Buried (4 page)

The squeak of the bus doors brought me back, and I got on and settled into a seat. The bus took us by Seaside Cottages, where Mom worked with Candy sometimes, past Deep Cove Downs, the MacPhees' road, and then by the rocks where Mom and I scavenged for shells, beach glass, and driftwood for her wreaths and baskets.

 
In English, I was still thinking about Mom and scribbling on my paper when Mr. Springer called on me, with only five minutes left of class.

“I—I—”

Muffled laughter came from behind me. What was I supposed to be doing?

“Are you with us?” he said. He pushed his glasses up on his long, bony nose.

I shrugged.

“Maine poets?”

“Edna St. Vincent Millay,” I said.

“Good. Let's hear something.”

I looked at my paper, where I'd doodled a flower wreath around the word REHAB. I covered it with my hand and closed my eyes. My throat tightened.

Liz whispered, “Read the poem you brought.”

I fumbled through my notebook. I hadn't brought a poem.

Mr. Springer shook his head and turned to someone else.

I looked down at my hands, red and dry from scrubbing the trailer the day before. I picked at a smudge of lead on my pointer finger. If the intercom hadn't clicked on, I might have made a hole in my skin.

“Claudine Carbonneau, please come to the office.”

I looked up at Mr. Springer. He gave a stiff nod. “Might as well take your books.”

“Meet me at lunch,” Liz said.

All eyes were on me as I walked to the back of the classroom and slipped out the door. I breathed slowly, forcing my heart to stop its pounding. There was no reason to feel panicked, I told myself, it's probably nothing. But I kept thinking of Mom.

The empty halls echoed with my footsteps as I walked alone past classes in session. I tried to think about how much I loved school, how much I loved walking into the old brick building every day and looking up into its airy ceilings.

I breathed in the school smell: cleaning fluid and wax polish. Most people hated school and saw it as a prison, even Liz. What I hated was the interruption of snow days, holidays, and teacher workshops. I was always the one with the pissy look on my face when a false alarm sent us home.

Again, thoughts of Mom crept into my mind, and I pushed them down deeper. I focused on the most immediate things: the scuff of my clogs down the hall, the slam of a classroom door, the cool silkiness of the banisters. I looked into each classroom window as I went past and made myself focus on the faces. I changed my mind from panic to peace.

When I saw Ms. Frost, the guidance counselor, in the office, I blurted out, “Is it my mother?”

“No, no, Claudine,” she said. Taking some papers from an envelope, she said, “I just wanted to have a word with you about the Charles Hart Scholarship. The one I talked about last week.”

I stared at the pages as she flipped through them. Ms. Frost had talked about this scholarship at the senior assembly the week before. It was for people who had the grades but not the money. My mouth went dry, and my mind raced. I'd been hoping for it.

Ms. Frost took a pencil out of her halo of silver braids and smiled, her light blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “You know how I feel about you, Claudine. You're very bright and capable, and you have a chance to be whatever you want to be. I want to help you get there.” She sighed, then smiled, drawing out the moment. “I'm nominating you,” she said.

I flung my arms around her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You won't be disappointed.”

“Of course I won't. It was an easy decision. Not a home run yet, but I have faith in you.”

She wrote the due date on the envelope.

“Just take it home and look it over. It's a full scholarship to the state university. Your mother needs to fill out the financial aid information,” she said. “It's crucial—”

“Mom's gone to rehab.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding surprised. “That's good, isn't it?”

I nodded. “She'll call and I'll tell her about this.” I reached for the papers, but she tucked them in the envelope.

“She'll call? Where is she?”

I didn't miss a beat. “Jackson Heights.” I watched as Ms. Frost took it in.

“Oh, Jackson Heights, the one in Portland.”

I nodded, feeling the sweat prickle in my armpits.

“Well, that facility has a very good reputation. She'll have the best care there.” She handed the envelope to me. “When she calls, get the information, and we'll look it over together before we put it in the mail. It has to be postmarked two weeks from today, or you'll miss the deadline.”

