Things That Should Stay Buried - Casey L. Bond Page 0,2

barely passed my driving test, only to side-swipe a car on the way to school the following morning. The impact somehow totaled the car – Mom’s car. (She’d taken a vacation day just so I could use it to take my test, promising to take me used-car-shopping after school.)

I hadn’t driven much since. If she rode with me, she made me a nervous wreck because my driving made her one, while Dad was the opposite. He was too quiet. He didn’t say anything. He’d let me drive off a bridge and when we were bobbing in the water, slowly sinking, then he’d say, “You took that turn a little too sharp.”

Kes offered to ride with me so I could practice and get rid of the jitters that came when I thought about getting behind the wheel, but I knew we couldn’t afford another accident. The insurance was already sky high as it was and it was just easier not to worry about it. And to be honest, I was terrified I’d make another mistake that my parents would have to foot the bill for, or maybe even hurt someone.

When my brother asked how I was planning to get around during college, I wittily replied that every college worth its weight had public transportation, and if that failed, I would run where I needed to go. When he asked what I would do after college, I ignored him. Obviously, I wouldn’t avoid driving forever… or else I’d live in a metropolis where, once again, public transportation was readily available.

I threw my things into the back seat and then slid into the passenger seat.

“Mom’s cross-stitching,” Kes warned, flicking his eyes toward me for a second as I fastened my seatbelt and he pulled forward.

I sank further into my seat. “What happened?”

“She should be the one to tell you,” he said.

“That bad?”

He nodded once.

I wondered what could’ve happened to make her mad enough to stab fabric with needle. Lost in my thoughts, we reached the road to our house and pulled into the driveway before I knew it. I grabbed my bags and headed inside.

Mom sat in the dim corner of the living room in a worn reclining chair, a small light clipped onto the wooden ring that stretched the white cloth she worked tight. She tugged crimson thread through, piercing from below and then plunging across, back and forth, counting the x’s she wove and following the pattern laying on her lap. Mom collected cross-stitch patterns. Hoarded them, actually, but she only cross-stitched when she was stressed.

Before I even spoke, she speared me with a glare so harsh I felt stretched as thin as one of her cloths. I could almost feel her needle pierce the skin above and below each of my lips as she sewed them shut.

“Did Kes tell you?” she asked.

“No. He said you would.” I sat my things down and waited. She eventually spilled.

“I got fired,” she said, angrily drawing x’s in thread.

“What?”

She threw the circle into her lap, thread and needle dangling over her knee, and told me how it went down.

My mother had worked as a secretary at a local insurance company for the past ten years, basically running the office, writing policies, running to the bank, even handling the taxes for the owner – who paid her peanuts and didn’t even consider selling the agency to her when he decided it was time to retire.

So, the company sold it to someone else, an agent with ten other satellite offices who wanted to place their own people in the office and didn’t want Mom anymore. The new owner-agent told her he had to “let her go,” as if those words somehow lessened the blow of sudden unemployment.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” I offered, knowing how much she’d loved her job.

Silent, she took up the cross-stitching ring again, fingers searching for and finding the errant string and needle.

“It’ll be okay. Dad’s paychecks can get us by until you find something.”

She went still. “I don’t want to find something else. I liked what I did, and I can’t find that at another agency.”

“Why not?” Kes nudged me and shook his head, trying to get me to stop while I was ahead.

“Besides,” she continued, getting more worked up as she spoke, “I’m too old to start over or learn a new industry. I know insurance. I wouldn’t know what to do somewhere else.”

I walked over and hugged her neck. The tension bled from her shoulders as she hugged me back