The Most Important Things

Something just feels wrong about getting buried in the winter. The cold, hard ground seems unwilling to accept you. Wait until spring, it says. You’ll be more comfortable.

I hoped Grace would be warm enough. Momma and I had swaddled her snugly, where nothing could be seen but her little, round baby face. The pastor assured us that Grace was now in heaven, safe and warm, but momma wasn’t convinced. She wouldn’t let Grace be buried until she was properly bundled for the cold. That seems to be a mother’s primary purpose – to keep her babies warm. That, and to keep her babies safe. And since momma couldn’t keep Grace safe, she was determined to keep her warm.

When the pastor was done speaking, my father grabbed our arms and pulled us to the car – momma was crying and lurching back to the gravesite, but all my feelings were numb.

As we left the cemetery gates, I saw Grace’s crib blanket on the car floorboard. It was soft yellow with lots of lacey holes and delicate fringe on the edges. Mine is pink with the same holes and fringe, but momma says mine is a little “worse for the wear.” Grace’s blanket wasn’t thick enough to keep her warm, but she slept with it in her little hand each night. She needed it.

As I looked at the blanket, everything that had been frozen in me broke off in one jagged piece.

“Momma!” I yelled. “Grace’s blanket! We forgot to give Grace her blanket!”

I clawed at the door to get out.

“Claire!” momma yelled from the front seat. “Joe, stop! She’s going to fall out! Stop!”

The hand came out of nowhere. He jerked me up in between the front seats and hit me so hard stars jumped around in my eyes.

“Joe! No! Stop!” momma pleaded.

“She tries that again, I’ll throw her out myself! She’s no damn good anyway,” he mumbled as he flung me into the backseat.

I went back to numb. Momma cried quiet tears the rest of the way home.

*****

I buried my head under my pillow. I knew he was hitting her. I could tell from the sound and from the not-sound in between. Then there was quiet. A lot of quiet. My shaking stopped, but my mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow. I tiptoed to the kitchen. As I reached for the faucet, their bedroom door slammed. I turned, pressing my spine against the cold porcelain sink. I wished I could disappear in there. Just go down the drain and disappear.

His eyes were hard when they saw me. “I’m going out,” he said matter-of-factly. Then, hollering at the closed bedroom door, “Pull yourdamnself together before I get home! And get some dinner on the table!”

He turned and looked at me, all steel and anger. “Clean this place up. Your mother has crap everywhere.”

I knew I was expected to respond, but my throat was shut tight.

He moved in closer. “Did you hear me, girl?!” He picked up a glass from the kitchen table and shook it in my face. “No one in this place gives me any damned respect!”

He flung the glass against the bedroom door. It shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces. I would pretend they were diamonds or an icy field full of polar bears when I cleaned them up later.

“The next child in this house is going to be a boy! Do you hear me, Fran?! A boy!”

He turned back to me; his eyes looked like they were on fire. In slow, careful words he growled, “Clean.This.Place.Up.”

I tried to make my voice work, but it was frozen, so I made my head nod, which was enough to get him to leave. I was still standing against the sink when momma came into the kitchen. I had stopped shaking, but my legs weren’t working yet. Momma’s eyes were red, and there was a new bruise forming on her cheek. She had a suitcase in one hand and a small duffle in the other, which she handed to me.

“Go get your things. Only the most important things.”

Her voice was gravelly and wet. I didn’t move. She lowered herself to the floor so her eyes were level with mine. She touched my hand softly and spoke in a way that made my stomach flipflop.

“Claire. You need to go quickly. We don’t have a lot of time. Get your things. Your most important things.”

My legs still wouldn’t work. Momma rose to her feet and gently drew me away from the sink. My legs wobbled, but they moved into the bedroom. My heartbeat rose into my throat, and I suddenly felt wild and scared. My eyes scanned frantically around the room. The most important things. Not a lot of time.

I shoved items into the bag. A locket. A blanket. Some books. Stuffed animals. Everything and nothing.

Only a few minutes later, momma’s voice returned to the doorway, “Claire, we need to go.” Her eyes were worried, but her hand was steady when she held it out to me. “Let’s go.”

Walking through the kitchen, I noticed the shards of glass still scattered on the floor. He would not be happy to see that mess when he got home. My stomach lurched at bad memories. As we approached the front door, I heard gravel crunch in the driveway. My hand clenched around hers – we were so close this time. She squeezed back reassuringly. “It’s okay,” she said as we continued to walk.

From the front porch, I could see a woman in an old blue car. I recognized her. It was Mrs. Yunker from the library. I liked her. She had a kind voice and smelled like cinnamon apples. Momma and I go to the library a lot. She says books are a great way to escape. I think I know what she means.

Mrs. Yunker smiled at me when I got in the car, and she gave me some banana bread and a little carton of milk. After I gulped the milk, my throat loosened up, and I was able to eat the warm bread. It was the best thing I ever tasted.

Momma sat with me, low in the backseat. We didn’t talk, but Mrs. Yunker seemed to know where she was going anyway. I leaned my head on momma’s shoulder, and she wrapped her arm around me as I fell asleep. I must have slept for a long time because, when I woke up, the stars were bright in a deep, dark sky. I don’t think momma slept because she still looked tired.

I got to eat more banana bread, but I was told to take it easy on the milk. Momma didn’t want to stop until we absolutely had to. It was okay. I didn’t want to stop. The humming sound of the tires on the road made my eyes grow heavy, so I reached for my bag to pull out the blanket. Momma’s eyes grew wide, and she took my bag.

“Oh, Claire,” she whispered, tears forming in her eyes as she looked through the small duffle. “Where are your things?”

A locket. A blanket. Some books. Stuffed animals. Everything and nothing. The most important things. Grace’s things.