“No problem,” I said. I zipped it in my backpack. “Thanks, Ms. Frost.”

“No thanks necessary. You deserve it, Claudine.”

I thought about Jackson Heights as I walked to my next class. It was one of the best facilities in New England. I'd bargained and even begged Mom to call about the programs, and now I imagined her there, sitting in a group circle, being open and honest. I saw her listening to the hard truth and feeling the pain, being called on her shit.

 
At noon I made a beeline for the corner table, my regular seat, and dropped my lunch bag. I went to the pay phone and tucked the receiver into the crook of my neck and dropped in a quarter. Liz appeared at my side, a diet soda in each hand.

“Claude, what are you doing?” Some fizz bubbled down the side, and she slurped it up before it reached her hand.

Annoyed at her sloppiness, I turned my back and pressed the receiver to my ear.

“Remember, you don't have to call her anymore,” she said. She took a sip and went to her seat.

I listened to the purr of the dial tone and to the crinkle of Liz's cellophane, probably a Little Debbie cake. I'd forgotten.
Mom's gone.
I counted the metal ridges of the phone cord:
One, two, three, four . . .

“Claudine, she's not home. Remember?”

Now I had to start over:
One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five.
There. I felt calm and hung up the phone.

“I was just calling Jackson Heights,” I said.

She nodded and took a bite of her cake. “Jackson Heights? Wow. So, how's your mom doing?”

“Great, I guess. The message said they were on a lunch break.”

She offered me some corn chips. I shook my head.

“I haven't touched them yet. Really, Claude.”

I took some and sat down across from her.

“You gonna call later?” she said, her mouth now full of chips.

“Of course.”

Calling to check on Mom was a daily chore. Sometimes things were fine, but sometimes I had to run home. It started in second grade when I was in the nurse's office sick with a fever. Nurse Gooch called Mom to come get me. I lay on the cot behind the screen listening to the squeak, squeak of her rubber soles until sleep pulled me down. Over and over I woke with sudden chills, only to fall into a sweaty sleep again. When Mom finally came, I knew it wasn't a dream, because I could hear voices behind the screen. Nurse Gooch said something like, “fever of one hundred and four . . .” and, “I've been meaning to talk with you about your daughter's hygiene . . .” I tried to open my eyes, but I couldn't stay awake. Mom raised her voice and said, “I don't think so. You have no clue about my life. You have no right to butt into it.”

“All I'm saying is that we're concerned. Everyone is. And her teacher says that the other kids are noticing.”

Mom helped me up, and we walked down the hall. The next thing I knew I was home in bed and feeling better. The TV was on in the living room, and I could hear the music from a soap opera. There was a bowl of soup on the floor beside my bed with a wrinkle of yellow fat over the top of it.

I lay back on my pillow, my head throbbing, and looked at my snow globe on the bedside table. It had been a birthday gift from Mom, and I'd always kept it by my bed. I reached over and jiggled it a little, watching the snow swirl in slow motion and cover the bright green grass. The yellow-haired princess remained still. Nothing fazed her. I had created armies to attack her, and she'd fended them off without a hitch. She'd even been taken from her castle, but she'd escaped and come back just in time to rescue the queen. Today the princess was tired and needed to rest for her next battle.

I woke later in the dark.

“Mom,” I called. Her shadow rose on the living room wall against flashes of TV light.

“Better?” she said, lying down beside me.

I felt the covers tighten around me as she moved close. “I hate getting sick,” I said. “I missed art, didn't I?”

“Yeah, art and whatever you have on Fridays.”

“Today's Friday?” I lifted my head and felt my skull bones bang together.

“Yup.” Mom brushed my hair back from my eyes. “You were some sick, Angel.”

I snuggled into her arms and closed my eyes again. “Why doesn't Nurse Gooch like my high jeans?”

