Better Left Buried (13 page)

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Brea, come on.” Her mother threw open the bedroom door and she hid the phone under the pillow. “Now.”

“I’ll be right there, o
kay? Can I at least finish getting dressed?”

“Two minutes.”

If it were physically possible for steam to come out of her ears, it would have.

“I’ve
gotta go, Harmony. I’ll see you at school?”

“Maybe, but I’m going to be late. What do you have fifth period?”

“Gym, I think. Why?”

“I’ll meet you outside the locker room.”

Brea hung up the phone and put it in the front pocket of her backpack. She pulled a hooded sweatshirt over her head and tied her hair back in a loose French braid.

“Time’s up,” her mother shouted.

“All right, all right.” She looked at the necklace Jaxon had given her, hanging from her jewelry tree. As good a time as she’d had with him, the nagging doubts were back. He’d gone a whole day without calling, even when she didn’t show up for school. She couldn’t help wondering what his friends had said behind her back, or what he’d agreed to to placate them.

“Brea, I mean it. Get down here, now.”

“I’m coming.” She made sure her computer was off and ran downstairs to meet her mother who was standing in the open front door.

“I’m dropping you at school
and God help you if you end up anywhere else.” She got the point loud and clear. “I’m telling you right now, missy, you’re going to get an earful from your father.”

Brea got in the car, timid because of her mother’s yelling, but unfazed by the empty threat of her father. He was
hundreds of miles away, distant not only physically, but emotionally as well. She wasn’t intimidated by him in the least, but since her mother brought him up, she asked the question.

“Mom, why did Dad leave?”

Unless it was the fashion for fathers to take off that year, something else happened in 1996.

“I’ve told you this a hundred times. We had some trouble. Sometimes
parents can’t make things work. He got a job offer in Peach Springs and left.”

“I’m not five anymore, Mom. If you couldn’t work things out, why do you still wear your wedding ring?”

“It’s complicated. I’d rather not appear available. I have you to raise, and an important job. I don’t have time for dating.”

“So i
t’s a coincidence you sleep in his ratty old sweatshirt?”

Her mother looked surprised that
Brea had noticed. “It’s comfortable, and I’m just not interested in starting over.”

“
What’re you going to do when I’m gone? I’m graduating this year. I’m basically an adult.”

“Well, if that’s true, we’re really in trouble.
Adults
make better decisions.”

“
It’s pretty shitty how mean you’re being considering what Harmony’s going through with her mother.”

“Watch your language.” Her mother turned down the street to the high school.

“Fine, it’s
crappy
. That better? I mean, there’s something going on and I’m going to get to the bottom of it. Did you know Harmony’s father?”

“
Where are all these questions coming from? And why do you think I know anything about that family? That’s all ancient history.”

“I figure since
our dads left at the same time, they must’ve had something in common, right?”

“What same time? What are you talking about?” Her mother was exasperated. “Your fathers were nothing alike, I mean, best I can tell.
I barely knew the guy. He was in and out, like all the other men in Charity’s life. He was trouble, like she is. At least that’s what I heard.”

“Is that why Charity
attacked you?”

Harmony sat outside her mother’s run-down trailer, terrified at the thought of what she might find inside.

“
I tried to keep you safe.”

Her mother’s words were so slurred she wa
sn’t even sure she’d heard correctly.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”
Adam looked sad more than anything else.

“No. You’ve been skipping out on Walter a lot lately. Go. I’ll be fine.”
She opened the truck door and Adam caught her arm.

“Are we okay?”

There was no honest answer that didn’t start a fight.

“Sure we are
,” she said. “Pick me up at lunch? I promised Brea I’d be at school by fifth period.” He nodded. She hurried out of the truck to avoid making things between them worse.

Leaves crunched under her feet
. The porch had been pieced together with scrap lumber since her last visit, but the door was still dented and the lock broken, either because it hadn’t been fixed or because it had been broken again by the neighbor, the cops, or any number of junkies her mother kept company with.

She
took a deep breath, savoring the last bit of fresh air before stepping inside the cramped single-wide that smelled of filth and smoke. The weight of the place immediately came down on her, suffocating her with the fear that this was as good as life would ever get.

Adam
had pulled out of the driveway, but she wondered if he’d come back. The part of her facing too many bad memories wished he would. The rest of her knew he deserved better. There was no way of keeping him without hurting him. She had to learn to face things alone, and with the thoughts she’d been having, so did he.

The
suicide scene remained undisturbed, reminding her how much she and her mother were alike. She picked up the scattered pill bottles and looked at the labels: sleeping pills, psychiatric drugs, pain meds. Two of the bottles didn’t even have her mother’s name on them, which was no surprise. Addicts didn’t discriminate between prescriptions and over-the-counters. Peel tabs, like the kind used for EKG electrodes and IV dressings remained among the rubble and there was bloody gauze stuck to the carpet. It was no wonder. Anyone living in these conditions would consider death a better option.

She went to the kitchen and
returned with a garbage bag, determined to clean the place up. Her mother kept things in piles, like a hoarder, and the only way to find anything was to dig. She must have done some recent reminiscing because among the dirt, spoiled food, and clutter, were several developed photographs and a handful of Polaroids.

