Buried Seeds Read online

  “I politely agreed to everything Mr. E. suggested. I will send Marla to the library if we are specifically using the word evolution and let her study something else. It’s kind of hard, what with the new state standards. Heredity and Evolution is one of the five core ideas that I’m supposed to teach in biology. In the text, evolution doesn’t come up until Chapter Five, but the new standards mean biology instruction centers more on lab work than text reading. I don’t see how I can send Marla out of the room every time one of our five core principles comes up.”

  “You want me to call Mrs. Harding and tell her off ?”

  I burst out laughing. Dewey has never told anyone off in his life.

  “I just want to curl up in front of the TV tonight and zone out.”

  He jangles car keys at arm’s length. “I know how much you want to, but you can’t. Your mom’s making a special dinner for your birthday.”

  “The only gift I want is to fall asleep over mindless TV shows and a bowl of popcorn.”

  All day long I have been purposefully forgetting the special significance of this day. The half century mark. The big Five-O. It’s all downhill from here. Before long, my boobs will sag to my waist, I’ll be trading bikini underwear for Depends, I’ll be eating prunes and won’t dare to eat a peach. This is cause for celebration?

  “She told me to remind you some woman went through twenty hours of labor fifty years ago today, so no arguments.”

  I laugh at Mom’s little joke. I know when I’m beaten. “Okay, okay. But I’m getting out of these slacks and putting on something comfy. No bra.”

  “Angie, you gotta wear one.”

  “Seriously?” My bra’s elastic band has tightened like a noose, cutting off circulation all the way to my toes.

  “Yeah, trust me. Bind those babies up.”

  I make a face; I hope it’s as ugly as I feel. “All right, but I’m wearing my stretchy jeans.” Ones that accommodate a fifty-year-old waistline comfortably. And a roomy shirt to hide the love handles.

  As soon as I spot all the cars pulled in at odd angles onto the lawn, I know I am in trouble.

  “Dewey, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” I tug my sloppy shirt down over my belly. “How could you let me leave the house looking like this?”

  He has the nerve to grin. “I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable on your birthday.”

  At least he had convinced me to wear a bra. Doggone it! I begged Mom not to make a big fuss. Why hadn’t she listened?

  Might as well get this over with. I throw open the front door. A glittery “Big Five-O” sign is strung from one end of the living room to the other over everyone’s heads. And I do mean everyone in the whole town. Pretty near everyone I know, anyway, and they all are shouting “Surprise!” and “Happy Birthday!” I wander around the room delivering greetings. First, my hugely pregnant daughter accompanied by live-in boyfriend Dakota. Then aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, minister, church organist, and people from school: the whole science department, my buddy Rebecca, and even the principal, Mr. Esposito, for heaven’s sake. Lucky me—I get to see him twice in one day—yay.

  I make my way to the kitchen where Mom is setting out paper plates and plastic silverware. “Mom, how on earth can we afford a party like this?”

  The microwave beeps and she pivots to remove a casserole she’s warmed. “Covered dish. Hardly any expense at all. Don’t you worry none. Just enjoy your day.”

  The dining room table looks ready to buckle under the weight of fried chicken, baked ziti and meatballs, ham, scalloped potatoes, mac and cheese, five beans bake, broccoli rice casserole, loaves of Italian bread, raspberry gelatin salad with pecans and cream cheese, and more sweets than you can shake a stick at. Not to mention the birthday cake I spot on the kitchen counter. It must have taken all the chocolate in Willy Wonka’s factory to bake that monster.

  Mr. Esposito is telling me not to worry about Marla and Mrs. Harding. “It will all work out. I really like that girl. Smart as a whip.”

  “I like her too.”

  Dewey comes up and squeezes my shoulder with one hand. The other reaches surreptitiously for my butt and delivers a pinch. With epic effort, I maintain a neutral expression, as though I am still enthralled by the words tumbling from Mr. E’s mouth. I will get Dew back for this before the night is over, that old devil. The sneaky pinches are an old game between us, one we haven’t played since the first year of our marriage. I suspect he’s had a few beers too many, or he wouldn’t have tried this while I was talking to my boss. I also suspect he’s trying to assure me I’m still the sexy girl he fell in love with, even if I am officially an old lady now.

