Dig Too Deep (18 page)

Thirty-Six

Mrs. Philpott is waiting on the porch when I finally get home. She's all business, handing me a neatly written page showing what Granny ate and when her meds were given. The nurse is clearly better at persuading her to eat than I am.

“I'll be back at eight tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I say.

She stops halfway down the steps and turns to me. “I appreciated your letter.”

“Oh, right.” I can't believe it was only last night that I wrote it. Seems like a month ago. “Well, I thought you might need to know some of that stuff.”

“It was very helpful.”

I watch her get into her car. The driver's side sinks when her butt hits the seat. She nods at me before she backs out. I get the impression that she doesn't dislike me as much as she seemed to yesterday. Or maybe it's just that I'm less of a new girl now that she's waded through three pages of my heartfelt chicken scratch.

Granny's asleep, so I walk down the driveway to check the mail. There's a fat envelope from the EPA office addressed to me. Inside is the complaint form I requested two weeks ago. The timing is perfect, and thanks to my discovery about mine employees being involved in the water testing, I actually have a specific valid complaint to file.

I spend the evening ignoring my Mount Everest of homework and instead fill out the EPA forms. It's much more satisfying than conjugating Spanish verbs, since I get to imagine the look on Peabody's face when the EPA shows up asking questions. The idea of bringing him down almost eclipses the rays of worry about what he'll do once he sees my name at the bottom of the complaint. Almost.

After another ramen dinner, I fold the forms into an envelope and scrounge enough stamps from the desk in the dining room to get it back to the EPA. Granny mostly sleeps through it all. I get her to drink the nutrition shake Mrs. Philpott left for dinner, though I'm wondering if we have to pay her for it. I've seen them in the store and they're expensive. I can get seven ramens or three cans of soup for the same price as one shake. Around nine, I give Granny a Vicodin. She's asleep again before I get done writing down the dosage and the time.

I wander back to the living room, eat some dry ramen noodles that I fail to convince myself are potato chips, and fall asleep.

“Shouldn't you be at school?”

My eyes fly open, registering Mrs. Philpott's tan-colored panty hose and the fact that it's way too bright to be 6:30 a.m.

“Crap.” I untangle myself from the couch and run for my bedroom.

Being an hour late for school, I can't very well catch the bus. So fifteen minutes later, I'm pumping two dollars worth of next week's grocery money into the El Camino, unshowered, unmakeupped, and unfed. That last part is making me really cranky.

I sign in at the office, but before I can get to English, I'm intercepted in the hall by Mr. Stoddard, the vice principal.

“Miss Briscoe, I've been meaning to talk to you about your absences.”

“I'm on my way to class now,” I say. “Can I make an appointment for later?”

“I just wanted to say, you are dangerously close to repeating this school year. If you miss two more days, the district policy says you will not be able to advance with your class.”

I almost laugh. “My class.” There's nothing about the Plurd County High junior class that's mine. But laughter probably wouldn't go over too well just now. “I'm sorry, sir. It's just that my granny's sick—”

“I'm familiar with your situation.” Mr. Stoddard is a huge guy. As big as Dobber, with a soft voice and an accent that tells me he came from some wealthier part of the South. More Charleston than Chickfield. “I'm sorry about your grandmother, Miss Briscoe. But your schoolwork is important too. I'm sure she doesn't want you falling behind.”

Sometimes adults baffle me. “You realize she's dying, right?”

His neck turns red as he nods just once.

“And I assume you know she has no one,
no one
, in the world besides me?”

Stoddard tugs on his collar. “I merely meant to impress upon you the seriousness of your situation. I suggest you go on to class now.”

He's gone before I can express the seriousness of my pissed-off-ness. Really? He's threatening to fail me in the face of all the shit that's going on in my life?

Steaming, I walk down the hall to English and hand Mrs. Staley my tardy note. It's not till I'm sliding into my seat that I remember I didn't do any of my homework last night. The seriousness of my situation hits me pretty hard.

