Digging In: A Novel(10)

Grabbing my spoon, I licked off the remaining beetroot cake and dug out the root of the weed. Then I proceeded to toss it over the fence. I did it again, and again, and again, until the small patch of lawn surrounding me was covered in little craters. It looked like the surface of the moon, and I howled. It felt good in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

I wanted more.

The earth, still cool and hard, nearly bent the spoon in half. Woozy, I stumbled my way to the garage. We had a garden spade somewhere, or maybe a shovel? I knocked down half of Jesse’s tools, but I found a rusty old digger behind a pile of rakes.

My normally boring suburban yard appeared dark and mysterious in the moonlight. I pushed the shovel into the ground, flipping up a chunk of sod, and then another and another, continuing on, stopping only once, to open up another bottle of wine.





CHAPTER 5

The alarm blared, but I awakened slowly, reflexes dulled by the heavy weight of a wine hangover. My pillow felt gritty against my cheek, and when I raised my head, more dried dirt fell from my hair onto the white linen.

Dirt was everywhere. Smeared across my sheets, lodged under my fingernails. Grains of it stuck to the inside of my bra. When I hauled myself up, I could see my feet were filthy, the bottoms blackened as though I’d charred them in the night.

Memories of what I’d done came back, watery, dreamy images. How long had I stayed out in the backyard, stabbing at the ground? Gingerly, I walked over to the window to sneak a peek and found myself staring at a large hole, the approximate length and width of a grave.

“Fuuuuuuck.”

I’d have to worry about resodding it later. I’d have to put off evaluating my mental health as well. Lukas had called the meeting for nine in the morning, and here I was, dirty as an unsupervised toddler, with nothing to wear (why hadn’t I done laundry yesterday?) and nothing to show Lukas (why hadn’t I worked last night?). I would think in the shower. The best thoughts came in the shower.

Except when the shower was so icy the droplets felt like tiny needles pricking the skin (why hadn’t I asked Jesse who to call?). I stayed in the shower only long enough to rinse the dirt off, shivered in a towel until I could find the suit I wore yesterday, and attempted to make myself presentable.

When I left for work, Mr. Eckhardt was standing in front of a pile of dandelion carcasses, his long pale index finger shaking with the effort to command my attention.

“Unacceptable,” he said before I could apologize. “Completely unacceptable behavior.”

“Give them to me,” I said, thrusting my hands over the fence.

Without another word, he scooped them up and dumped them into my waiting arms. I tossed them onto my patio.

“You need to—”

I didn’t let him finish. I got into my car, dirty hands and all, and sped off to work.



The parking lot showed no sign of the farmers’ market, and without the stark white tents and colorful people, it looked a little dreary. Still, I could park within a few yards of the door. That was a plus.

9:08 a.m. The conference room door was shut, and I heard the low sound of one voice, female, and knew they’d already begun.

If Big Frank were alive, he’d have shoved a cup of coffee in my hands and made a crack about being glad I’d decided to show up.

If Jesse were alive, I wouldn’t have been late.

Since my first day at Giacomo, my work performance would have been rated exemplary, had Big Frank actually believed in annual reviews. Frank understood that I was both responsible and artistic, a combination he felt was rare. He’d tried to balance it out with the other employees (Jackie and Glynnis had practical, grounded souls, and Byron, Seth, and Rhiannon, while not the most reliable people, were idea factories). “But you’re the whole enchilada, kiddo,” Big Frank frequently told me, and I appreciated his appreciation. It took a great deal of work to give myself the freedom to create while helping Frank maintain an organized, well-run operation. I made every deadline he set for me. Until Jesse died.

I’d fallen apart like a sloppily sewn scarf, a thread here, a thread there, until the unraveling got to be so noticeable that Big Frank picked up a needle and did some repair work. “Pick a few things you don’t want to let slide, and let the rest sort itself out,” he said gently after one particularly rough day. “When someone leaves this world, everything else gets jostled because of the empty space. You’re gonna land in the wrong spot for a while. Sooner or later, you’ll find where you fit again.”

That kept me going, until it was Big Frank who left a hole, and I found myself surrounded by emptiness.



I slipped into the conference room as quietly as possible, but every head swiveled in my direction, disapproval etched on each face. Glynnis, standing in front of her ad, let whatever was tumbling from her mouth trail off into silence. Her cheeks flushed a concerning shade of crimson.

“Lateness isn’t merely a sign of disrespect,” Lukas began, his gaze never shifting from the front of the room, “it’s an affront to the creative process. Any interruption in the flow can have disastrous consequences. Petra addresses this in chapter 6.”

I took a seat quickly. “I’m very sorry. I had some plumbing issues at the house.”

“Glynnis,” he said, ignoring my apology. “Do you feel you can go on?”

The poor girl looked terrified. I felt horrible then, and had to give this one to Petra—it did suck to be interrupted. I smiled broadly at her. “Sorry, Glynnis. I’d really like to hear about your ad. It looks great.”