  People load their plates and laugh and tell family stories I’ve already heard three gazillion times before. In the background, Dean Martin croons, and Poppy waltzes the church organist through the kitchen. He may not remember the organist’s name, but he sure remembers how to dance.

  As the night wears on, I notice Trish, alone on the sofa, legs extended out nearly straight, baby bump facing the ceiling. If she leans back any further, she’ll be lying down. Everything I hate about myself is translated into perfection in my daughter. My big bones became athletic and sturdy on Trish, my long nose shortened just enough to look patrician.

  Dakota seems oblivious to my daughter’s discomfort, an indication, perhaps, that Trish is correct in her assessment that he may not be husband material. She seems quite sure she is capable of caring for a baby on her own. At twenty-eight, she doesn’t want to delay motherhood any longer. Handsome, sturdily built and intelligent enough to earn a business degree from WVU in four years, Dakota is a suitable sperm donor. As for marriage, Trish is reserving judgment until she sees how Dakota handles fatherhood. When I was young, so-called shotgun weddings were the expected conclusion of premarital pregnancies. I admire the self assurance of young women who would rather go it alone than hitch up to a man resembling a horse’s behind. They maintain control over their own lives and avoid the pain of divorce. It’s not a choice I could have made, but times have changed, and Trish is her own person.

  I join the little group Dakota is entertaining with a tale of the seven-point buck he’d bagged last winter. “Hey, you’d best carry Trish on home. Her ankles look swollen. She needs to get those feet up.”

  “Yeah, sure, in a minute.” Dakota jumps back into his story.

  Call me a cynic, but I harbor doubts about the length of the delay. In the kitchen I fix several containers of leftovers for Trish. I carry them to the living room and shove them into Dakota’s hands. A blatant ploy to move the Official Sperm Donor toward the door.

  Dewey, bless his heart, pulls Trish to her feet and booms out in a friendly way, “Time for our mommy-to-be to scoot on home.”

  That sparks Dakota’s dash for the exit, Trish waddling out behind him. A bevy of other guests follow. In their wake, every conceivable surface is littered with wadded up napkins, empty soft drink and beer cans, and half-empty glasses of tea sweating condensation rings onto Mom’s furniture. I scoop these up first before they cause damage.

  Near the front door, Dewey is thanking our minister for coming. On pretense of reaching for a paper plate beneath a folding chair, I stoop behind Dewey and land a strong pinch on his backside. He shifts his weight to the opposite foot, and I stifle a giggle. Gotcha, mister!

  As the crowd thins, Rebecca helps me clean the kitchen and load a few last take-home plates. She massages one hand over the small of her back. A troubled expression flashes across her face.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, and then fingers a couple of hair spikes to assure herself they still spring out, porcupine-style. “Nothing. Just a little back pain again. Probably hurt it hefting desks around.” Sniff ing out an ally, she launches phase two of her campaign. “Helen, wouldn’t Angie make the best AFT vice-president ever?”

  I shoot Rebecca a Not Fair look and continue to scoop potato salad into a plastic container. I snap on th
e lid. All my life I have shunned leadership roles, the guts and glory garbage the exclusive domain of MacKenzie, Miss President of Everything. “I prefer to stay behind the scenes.”

  “You should do it, honey,” Mom says, as if I couldn’t see that response coming. “I know you have good ideas about what our schools need. You’ve shared them with us for years.”

  Different. Private. Just venting. If my complaining became public, I’d be out of a job.

  Rebecca rinses out an empty casserole dish in the sink. “See? Everyone thinks you’d do a great job.”

  Everyone—defined as my best friend and my mom. Other teachers have more charisma, are more extroverted. “A younger teacher would be better. I plan to retire in a few years.”

  My mother huffs. “Experience counts. Give Rebecca some of that ham. We’ll never eat all this stuff .”

