have to chop through each end. And when that was finished, she would have to go back to digging into the soil that she also hated and that hated her back.
Her eyes were adjusted to the dark, but it was even darker in the hole, so she went into the house to turn on the kitchen light, which shone into the backyard. Inside, the smell of her mother’s death embraced her. There was a flashlight in a drawer, which she carried outside and set on the edge of the grave.
The light from the kitchen and the flashlight projected her shadow onto the neighbor’s garage, giant and cartoonish. She imagined Teddy laughing at her. But then she wondered when anybody would ever laugh again. She was ashamed even thinking it was funny. And then she felt rebellious and dark and wicked, and that gave her energy to chop until one end of the root broke free.
She lay in the grass for a while, filthy and covered in sweat. Everything about her life that had been so wonderful was strange and awful. At least I’m alive, she thought. But Kendall is dead. Mom is dead. Dad is probably dead. And life just keeps going on as if our existence means nothing at all. The only thing that matters is digging this hole to put my mother in. She stared at the little playhouse that Henry had built for her when she was three years old. So many hours she had played in there. So long ago. So unknowing.
It was stupid to think she was ever perfect. She was tall, the tallest girl in her class, taller than most of the boys. Doomed to be a giant. One time she had asked Henry why she was so tall. He was short, and Jill was average. Helen was taller than either of them when she was eleven years old. “You get your height from my side of the family,” Henry said. Helen had never really considered Henry’s side of the family. He had no pictures, except of his grandparents, and he never spoke of his actual parents.
“But you’re not tall,” Helen said.
“My genes are tall,” Henry said. “It was the disease that made me short. I don’t really remember how tall my parents were, but people remarked that my mother was almost six feet. My father was several inches taller than that. So you shouldn’t be surprised that you have the wonderful advantage of being visible for all to see.”
“Was your mother beautiful?” Helen asked.
“I think so. My grandmother had pictures of her as a child. She was certainly attractive. The only photo I ever saw of her as an adult her face was shadowed by a kind of sombrero, so I couldn’t really see. My dad was striking. He had strong features, and red hair like you. Anyway, there’s no gene for beauty. It’s not like height.”
“It’s so sad that they had to die.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Was it like an airplane crash or something like that?”
“Something like that.”
Secrets. Henry had walked out of the room. Now she would never know.
She chopped. She dug. The sky began to lighten. She chopped. She dug. She wept.
Henry didn’t believe in God, but Helen did, her secret rebellion. God was her real father, perfect, caring, present. But that was before. Not anymore. The fact that the sunrise was still beautiful was like God saying, So what, I don’t need people in my world. My new religion, thought Helen: There is a God, and he hates us.
She was so tired. The root was even thicker on this end. Of course. That’s what God would want. To make it impossible. Every stroke of the ax was to prove God wrong. There was a bird singing that hadn’t been exterminated yet. If she had a gun she would shoot it. They were the carriers. They even infected the pets. Peepers was gone. She wished she could cuddle him and believe that love was something that still mattered.
She wanted to get this done before Teddy woke up. She allowed herself to think: Why couldn’t it have been Teddy who died and not Mom? Why do I have to be the one in charge? Teddy is useless and a burden. But she didn’t want to be alone.
When the root finally broke in two, Helen dropped to the ground. She didn’t know how long she was asleep, but when she woke up the sun was in her eyes and she was lying in her