Dig Too Deep (17 page)

Thirty-Four

I sit next to Granny's bed on the chair I dragged in from the dining room. It's seven o'clock. She's sleeping now, but the last three hours have been hell. My body aches. My heart aches. Something deeper that I think might be my soul aches.

Dobber helped me bring Granny into the house and then left, saying he had something he had to do. Alone, I attempted to get her into a hot bath and then some dry clothes. Attempted being the key word.

She yelled at me the whole time. “Get outta my house!”

“Granny, it's me! Liberty!”

“I'ma call the po-lice!”

I wrestled her onto the bed and tried to pull off her wet T-shirt. “Stop that!” she screamed. “What're you doing?” Her cough started up again, and I struggled to pull off the sticking shirt while she hacked up copious amounts of lung guck and continued to scream.

“Granny, look at me! You have to get out of these wet clothes. You're freezing!”

“I don't know you!” she yelled. “Get outta my house.”

I couldn't bear it. Finally, I just wrapped her in a robe and told her I would leave if she got under the covers. So, wet clothes, muddy shoes, and all, she climbed into bed. All I can do is hope that when she wakes up, she'll know who I am.

Staring at her dirty face, I call myself every horrible thing I can think of. How could I have left her? She needed me. Truly needed me.
And I left her
. I'm just like MFM.

I stare at the ceiling. “God, if you're up there, please let Granny wake up knowing me. I won't leave her alone again. I'll drop the whole thing with the mine and forget about Peabody. I'll quit school. Whatever it takes, I swear. Just please, please let her recognize me.”

After ten minutes of promising God I'll take better care of Granny, there's a knock at the door. I assume it's Dobber, but when I look through the peephole, I see a woman.

I flip on the porch light and open the door.

“Can I help you?”

The woman is in her fifties, with short hair that's purplish brown. Her eyes are gray, just like Dobber's. “Quentin says you need a day nurse.”

“I … yeah.”

I step back as she pushes her way in. She closes the door behind her and takes a hard look around the room. “Kat got Medicaid?”

“Yes.” She looks enough like Dobber that I think they must be related.

“You'll be the night nurse?” she asks after peering into the kitchen.

I nod, half-afraid if I open my mouth I'll scare her away. Though … she doesn't look easily scare-able.

Her inspection seems to be over, and she stands in front of me, half a head shorter but somehow still imposing. “I bill Medicaid directly.”

I chance a question. “So you're related to Dobber?”

“He's my nephew.”

We stare at each other a bit longer. I get the impression she'd rather not be here, that maybe she's heard about me and the mine. But she
is
here, which is more than I can say for the other two nurses I've called. Dobber must have really twisted her arm to get her to agree to this.

“Thank you.” The words come out just like I want them to. Deeply grateful and maybe a little humble.

Her no-nonsense eyes soften a little. “I'll be back in the mornin.' About eight. I'll stay till three.”

I think arriving at seven would be better, but she doesn't really invite any difference of opinion. “That's great. The hospice nurse, Mrs. Blanchard, comes on Wednesdays.”

“I know Poppy Blanchard,” she says. “I'll check in with her tomorrow.”

She turns for the door, her giant pink purse bumping on her hip.

“Oh wait,” I say. “I don't know your name.”

“Trudy Philpott.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Philpott.”

Then she's gone and I'm alone with Granny. A muddy Granny who may or may not know me from Johnny Cash. Listening to Mrs. Philpott's car start up outside, I think she's not the sort of nurse who would put a patient in bed with muddy shoes. I need to fix that before she comes back tomorrow.

I run a warm bath, complete with bubbles, then go in to get Granny. She's still sleeping, so I take advantage of the situation and get her shoes and pants off before I wake her up.

She groans and pulls her legs up when the cold air hits them. Her skin is white like a fish's belly and crepey. It doesn't exactly surprise me that she's not wearing underwear. I do the laundry, and I know she only has three pairs. But it's upsetting. My grandmother naked is not something I've ever seen. I'm not sure how to deal with this. It all feels wrong.

Covering her legs with the blanket, I shake her awake.

“Granny?”

Her eyes open, blurry with sleep, struggling to focus on something. They land on my face and I hope, hope like a dying wish, that she recognizes me.

“Liberty, darlin'. I got a terrible thirst.”

My body relaxes, like at the end of a marathon, relieved to be known. I hand her a bottle of water from the nightstand, and she chugs the whole thing.

“You need to take a bath,” I say. “You think you can manage?”

“I believe so.”

But it's clear by the way she can't even fight her way out of the blankets that there's no way she'll get down the hall and into the tub alone.