Harmony started with the obvious trash, picking up what the medics left behind, fast food wrappers, and empty bottles which she lined up in neat rows in the only clear spot on the counter.
She made a second pile for mail—final notices and papers from family court—that she intended to take with her.

Co
uch cushions formed a line on the floor as though someone had been sleeping on them, while yet another slept on the frame. She brushed the crumbs from them before putting them back and picked up a picture of a beautiful woman on a swing under a large maple tree. She wore a cornflower dress and her blond hair in braids. The scene was pure Americana and the photo could have been one of those pictures that came with a frame, except that the woman in it was her mother. She didn’t recognize her at first, having never seen her so well-fed, clean, and happy, but there was no mistaking her eyes and dimples.

Harmony found others as she
sifted through the mess, finally finding carpet. They must’ve all been from around the same time.

Except the last one.

A faded Polaroid.

It was hard to say with any certainty what the picture was of, initially, and only when Harmony turned it
several times did she realize she was looking at a close-up of deep bruises on someone’s thigh. Suspicion said it was likely her mother’s, though there wasn’t any proof. She flipped the photograph over and saw that it was dated 1995.

She would have been a baby
then, and couldn’t imagine under what circumstances the photo was taken. The least painful option was that somehow her mother had been attacked and that this was part of a report she filed, an isolated thing, but as similar pictures surfaced, she knew that wasn’t true.

Her mother had been beaten, often and with a variety of
results.

Harmony
imagined her reliving those beatings and understood the pills’ siren call.

She
collected a trail of photos leading to an overturned shoe box whose logo was faded and blurred from water damage. For all the things her mother abandoned and lost over the years to eviction and carelessness, the box had to have meant something. She sat on the couch and sorted through it.

There were photos, papers, and cards with no obvious chronology.

A good chunk of the top photos were school pictures of Harmony, ranging from grades K through eleven. The senior pictures, done by an outside photographer, had been too expensive for them to afford.

There were more
pictures of the bright-eyed, hopeful version of her mother, and some of her grandparents on her mother’s side. Both of them had died before her fifth birthday, but their pride was clear. Several birthday cards were scattered throughout, most from them to her, and an anniversary card that said, “Happy First Wedding Anniversary”.

Inside
was another Polariod of her mother with braided hair, a flowered dress, and an eye so badly bruised, it had swollen shut. The other conveyed despair.

The
pictures made Harmony sick, not because she hadn’t seen her share of violence, but because of the decline they chronicled. The beatings hadn’t killed her mother, but they had murdered her beautiful spirit, leaving a broken shell that could not love; not itself or anything that came after.

She set
the pictures face down and sorted through the loose paperwork, finding more than a handful of the same yellow sheets Dr. Blake had tried to hand her earlier, a couple of police officer’s cards, including one for Brea’s Uncle Jim, and a note sealed inside a yellowed envelope. She tore off the end and read the letter her mother worked up the courage to write, but never delivered. Inside was a picture of Harmony on her father’s lap, his arms folded protectively around her. She wore a dark blue sundress and a smile. There was a sense that this was one of those great days, the kind you want to immortalize in a photograph that told lies about the days surrounding it, making them all seem as happy.

The letter
told a different story.

It
was a vow to leave or die trying.

Brea couldn’t believe it. Jaxon’s father enlisted her mother’s help in his attempt at buying Charity’s house at 6 Maple. Something Joan said, though she wouldn’t repeat what, set Charity off and earned her mother her first ever punch in the eye. The six degrees of separation thing was becoming too much. Brea started thinking about the bigger picture, about Jaxon and their too-good-to-be-true relationship.

Did he
know about the fight?

Why did his father think her mother had so much influence over Charity?

What did her mother say that made Charity so angry?

The possibilities were endless and
her research only scratched the surface of the shared past no one else would admit to.

She had asked a dozen other questions, but her mother refused to say more.

She checked her cell, looking for anything from Harmony, and tucked it back in her pocket, disappointed by not having heard from her.

“Brea.
Hey, Brea.” Jaxon ran to catch up with her and was short of breath when he finally did. He put his arm around her and pulled her to him like there was nothing wrong between them. She hadn’t heard a word from him in the past twenty-four hours.

“What do you want?”

“What do I
want
? Brea, what’s the matter?” He brushed his hair back from his face.

“You really don’t know?”

“Don’t know what? What did I do?”

She rolled her eyes. “What
didn’t
you do? That whole day you said and did all the right things. And the necklace? What was that? A bribe? You really had me fooled, but I get it. I finally get it.”

Jaxon’s eyes settled on the place where her necklace should have been. “What are you talking about?”

“My mother told me about the fight. I made her think my uncle clued me in to get the details, but you knew Charity attacked her, didn’t you, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” His expression said otherwise.

“Now I know why my mother likes you so much. Everything makes sense.”

The
first bell rang, spurring along the underclassmen who had gathered to witness the blowout. Most everyone left, except for Pete, Rachael, and Becky who leaned against the lockers, clearly not caring that they were late.