  Dutifully, I lay half a dozen slabs on a paper plate and Mom covers it with plastic wrap.

  Rebecca cradles the leftovers in her arms. “No more—goodness, I won’t have to cook for a week as it is.” At the door she lingers, pressing the issue. “Your mom’s right. Experience matters. Say you’ll do it.”

  “Don’t think so, but thanks for asking.” I’ve been hearing the “s” word bandied about. Not that one, the really bad one. Strike. Trouble is brewing all across the state.

  Mom walks with us to the front door. “Don’t you worry, Rebecca, I’ll work on her. Like I always tell her, she can do anything she sets her mind to.”

  “I am selective when it comes to my mind’s agenda.”

  Rebecca and Mom exchange a look that reeks of conspiracy, so I close the front door between them, cutting off any further attack, but they have planted a whisper in my mind: Maybe it’s time to venture outside my comfort zone, get out from behind my desk; maybe it’s not enough to let other people do the work for AFT. I am thinking of something Martin Luther King said: “There comes a point when silence is betrayal.” I suspect we teachers are at that point.

  I kiss Mom’s cheek and suggest it’s time for me and Dewey to head out too. “Where is that husband of mine?”

  “He offered to get Hambone ready for bed. The crowd tired him out.”

  Poor Poppy. I can only imagine how confused he must have been trying to figure out who all these people were.

  I turn toward the hallway to retrieve Dewey, but Mom stops me.

  “I have a present for you.”

  “Oh, no, Mom. You’ve done more than enough already. No presents. I don’t need a thing.” Except new tennis shoes, and they aren’t something anyone else can buy. Though I’d worn the same size of shoes since my freshman year of high school, my feet started growing again two years ago. If it kept up much longer, I’d resemble Big Foot. So bizarre, the changes happening to my body.

  Mom disappears into my childhood bedroom, which she has been using as a craft and hobby workshop. She emerges with a scrapbook so bulky I marvel that she can hold it with those arthritic hands. I follow her to the sofa. On the cover, gold embossed letters—the kind with sticky backs—spell out “Angela Marie Adams Fisher” in a slightly crooked line.

  “This is your story, Angie, and the story of your family.”

  “Oh, Mom, what a special gift.”

  I leaf through the first pages of baby photos, me and MacKenzie in matching outfits Mom had sewn. Next is a receipt from one of those genetic testing companies—she has ordered a testing kit for me. The science behind these tests isn’t strong, but I don’t have the heart to tell her. I turn another page and notice bold tabs divide the contents into “Forever Family” and “Birth Family.”

  Lips pressed together, I close the book and when I can finally speak, my voice cracks. “You didn’t.”

  “You say you don’t care about your birth family, but like it or not, they are part of who you are. There are some very strong women, important women, in your family tree.”

  “Sorry, but strong women don’t give their children away. My family is the people who raised me.”

  “Always and forever. But it’s time you learn the rest of your story.”

  She means well, I know she does. I fan through the pages—typed pages full of words, news clippings, photos. I can only imagine how many hours it took to assemble.

  “Thanks, Mom. This is really special.” I lean over and kiss her cheek.

  “I have another little something for you. It’s over there on the bookshelf—see that brown ceramic thing-a-ma-jiggy? Bring it here.”

  She is motioning toward a vase about as tall as a wine bottle, a bit wider, curvier, burnished walnut with amber shading around the raised artwork. Once seated again, I trace my fingers over the design. A swath of maple leaves. And on the other side, a pair of seed pods—samaras. “MacKenzie and I called these helicopters when we were kids.”

  Mom grabs her reading glasses and leans closer to inspect the vase. “I thought those were angel wings.”

  “Nope, seed pods. Mac and I would toss them up and watch them spin through the air.”

  She removes her glasses, studying me with the same intensity she had directed toward the vase. “You two had plenty of good times growing up. You were like two peas in a pod.”