Two hours later, I've failed an English test and a Spanish quiz and I'm inhaling my lunch while trying to talk Dobber out of his salad. It's not too hard since he got three extra pieces of garlic bread to go with his spaghetti and meat-ish sauce from his cafeteria aunt. Where does he get all these fairy god-aunts?

Even with the salad, I'm still hungry.

“I figured out a plan,” Dobber says.

“Let's hear it.”

Dobber leans close. I smell garlic and spices and, beneath that, soap. “We blow up that green pond. If it's gone, no more poison, right?”

I polish off the last piece of grated carrot and listen to my stomach growl. “I'm pretty sure that won't work.”

“Why not?”

“One, you don't have any explosives. Two, you don't know anything about blowing stuff up. Three, if you did manage to blow it up, all the water from the pond would flood the valley. Four, poison contained
in the pond
is better than poison flowing in the creeks and rivers. Five—”

“A'ight. Plan B,” he says. “We blow up the diggers.”

“Are you listening?” I ask. “Same first two issues as before. Plus, he'll just buy new diggers.”

“Plan C, we blow up his house.”

“I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.” I eye his tray hungrily. Maybe if I sneezed on Dobber's last piece of garlic bread, he'd let me have it.

“Fine. What's your plan, Einstein?”

“My plan's already underway.” The last piece of toast disappears into Dobber's mouth and I sigh.

“Since when?”

“Since last night, when I filled out a formal complaint to the EPA.”

“'Bout what? Orange water?”

“Nope. About mine employees taking the samples for the water quality test. Peabody shouldn't have had anything to do with those tests. It's a total conflict of interest.” I watch Dobber chew and try to remember what it was like to feel full. I really can't remember. It must be a wonderful feeling. Euphoric, even.

Dobber frowns. “My daddy took them samples.”

“I know. I saw his name on the report.”

“You saying he faked 'em or something?”

“Well … no.” This is dangerous territory. I don't want to piss off Dobber by pointing a finger at his dad, but I can't deny I've been wondering that very thing. “Just that it was inappropriate to have the mine involved at all.”

“Hm. I reckon.” His gray eyes unfocus and stare into the space between us. “That was right around the time he got fired, I think.”

“It'll be a couple weeks before the complaint gets filed. So we just have to wait. Peabody'll think I'm actually leaving him alone, which should keep us all safe.” The bell rings and I gather up my books. “At some point though, they'll send someone out to investigate. If they find Peabody did anything wrong, they'll fine him or better yet—” I turn and stop just short of running into Cole. His eye is still yellowish green and his face is so twisted and angry I completely forget what I was about to say.

He glares at me, then at Dobber. “Y'all just don't know when to stop, do ya?”

My heart pounds as I wonder how much of our conversation he heard. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

His eyes narrow and his mouth presses together in an ugly smile, no dimples, no white teeth. “Don't say I didn't warn y'all.”

Thirty-Seven

I hear her whimper in my sleep, and my exhausted brain tries to work it into my dream.
It's just a puppy
, it says.
Go back to sleep.
But the second cry is louder, more insistent. My eyes pop open, dry and bleary, and I reach for my phone to check the time.

3:47 a.m.

It's the third time tonight. I crawl out of my comforter cocoon and stagger down the hallway toward her room, the bare-bulb night-light guiding my way. I can't sleep in my room anymore. Her sounds—the rattle of her wet breathing, the soft groans as the painkillers wear down—keep me awake. Now I sleep on the couch … when she lets me sleep.

“Jamie?” She's been calling me MFM's name all afternoon. She's also been talking to my granddad and I kinda wonder if she can see him. Like, if he's come for her. Sad as it is, the idea gives me some peace.

“I'm here, Granny.” I kneel next to her bed and feel in the dark for her hand. “What do you need?”

“It hurts.” She tries to swallow, and I can tell her mouth is dry.