Mom gave me a squeeze. “Don't listen to what Nurse Gooch says. It's none of her business.” She kissed the top of my head. “And it's
hygiene,
not
high jeans
. Besides, you don't smell. You'd tell me if someone teased you, right?”

I nodded, but my stomach tightened at the thought of her calling school. She'd made a scene at the Open House earlier in the year when she thought Miss White had given me free lunch. Mom wouldn't listen when Miss White told her she had nothing to do with the lunch program. I didn't like the look on my teacher's face when Mom raised her voice. She looked scared and embarrassed at the same time, and she kept playing with her bracelets.

I rubbed my belly to get the tightness out.

“How many times I wash your clothes or give you a bath is none of that nurse's business.” She leaned over and gave me a kiss—cigarettes and beer.

I pulled away from her and touched my feet to the floor. “I have to pee.” I held my throbbing head as I walked through the living room. Empty brown bottles littered the coffee table. I lined them up in a straight row and counted them, touching the open mouth of each one: one, two, three, four, five. When I came out, she was back on the couch, peeling off a label and crying. I counted. Still just five.

“Don't be sad, Mom.” I sat beside her and wiped a tear from her cheek. “What's wrong?”

She covered her face. “I can't do this anymore. I just can't.”

I twisted her long, dark hair and laid it down the center of her back.

“It's so hard. I can't do this alone.”

“Do what alone, Mom?”

“Be a mother. Be me,” she said, peeling the corner of her beer label.

“It's okay, Mom. I'll be your helper. I'll always be your helper.”

A few days later, I found a couple of Nurse Gooch's pamphlets that Mom had thrown in the trash: GOOD HEALTH AND HYGIENE HABITS FOR GIRLS and MAKING GOOD HEALTH A HABIT. They had cute pictures of gleaming toothbrushes and sparkling bars of soap on the covers. One had a mother in an apron and pointy shoes, and the other had a check-list on a clipboard. The list had checks beside things like
brush teeth, wash hands, take a bath.
I took them out of the trash and read them over and over until I could recite them myself. I began lists just like the mother in the pamphlet. Soon my lists were tailored to my life:
make bed, wash dishes, check on Mom, make dinner.

Now I really was her helper.

 
Part of me heard Liz calling my name, but the other part wanted to stay with Mom.

“Claude!”

Liz's voice brought me back to the cafeteria; the sounds of silverware being tossed and plastic trays being stacked kept me there.

“Where were you?”

“Just thinking.” I wiped my apple and took a bite of it, then I smoothed the wrinkles from my bag.

“About?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“Something, I know.”

I shrugged.

I polished another spot on my apple and bit in. “Okay, I'm thinking that I'm alone at last.” I took another bite, though I hadn't finished chewing the first.

“Claudine, are you telling me everything?” Liz leaned toward me and raised her eyebrows.

“Here's the truth,” I said.

“Yeah . . .” she said.

“Mom and I did have a blowup before she left for rehab.” I went to the trash and dropped my unfinished apple in the bucket.

When I came back, she said, “What about?”

I threw up my arms like it was obvious. “The usual,” I said, sitting again. “It wasn't so bad, really. I had my say, she had hers, and we both agreed that rehab was the best place for her,” I said.

“I can't believe you didn't call and tell me after,” she said. We'd always told each other everything, even though we were an unlikely pair. I had saved her butt in second grade when she couldn't regroup her addition problems, and she and her mom had taken me to Girl Scouts because my mother was not a normal mother.

“I guess I was just busy. You know, packing for her stay. Getting her ready.” The story came fast and sure. Liz and I understood each other. I could talk to her about anything, but something kept me locked up about Mom.

Liz frowned. “Mmm.”

The warning bell rang, and Liz stuffed the rest of her lunch into her insulated bag. “I'm freaking out about that health report I have to write. Will you help me, Claude? Please?”

“Don't I always?” I wrote,
Call Liz about report
and
Pick up floor cleaner and vacuum bags
on the back of my lunch bag.