the dark space. “But we had a big talk, and she decided to go get help. She's totally committed to getting sober this time.”

My mother had been the main character of the most notorious drinking stories in Deep Cove, Maine. Now I had cast her in a rehab program, and she was getting sober. Even as I lied to Liz, I smiled to myself and let it sink in: Mom getting help, sharing her story, recovering. Finally.

“Wow, Claude,” Liz said. “You've been waiting for this day. But did you tell us everything at group?”

I let my mind go blank until Liz asked, “Did you have another fight?” She sounded worried.

“No,” I said too fast, shaking my head. “No fight. It wasn't like that at all,” I said, looking at the garbage bags near the door. “She just finally hit bottom. Rock bottom.

After a rough night of drinking, she sat me down and said, ‘Honey, I'm sorry for all I've put you through, and I'm finally going to do it. I'm going to get help.'”

“Perfect. That's how it's supposed to happen. I want Dad to apologize for being an ass and go to rehab like your mom.”

“Hey, Liz, maybe you should do another one of those letters,” I said.

“Yeah. You, too. You must have a lot you want to say to your mom.”

 
Later, at the kitchen table, I stared at my homework. The words on the page meant nothing. This wasn't my usual routine. Most of my studying took place in the nooks and crannies of the day, usually in my room on top of my bed, buried in books. But for once, the trailer was quiet and clean. For once, I could study at home without a party going on around me, without a blaring TV or music pushing under the crack of my door.

The fridge buzzed behind me and the baseboard ticked, creating an annoying duet. The kitchen chairs creaked with every shift, with every breath. But above all that, a drone sounded. I stood up and closed my eyes to listen better. It turned off and then on again. I followed it to the open broom closet opposite the table and put my head through the door. Nothing at first, but then a loud, insistent buzz. Scooching down, I put my hand on the vacuum canister. The vibration was the unmistakable sound of angry flies, flies that were pissed off and wanted out. I closed the door, gathered up my homework, and cranked the stereo up. In my bedroom, I sat cross-legged and took my notes out again. The music seeped under the shut door. Now I could study.

 
It was late when heavy footsteps vibrated through the trailer.

“Serena!”

My mouth went dry.

“Serena, baby.” I heard a six-pack clank on the counter, and my heart pounded against my chest. It was Linwood Dodge.
Without Mom.

I kept still, not breathing, trying to think why he wasn't with Mom barreling down Route One, headed for nowhere.

He pounded past my bedroom, then came back and opened my door. “Where's your mother?” he asked, too loudly, as usual. His silhouette in the doorway made him appear larger than he was. “She around?”

I stared at him while the realization grew inside me. Mom really and truly wasn't with him. Linwood was here looking for her. Alone.

“Where is she, Claude?”

I shrugged. What could I say? She was supposed to be with him.

He threw up his arms and let them fall. “She finally leave me for that trucker guy?” He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms, and then his ankles. Linwood was short, but he made up for it by lifting weights. His crater-scarred face made him hard to look at. “What's-his-name? Gary or somethin'?”

It was possible.
Of course.
Gary the trucker was one of her crushes. I nodded, mostly in approval of Mom's choice. If she had to choose between Linwood and Gary, Gary was the lesser of the two evils. I was about to say more, but the image of Mom sitting in a group circle appeared in my mind. I opened my mouth, then closed it.

“Spit it out, girl.” He stepped into the room, and the familiar scent of fish bait mingled with my scented candle.

“Mom's gone to dry out. Maybe she'll be back and maybe she won't.” I kept my eyes on my open book.

“One a them twenty-eight-day things?”

“Yeah, that's it,” I said, turning an unread page.

He disappeared down the hall and then came back in. “She couldn't have planned it too well. She left her toothbrush.” He held it up for me to see. Then he blew a smoky breath into my room. “One down, twenty-seven to go.”

“Whatever.” I kept my eyes on the page.

“Well, I doubt it'll work on your mother—she's a diehard. You sure she didn't leave me for that trucker guy?”

Of course she had, I was sure now, but I couldn't say it—he'd flip out on me. “She's at rehab. I told you.”

“You gonna see her?” He stepped closer.

“Nope, but when I write her, I'll tell her you came by, okay?”

As soon as I heard the door slam, I sprayed my room with air freshener.

I didn't blame her for leaving Linwood for clean-cut Gary. She and Linwood had a crazy on-off thing.

But why'd she leave me?

I flipped to the pink Post-it flag in my binder that said
Extra Paper
. I closed my eyes and saw Mom and Gary at a truck stop eating burgers and laughing. Gary was a better choice. But I made it fade away. I made it dissolve like in the movies, and I replaced the image with Mom in rehab chatting with a counselor, sharing sad stories and worrying about how much she might have hurt me. I saw Mom getting the cure before it was too late. But that picture dissolved back to Gary helping her into his tractor-trailer. She'd taken off and left me again.

2

FOR THE SECOND DAY IN A ROW there was nobody to take care of but me. The trailer still smelled fresh and looked neat. I took the heart-shaped throw rug from my bedroom and covered up the stain near the door. It wasn't the best look, but it served its purpose.

It was trash day for the Gordons, so I snuck some garbage bags into their bin and walked to the beach to wait for the bus. The water was still and sparkly. Linwood would be out hauling traps on a day like this. In the distance, a diesel engine growled as it moved from pot to pot, and I squinted to see whose it was. It wasn't the
Serena
.
Too bad he is such a dub,
I thought.
Mom might have married him.

I kicked off my clogs and jumped into the sand. This was our beach spot—right across from the path to Sea Spray Acres. I thought about Flower Child, Mom's summer business, and how it began right here on my last day of second grade. We'd been having a picnic, and I was wearing shorts and begging Mom to let me go swimming. Mom had on a floppy straw hat she'd decorated with dried flowers and shells, and Candy and Sylvia were teasing her about it. A lady walked by with her tiny brown dog. She'd gone by our towel once, but on her way back she came over.

“Where'd you get your hat?”

“This?” Mom said, putting her hand on her head. “I made it.”

“I'm going to a luncheon and would love to show up with a hat like that.” Her dog was running circles around her, so I held out a crust to him. He gobbled it up and begged for more with two paws. “Could I pay you to make one for me?”

Mom says that Candy and Sylvia laughed after the lady had left, but I don't remember that. I just remember the way Mom's face lit up, surprised like a kid.

Mom had a business going with the luncheon ladies by the end of that summer, and in the fall she turned the garage into her workshop. The next summer she had a cart decorated with dried flowers that said FLOWER CHILD'S BASKETS AND BOUQUETS. She hung hats from the awning and piled the top shelf with baskets. We'd walk the sidewalk from our beach spot down to Seaside Cottages, then past Big Beach, Mother's Beach, and all the way down to Deep Cove. Then we'd do it again. It wasn't so bad. We'd stop to see all her friends, and when the weather kept the tourists home, we'd go home, too. She was happy in the summertime. Gardening, walking, making things.

I hopped back up on the wall and put on my clogs. I didn't want to think about it, but the truth was that when fall came, and the clocks were turned back, I knew she'd turn, too. She stopped making things and went into a kind of angry hibernation until spring.