I turn on the lamp and check the chart on the nightstand. Thanks to Dr. Lang, morphine has replaced the Vicodin and seems to do a much better job of controlling Granny's pain. It's been about three hours since her last pill. The prescription says she can have one every four hours, but Mrs. Blanchard said, to keep her comfortable, whatever it takes. So I shake out another pill, open one of the bottles of water on her nightstand, and slide in a straw.

“Sit up now.” I lift her shoulders and she winces against the pain. I wedge a pillow behind her and she eases back, wheezing from the effort. “There we go.”

“What is it Jamie?” she asks. “You wanna hear about them starfish again?”

I think of that old magazine clipping, still hanging over my bed. “Not right now, Granny. Open up.” I slide a pill into her mouth.

She takes a sip of water and hands me the bottle. Her fingers are cold against mine. “Some ol' guy was walking on the beach and he come across a big pile of starfish, washed up and dying.” Her chest heaves like she's running a marathon.

“Shh,” I say. “Just rest now.”

“They's a girl there, and she's chucking them starfish back in the water, one at a time.”

I write down the time and the dose of the meds I just gave her, then get another blanket out of the closet and lay it across her as gently as I can. Taking her hand, I sit down on the chair next to the bed.

“Well, that man, he says, ‘Honey, why you even bothering with them starfish? They's a million of 'em in that pile. You can't make no difference there.'”

“Hush now.” Lying in mine, her hand is tiny, half the size it used to be, and I wonder how that happened. How I became the grown-up and she became the child. I stroke her papery skin, hoping the morphine kicks in soon so she can rest.

“But that lil' girl, she takes up another starfish.” Granny's talking to the ceiling, like there's someone up there. I wonder what she can see that I can't. “She throws it way out in the waves. Then she turns to that man and says, ‘It made a difference to that one.'”

Her voice is fading, and I sense the pain is too. It dawns on me that one of these times soon, she's going to fall asleep and not wake up. Tears fill my eyes. I don't bother biting my cheek or counting to three—there are too many waiting to take their place. “Get some rest, Granny.”

I watch as her eyelids fall once, twice. Another minute and she's breathing softly through her open mouth, pain free for the moment. I coat her lips with Vaseline, then creep back to the couch. Heart aching, I snuggle into my blanket, hoping sleep will take me fast.

It doesn't.

Around five, I give up and creep out to the kitchen to make some tea. The dogs are whining, so I open the front door to let them out for their morning bathroom break. Then I check on Granny, who's still asleep thanks to the morphine. Hopefully, she'll sleep late and get some good rest.

I empty a bottle of water into a pot and set it on the stove to boil. Looking through the cabinet for a tea bag, I come across a single battered package of hot chocolate mix. Granny used to make it for me on cold mornings, before we milked the goats. It's probably five years old, but powder doesn't go bad, right? I'm willing to risk it.

As the steam fogs up the window, I stare out at the slowly lightening sky. All the things I ever cared about are getting ripped away from me: Iris, Granny, college.

I can't even imagine the future. Georgetown is a distant memory, as hazy as the trees through the steamy kitchen window. For a list-making planner like me, not being able to dream about the future is like having half your senses cut off. I don't know where I am or where I'm going … or why I'm even trying.

I understand why some people give up. You know … on life.

But the water's boiling and the hot chocolate mix has little marshmallows in it. And that's enough, at least for now.

I curl up on the couch under Granny's throw and watch the sky turn violet then periwinkle. I try to come up with names for every color because it's easier than coming up with a plan for the future. About the time I get to tangerine and coral, Granny calls from her room.

She runs her hand through her bed-head hair. “Did I wake you, sugarplum?”

“No. You want some tea?”

She pushes herself to sitting and pulls the edge of the blanket over her legs. “I believe I would, yes.”