“I'll help you.” With my arm around her, I lift her to her feet.

“How come I got no britches on?”

“They were muddy.”

“Muddy?” She tugs on the bottom of her T-shirt, trying to make it cover everything.

“You went for a walk to the springhouse.” We have a little scrum at the door, both of us trying to get through at the same time.

“You're joshing me,” she says. “I ain't been to the springhouse in ages.”

At the bathroom door, I turn sideways so we can fit through together. “Hold on to the sink and I'll help you get your shirt off.”

“I can take a bath by my own damn self,” she says.

God, how I want that to be true. I want to close the door and go into the living room and work on my homework, happily oblivious to whatever cleansing rituals are going on in here. But she can't manage this by herself. Not anymore.

“Get in the tub,” I say. She seems happy enough to sit down in the coverage of the bubbles, but when I try to take off her T-shirt, she hits the roof.

“Cut that out, dammit! I don't want you seeing me naked. You try that again and I'll rip your arms off and beat you with them.”

“Trust me, I don't want to see you naked, you cranky old bat.”

“Then get outta here.”

I take a deep breath, lower my voice. “You can take a bath by yourself,” I say. “I just want to help you get your T-shirt off.”

“I told you, I can do it myself.” She pulls at the hem of her shirt, now soaked from the bath water. After a few weak tugs, she looks up at me, half–rabid dog, half–wounded puppy. “This how it's gonna be, then?”

I bite my cheek. Count to three. “This is how it's gonna be.”

She sets her jaw, raises her arms over her head, and waits. I lean over her and pull the T-shirt off, keeping my eyes on the soap dish, the shampoo bottle, my pink razor, anything but her. “Call me when you're ready to get out.”

“I'll do no such thing.”

“Fine. I'll just check back every thirty seconds.”

“Goddamit! Aw'right! Just get out.”

“Make sure you get behind your ears,” I say.

She mumbles something I can't make out completely, but I'm pretty sure it ended in “bitch.” I leave her to her bath and go start a load of laundry. I doubt Mrs. Philpott tolerates muddy sheets either.

Thirty-Five

Granny's still sleeping when I leave for school the next morning. She wasn't happy when I told her about the nurse, claiming she was just “fine and dandy on my owns.” But she settled to the idea a little when she found out it was Mrs. Philpott. I guess they know each other from church, though I don't remember ever seeing her there. In any case, I feel better leaving her knowing she won't be alone.

Last night, trying to fall asleep, I thought of a bunch of things I should have told Mrs. Philpott—important things (like how much medicine Granny can have and that the cancer seems to have spread to her brain) and unimportant things (like what shows she watches and how she likes her ramen with a little bit of the uncooked noodles crumbled on top like croutons.) So I got up and wrote Mrs. Philpott a note. Which turned into a three-page letter that took until 2:00 a.m. to finish.

I am exhausted.

I barely remember the drive to school, except to note that I'm nearly out of gas. I'll have to put some in tomorrow if I can find some money, or ride the bus the rest of the week, which I can't do, because Mrs. Philpott leaves at three o'clock, and the bus doesn't get me home until after four.

As I pull into the parking lot, I see Cole standing with a bunch of guys from the baseball team. We've done a pretty good job of avoiding each other. It must be a lot harder on Dobber. They were friends with all the same people, and it seems like Cole got them all in the divorce.

Still, Dobber hasn't complained. He sits with me at lunch. We talk about the mine and what we can do to get it shut down. At least, that's what we used to do.

“Forget it,” I say as I shovel iceberg lettuce with a pound of faux bacon bits into my mouth. “I have to take care of Granny.”

“You are,” he says.

“Not very well.” In my mind, I see her shivering in the muddy gloom of the springhouse.

“You're doing fine,” Dobber says. “We just gotta come up with a way to get that mine shut.”

“Why? So Peabody can burn some more of our farm? Keep your dad from getting a job? Keep
you
from getting a job?” I scrape around in my ranch dressing, looking for more cheese. “It's not worth it. Granny needs to be my number-one priority.”

“Ain't she?” he asks. “Ain't that why you're doing this?”

“Getting the mine closed won't make a single bit of difference to Granny.”

Dobber tilts his head to one side. “A difference?”

“Yes, Dobber. A difference. That's the point, isn't it?” I instantly regret snapping at him. “Sorry.”

He nods at me for like an eon, then says, “Come with me after school. I got something to show you.”

“I can't. I need to get home—”

“I'll get Aunt Trudy to stay with your granny a little longer today,” he says. “There's something you need to see.”

“Why?”

Dobber frowns and says, “Trust me.”

