Page 13 of Stay Buried

Margaret is my mother’s first cousin. They’d spent their early childhood together in Boone’s Ferry, but Margaret had been sent tolive with another aunt in Boston after her mother died young. Our family, I’ve often thought, has had more than its share of dead mothers.

It was in Boston that Aunt Margaret met and married Thomas, a successful young doctor working at Boston City Hospital. But Margaret was homesick, and spun wonderful tales of the bucolic life in Boone’s Ferry, where she’d assured Thomas that they desperately needed a doctor—a real doctor, not just a midwife with her folk remedies. It wasn’t long before they left Boston behind.

I am lucky to be not only welcome in their home, but genuinely loved and nurtured. Yes, my aunt still calls me Frances now and then, and will occasionally suggest that I might try to grow my hair out, or wear some slightly more feminine attire, but she is gentle about it, never cruel. My uncle doesn’t treat me like a girl or a lady, but like a son. Uncle Thomas passes down all his clothing to me, even things that are nearly new that he claims don’t fit him right and would look better on me, shares all his knowledge and the books from his massive library, drinks brandy and smokes a pipe with me each evening as we rehash the day. There has never been any talk, no suggestion even, of me marrying and moving out as all the other girls my age are expected to do. My uncle has told me, on several occasions, that he relies on me, and that I am more than welcome to stay with them as long as I like. “One day, if you continue to work with me, study with me, I believe you’ll be a finer physician than I am. You won’t have the title, of course, but what’s a piece of paper compared with knowledge and ability?”

I begin each day by tidying the examination room, then I write out the scheduled rounds in Thomas’s diary, and gather the tools and medicines we might need into the worn leather medical bag. If I wake too early, which I often do—I, like Margaret, am a fitful sleeper—I pass the time reading medical texts, studying. Then at seven, I make my way into the kitchen to help Aunt Margaret with breakfast. I believe in earning my keep.

“I’ll tell you, Frances,” Margaret said now, lowering her voice,twisting the cameo ring again. “Your uncle seems… uneasy. He wouldn’t say much about what he’d seen at the St. James farm this morning—only that the horses were sick and very quickly died. For each word he spoke, I could see there were a thousand he was holding back. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him quite like this. Not even last fall when the flu was at its worst. I remember how exhausted, howhauntedyou both looked then. Even now, when you talk about it, you still get that look in your eyes.”

The influenza outbreak hung like a terrible specter over the town. We were only just now starting to believe we were truly over it. Every time a person sneezed or came down with a fever, there was that fear that it might be starting all over again. But our last case had been at the end of December.

“Seeing Thomas today… it just felt different. He looked deeply troubled, but also…” My aunt trailed off.

“Frightened,” I finished.

Aunt Margaret didn’t answer, just nodded, placed her pie crust into the pan, then ran her flour-covered fingers over her belly once more and kept them there, as if to protect the child inside.

SIXASHLEY

September 23, 2016

Ashley remembered the horrifying version of her mother who’d visited her in the days and weeks after her death: face bloody, curly dark hair in tangles as she followed Ashley around, sitting on the edge of Ash’s bed when she awoke in the middle of the night. And when she opened her mouth, it was like an empty cave—the smell of moist earth and rock, ruined things; her voice was an echo from far away.

“No,” Ashley told her brother now, blinking the memory away. “It’s been almost two years since I’ve had any hallucinations. Not since leaving the hospital.” The medications, the therapy, they had fixed her.

Hadn’t they?

Malcolm took a long swig of beer. “It’s just… I worry about you, Ash.”

“You don’t need to worry, I promise, Mal. I’m fine.” She offered an exaggerated smile as proof.

“You’re still taking your meds?”

Ashley gritted her teeth. “Of course,” she said. But the truth was,she’d stopped taking the meds months ago, weaning herself off without telling anyone, not even Eileen, the kindly white-haired therapist she now saw once a month.

“Did you know Mom was taking antidepressants?” Mal asked.

“What? No. Where did you get that from?”

Her brother nodded. “She told me. The doctor put her on them about three months before her suicide.”

“But why didn’t she tell me?”

“I guess she didn’t want to worry you. You were so busy with school, had enough stressing you. She didn’t want to add to it.”

“But she toldyou?” Ash was incredulous. “That’s—”

Above them there was another scraping sound, followed by a loud thumping crash. The ceiling shook, and flecks of loose plaster drifted down.

Ashley was up on her feet, racing across the kitchen, down the hall, up the carpeted steps, Malcolm right behind her.

“Gram?” she called as she ran.

No response.

She smelled smoke in the upstairs hallway, the scent catching in the back of her throat. “Something’s on fire, Mal!” she called back to her brother. She knocked sharply on her grandmother’s bedroom door. Again, no response. She kept her hand against the door, feeling for heat, but the door was cool. “I’m coming in, Gram,” she yelled, turning the knob to find it locked. “Shit!” She continued pounding at the door, calling Gram’s name, but the room stayed silent, smoke drifting in wisps from under the bedroom door. She turned to her brother, her expression helpless and frantic. “What do we do?”

Malcolm threw himself against the door, but it didn’t budge.