Burn Our Bodies Down(8)

“All right,” my grandmother says gently. “I’m glad.”

None of my searching ever turned up even the outline of this woman, the empty space she left behind. It certainly never taught me how familiar I should be. “Do I…” I clear my throat. “Do I call you Vera, or…?”

She laughs, sharp and clear. Immediately I think I’ve ruined it, made a fool of myself.

“I get to pick,” she says, “don’t I?”

Oh. “Yeah.” It’s just something funny. She’s laughing and it’s not at me, and it’s not because I said something I shouldn’t have. It’s just something funny.

This might be the nicest conversation I’ve ever had.

“I never liked Granny,” she says. I hear something in the background, like the creak of floorboards. “And I’m much too sensible for something long like Grandmother.”

It’s real. It’s real because she said it. Proof, I think, and I want to write it down in my notebook.

“What about Gram?” she says.

Maybe it would be more polite to just call her by her first name for a while. But if she’s opening a door, I’m going through it full speed. “I like that.”

“So do I,” Gram says. It’s easy to start thinking of her that way. I’ve been wanting this my whole life, after all. “Listen, Margot, I’m glad you called.”

I can feel my cheeks fill with heat, a silly smile tugging at my mouth. “Really?”

“Of course. I’ve been hoping to meet you for a long time, but, well. You know your mother.”

“How about now, then?” I’m being too eager, I know it, but I will never get this chance again. “I’ll come see you. I’ll stay the summer.”

“As much as I would love that,” Gram says, “it wouldn’t feel right to steal you away from Josephine. The two of you should visit together.”

I barely hold back a laugh. Me and Mom, dropping by Gram’s house like a regular family. “I don’t know,” I start, but Gram’s determined.

“It’s been too long,” she says. “Bring her home to Phalene; there’s a good girl.”

Phalene. That must be where Fairhaven is. That’s where I need to go.

“I’ll try,” I say, and it’s half true. I’m about to ask for something more, for a promise that Gram will be there waiting, when I hear the squeal of brakes behind me and the slam of a car door. Engine still running, the smell of leaking oil trailing toward me.

“What the hell are you doing?”





four





i freeze. Mom’s voice, knifing through the heat, finding me right between my shoulder blades. She’s supposed to be at work, north of the high school and nowhere near here.

“Margot?” Gram says in my ear, but I don’t respond. A shiver in my skin, breath coming shallow. I keep the phone pressed to my ear, the cord clutched in my fist, and turn around.

Mom’s standing on the sidewalk, our station wagon idling at the curb behind her. Hands in the pockets of her work trousers, head tilted, and my body rattles with panic. She’s too relaxed. That’s how she is before the worst of it, always.

Lie, I tell myself. Lie, and apologize now, before she can ask for it. If I pull the pin myself, the grenade will hurt me less when it goes off.

“I was just calling your office,” I say. She’s been out—she won’t know it’s not true. “I was gonna see if you wanted me to bring you lunch, but—”

“Give it to me.”

She holds out her hand. Gram’s gone quiet in my ear. Just the hush of her breath. She’s waiting too.

“It went to voice mail,” I start.

But Mom just says, “Now.” It jolts through me, sends me stumbling to one side, making room for her in the phone booth before I realize I’m even moving at all. I drop the phone into her hand.

She doesn’t say a thing. She’s looking right at what I left on the counter. The Bible I bought back from Frank. The photo of Fairhaven, and the message written on the back.

She knows. She has to know who’s on the phone, what I’ve done. Still, she lifts the phone to her ear and she says, “Who is this?” Like she’s hoping more than anything she’s wrong.

She isn’t. And Gram must say something, because I watch it happen. I watch Mom turn into me. The look on her face, suddenly nervous, frightened, and the hold of her body, the hunch of her shoulders, one arm curled around herself. That’s mine. That’s what she gave me, shelter and cower.

Vera is the woman who taught her to be this kind of mother. A flash of pity in Mom’s eyes, of recognition, because she knows. She knows what it feels like and she still did it to me.

“No,” she says into the phone at last. Her voice is a quivering little thing. “I can’t.”

This feels wrong. I shouldn’t be watching. But I can’t stop, because I’ve seen Mom angry and I’ve seen her afraid, and I’ve seen her with a fire between her fingers and a smile on her face, but I’ve never seen her like this. I’ve never seen her belong to anyone. Not even to me.

A pause while Gram talks. Mom turns her back to me. I watch her clench her fist tight, nails digging deep into her own skin.