I think of how many times Cole said that and the answer was always no. But with Dobber, it's different. “Fine, but if I run out of gas, you have to tow my car back to Granny's.”

After school, I follow Dobber to his house, my eyes on the gas gauge as much as they're on the road. We pull up in front, and I realize I haven't been here since that time I talked to his dad. I hope Mr. Dobber's not here right now. I can't imagine he'd be too pleased to see me again, the uppity white girl.

Dobber opens the door for me and we go inside. He heads straight for the back of the trailer, where his dad's “workshop” is.

“Wait,” I say. “Where are we going?”

“Back here,” he says. “C'mon.”

I hesitate.

“It's a'ight. Really.”

I follow him, my heart speeding up with each step. What's he trying to show me?

At the end of the hall, Dobber pushes open a door and steps into a dark room. Someone inside groans.

“Daddy, y'okay?”

I hover at the doorway, feeling a little sick with dread. I don't think I want to see whatever's inside. Dobber flips on a light. My eyes go wide and I take two steps back.

There's a mattress on the floor, half-dressed in dirty sheets. A towel has been stapled over the only window. Overflowing ashtrays sit everywhere, and in the middle of it all is Dobber's dad, literally writhing on the bed.

He's wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, tossing and turning. His ankle bracelet's rubbed the skin off his leg and his arms are covered in scabs, some oozing, some still bleeding. When he looks up at Dobber, his eyes are so bloodshot, I wonder if everything he sees is red.

Dobber kneels down next to him. “Hey, Daddy.”

“Mm.”

“How'd today go?”

“Weren't no day at the park,” Mr. Dobber croaks.

I'm wondering why in the name of God Dobber wanted me to see this. Is it supposed to be some kind of incentive—stop Peabody before this happens to me?

“You need anything?” Dobber's voice is low and gentle.

“Naw, just shut that light.”

“A'ight.”

Dobber creeps out of the room, turning off the light before he closes the door. He says nothing as he passes me and walks into the kitchen. I follow him, waiting for some kind of explanation as to why I needed to see this.

He leans against the sink, crosses his arms, and stares at me. “You know what that was?”

“No idea.”

Dobber smiles—not like his usual “charm the pants off you” smile. Something different. Something more like … I don't know … pride? “That's my dad getting clean.”

My eyes go wide and flit back toward the door. “Oh.” That's what getting clean looks like? “Wow. He looks …” I want to say he looks great, but the truth is anything but.

“Terrible, I know,” Dobber says. “He can't eat. Got body cramps. Migraines. He sees things that ain't there, like spiders crawling all over him.”

That explains all the scratches.

“The first day was the worst. I had to strap him down. But he ain't had no drugs or alcohol in four days.”

“Dobber … that's … wow.” It never occurred to me there was enough human left inside Mr. Dobber to remember what sober was like, much less attempt it.

“That there's your difference.”

“My what?”

“Your difference.” This isn't typical Dobber, the class clown Dobber. This is a Dobber I didn't know existed, serious and intense. In some ways, he reminds me of his dad … but in a better way. “You said taking on Peabody couldn't make no difference. But you already did.”

“Look, if something I said made your dad want to get clean, that's awesome. But that doesn't mean anything else would change. That stupid mine is too woven into this town.” The comparison strikes me out of the blue, grimly apropos. “Like a network of tiny tumors scattered all over somebody's lungs.”

He starts to reach for me, then drops his hand. “Look, Liberty. I'm sorry about your granny. I like her a lot, but …” He winces like whatever he's about to say hurts him to think. “I'm sorry, but what can you do about her cancer?”

“Nothing,” I say. “The doctor said there's nothing—”

“Exactly!” He grabs me by the shoulders and bends down, staring into my eyes. “There ain't
nothing
you can do about the
cancer
.”

I'm struggling to find the revelation he's clearly expecting me to have.

“So? Is'at what you're gonna do?” he asks. “
Nothing?
”

The way he says it, the word is loaded, the antithesis of nothing. It's all bad things—death, decay, torture—boiled together in a poisonous orange stew. And it makes sense, the analogy, because Peabody's brought all those things to this valley.

“You gonna sit back and do nothing?” he asks.

I want to explain again that taking care of Granny isn't nothing, that she's my first priority and fighting the mine isn't going to help her. But my blood is pulsing against my eardrums, screaming for action. My gut yearns for some kind of justice. My brain leaps at the possibility of bringing down Peabody. And the voice that speaks in the deepest part of my soul, that cannot be quieted, is telling me what I'm capable of. And, more importantly, what I'm not.

“No,” I admit quietly. “I can't do
nothing
.”