  I know Mom is wondering what happened. Hard to pin down to any one thing, but Mac’s and my paths diverged in junior high. Mom wanted me to join this teen group at the country club. Junior Debs. Ladies offered instruction on proper manners and organized dances for the kids. I knew I’d be one of those girls the boys groaned over if they got stuck with me as their date, so I refused to join. Instead, I stayed in 4-H and Girl Scouts. When Mac entered seventh grade, she relished the opportunity to wear frilly dresses on these pre-arranged dance dates. Mom was delighted that at least one of her girls was popular. The boys, unnaturally stiff in Sunday suits and ties, were motored to our door by their mothers. Their fumbling attempts to pin pastel corsages on my sister’s shoulder were painful to watch. They were as uneasy as I would have been in their shoes. Later, though, in the school hallways, I’d overhear their bragging if they got to escort my sister to a dance. She was easily the prettiest girl in our school. And she read every issue of popular teen magazines cover to cover. She knew what to say to awkward boys to put them at ease. My inept attempts to joke with them between classes only made them feel more gauche. By the time Mac and I entered high school, open sarcasm characterized our relationship. I made snide remarks about her obsession with teen magazines. She poked fun at my perfect report card. Who wants to be valedictorian? she said. I’d rather be Prom Queen.

  We both attained our goals, but we lost each other.

  Uneasy with Mom’s scrutiny, I turn my attention back to the vase. “This is really beautiful. I like the subdued coloring and raised design.”

  “One of your ancestors was a rather famous potter back in the early 1900s. The design is hers.”

  “Seriously?” I am curious now. “How did you ever find this?”

  “Miss College-Educated, you aren’t the only one in the family who knows how to do research.” Mom smiles, cat-like, so smug I can almost see the canary feathers protruding from her mouth.

  I run my finger around the rim, not chipped—amazing, considering its age. “I’ll treasure it—always.”

  “When I die—”

  A chill slides down my spine. “You’re not going to die, at least not any time soon.” I examine her more closely, so thin, flesh hanging loose from fragile bones, muscle and fat nonexistent. Does she have cancer again—or is this what eighty-two looks like? “Have you been drinking those nutrition boosters I bought you?”

  She ignores the interruption. “When I die, you must be the glue that holds our family together.”

  “What about MacKenzie?”

  “Can you imagine her on her own?” She answers her own question. “No, she married a rich man to take care of her. She’s not as strong as you are, and someday she’s gonna need you to lean on.”

  I remember my intuition that Mac’s marr
iage was in trouble. Had Mom sensed something wrong as well?

  Mom’s eyes rise to the wall beside the mantel where photos of me and my sister at different ages have hung as long as I can remember. All those matching outfits—until junior high school when I insisted on store-bought jeans and casual tops.

  “Why do you think your sister is so competitive?”

  “It’s MacKenzie’s nature, has to be the best.”

  “She has always tried to measure up to you, Angie.”

  As if! “Don’t be silly. MacKenzie is Miss Perfect. Miss President-of-Everything.”

  “She could never best you at school, so she tried to win in other ways. You were the smart one. You got a college degree, a career. You will be this family’s backbone when I’m gone. You come from strong women. You’re going to need to draw on that strength sooner than you think.”

  I touch the cover of the book, the first one I’ve ever been half afraid of. After all my years of purposeful forgetting, Mom insists on dragging out my birth mother’s sins. Behind the cover of this book lies the whole truth of who I am. I am the child whose mother gave her away. I am the child who caused the accident.

  My mother shakes her head. “You didn’t cause the accident.”

  Did I say it out loud? Must have. “Yes, I did. I should have given Mac my doll.”

  “Sweetheart, you didn’t cause the accident. Your father was driving under the influence. I loved him dearly, but he couldn’t leave the drugs alone after he came back from Vietnam. He stayed stoned most of the time.”

  My mind reels as if I am the one under the influence of mind-altering drugs. “How could I have known? You never talked about it.”

  “I had no idea how to explain your father’s demons to five year olds. He was a good father in many ways, always willing to read to you, to tuck you in at night. I always thought you married Dewey because he reminded you of him.”