The dogs are scratching at the door, so I let them in on the way to the kitchen. Silkie and Beethoven rush to Granny's room for pets, but Goldie's not back yet. She's almost fourteen, and it's getting harder and harder for her to get up and down the steps. I wonder what's going to happen to her, to all the dogs, when Granny goes.

I don't think I can take pets to foster care.

After making her tea, I head for the shower and get ready for school. I have homework to finish on the bus, since I didn't get everything done last night. I hate the feeling of last-minute homework. It's so not me. I'm always the one who's overly prepared. I like
that
Liberty—pulled together, in control, charging toward a goal. This new Liberty—stressed out, powerless, drifting, hungry. Her I'm not so fond of.

I pull my still-damp hair into a ponytail and walk into the living room for my backpack, stopping by Granny's room to say good-bye.

I kiss her cheek and pull the fleece up around her. “Love you.”

“Love you too. Have a good day.”

Down the steps and into the yard, I'm halfway to the top of the drive before I see something strange. Over by the shed, in the old apple tree. It looks like when Granddad used to hang up the stuffed ghost Granny and I made for Halloween. I walk closer, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing, but it's not a ghost. There's no sheet. No round, Magic Marker eyes. I squint through the morning mist, trying to make it out.

And then I'm sucking air, backing away, wishing I hadn't seen. Because there is something hanging in the tree.

It's Goldie. Poor, sweet, patient old Goldie hanging from a noose.

And now I know what a rope dog is.

I run inside to get something to cut Goldie down with and look twice at the old shotgun Grandaddy used to keep the chicken coop safe. It's hanging on pegs over the doorway, and I'm pretty sure I saw some shells in the junk drawer in the kitchen. Thinking about Goldie, there's a part of me that yearns to take that gun and go after Peabody. Instead, still shaking, I pick up the phone and punch in 911. Then I take the butcher knife outside and cut Goldie down.

Her body's not even cold yet. My hand shakes with rage as I stroke her soft head and rub her ears the way she liked. There are no words for the depth of my hatred for Peabody.

Twenty minutes later, the cops show up, and we have a repeat of the morning the shed burned. Same police officers. Same pathetic attempt at evidence collection. Same faux concern for our well-being.

“Somebody's not happy with you,” Officer Hanford says. “You got a pissed-off ex-boyfriend?”

I roll my eyes at him, but as soon as his back is turned, I'm biting my lip, remembering what Cole said yesterday.

Don't say I didn't warn y'all
.

Could I be wrong? Is Cole warning me to keep my mouth shut?

I tell the cops to leave Goldie here so we can bury her; then I head for the house to tell Granny what happened. Just thinking about that sweet, old dog, the way she'd sit next to you for hours, just waiting for a scratch or a pat, I have to stop and count to five three times before I get to Granny's room.

“I'm so sorry.”

Tears run like rivers down the wrinkles carved in her cheeks. My heart cracks, right down the middle.

“I know you loved her. I did too.” I can't help but feel responsible for everything that's happening. I didn't set the fire or kill Goldie, but whoever did certainly wasn't mad at Granny.

“You didn't do nothing,” she says.

“I know but …” I stand at the end of her bed, my splinted finger tapping the footboard.

She's right. I haven't done anything. I haven't done anything to deserve this.
And
, I think grimly,
I haven't done anything about it. Nothing except bitch and moan and fill out a form.

Granny's fussing with her blankets, barely strong enough to pull them up. She's gotten so weak, but inside, her body is still fighting. That's what I should be doing—fighting Peabody. He's going to start paying for his sins. Somehow. Someway.

“Do I smell bacon?” Granny asks.

I sigh. “No, no bacon.” Goddam Peabody.

“Aw well.”

“Mrs. Philpott will be here in a few minutes.”

“She coming by for a visit?” Granny asks.

“Something like that.”

“Aw'right, Jamie,” she says. “I'll see you later.”

I just head for the car. As much as I hate being called that woman's name, I don't see any sense in correcting Granny. Besides, I have starfish to save.