Buried Read online

“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.

  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.

  Mom,

  How is it that you think it’s okay to just take off whenever you want? Man, that’s unbelievable!!!! I would never do that to anyone. NEVER. If I did, I’d be just like you.

  So you’re with Gary. Is he better than Linwood? Probably. Is it better than living here with me? Probably. And Linwood wants me to tell you he came by. You’re his one-stop shopping, I guess. Free food, free beer, free love. He’s pissed. That’s what you get for messing it all up again. You can deal with i
t when you get back, if you decide to come back.

  —Claude

  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.