Burn Our Bodies Down

by Rory Power

  When I got home I asked Mom where our name came from. I started with my father because that seemed easier, seemed like it would matter less to her, and I was right, because that she brushed off. But my grandparents. It was the first time I couldn’t recognize her.

  She didn’t say anything at first. But she got up and she locked the apartment door, and she sat down on the couch, leaned back with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “We’re not moving,” she said then, her voice flat, eyes fixed on me, “until you promise to never ask that again.”

  I remember I laughed, because of course she didn’t mean it. We would get up to eat dinner, to go to the bathroom, to sleep. But that laugh died in my throat as I kept watching her.

  “Not an inch,” she said. “We’ll die right here, Margot. I don’t care. Unless you promise me.”

  If we had that conversation now, I wouldn’t be able to let her win. We’d sit there deep into winter, until one of us gave up. But I was small and I was hungry and I said, “Yes.” I said, “I’m sorry.” I said, “I promise.”

  So naturally I went looking the second I got the chance. Bought a notebook from the Safeway, wrote my last name on the first page and started pecking away at the library computers, flipping through the archived newspapers. But all I ever turned up were phone-book listings and disconnected numbers, or other confused Nielsen families who’d never heard of a Josephine or a Margot.

  I gave up. There were more important things to keep track of. Me and Mom, for one. That’s what’s in the notebook now, tucked under my mattress next to the money. Fights we’ve had, word for word. Moments she looked at me like she wanted me with her. All of it evidence that things happened the way I remember. You need that with someone like Mom, someone who fights more about whether things happened than whether they hurt.

  Yesterday’s not worth writing down, though. There’ll be dozens more days like it before the summer’s over. Break, and break, and bleed back together. That’s how it goes with us.

  And when I can help it along, I do, which is why I’ve got a fold of that stolen money tucked in my pocket, why I’ve got my eyes fixed on the storefront across the street. Heartland Cash for Gold, where Frank’s got half of Mom’s belongings in his display cases. She goes through cycles—spends too much on groceries she won’t eat and then sells Frank a jewelry box full of fake gold earrings; saves money on rent and buys half the earrings back. It’s ridiculous. The buyback price goes up every time, and it’s not as if she has to keep them out of someone else’s hands. She could leave them in that pawnshop for half a century and nobody would touch them. But try telling her that.

  I don’t know what I can afford with the bills in my pocket, but whatever it is, I’ll bring it back to her and hope it buys me a few days of quiet. A few days when it doesn’t seem like the wrong decision to stay.

  I cross the road, asphalt burning through my sneakers, and hurry into the pawnshop. The bells on the door jingle softly as I ease it shut behind me. It’s dark in here, cool from the fan working overtime in the corner, and for a second I think about just sitting down on this grimy gray carpet and never moving again. But then there’s a noise from the back of the shop, and I hear Frank’s low, tuneless humming.

  He’s in one of his short-sleeved button-downs. Sweat stains the armpits, darkening the plaid, which looks better suited to the holiday season. He’s nice, Frank. Never turns Mom away when she brings stuff to sell, even though it’s all shit. Never cuts her a deal when she wants to buy it back either, but I wouldn’t if I were him.

  “Margot,” he says, waving me over to the counter, where he’s thumbing through a stack of receipts. “Your mom coming?”

  It’s not one of her rules, the way the candle is, but I’m not supposed to be in here without her. After all, this is her life in boxes, her life before I came into it. I hesitate, wonder if I should just go home. No, this is a nice thing I’m doing for her. She’ll appreciate it. I’ll buy her back a pair of earrings, or some old clothes she can take to the tailor and make new again.

  “Not today,” I say, crossing the shop toward Frank. There’s a display case running along each wall, and two shelving units split the space left in the middle, objects cluttered and close. Their tags flutter lightly as the fan turns, the breeze catching each handwritten price, a slash drawn through it and a lower one written just underneath.

  I step up to the case against the back wall, the register on one end, Frank’s stool waiting behind it. “How’s your wife?”

  “Still dead,” Frank says, just like he always does, and he waits for me to laugh, even though I never do. “You all right?”

  I roll my eyes. “Better than ever.” I wonder if I’ll ever mean it.

  Frank sets the receipts down and leans forward, his arms braced on the display case. “Well?” he says. “What’ll it be?”

  I should’ve counted my money outside. But I forgot, and now that I’m in front of Frank I’m not about to empty my pockets. It’s a pair of twenties, probably—Mom doesn’t pay our rent in singles anymore—but I know better than to let Frank see. “Not sure yet,” I say, backing away and meandering toward one of the cases where Mom’s stuff usually is. “Just browsing.”

  “Her shit’s not out here,” Frank says, coming around to stand next to me.

  “What do you mean?” Frowning, I turn to see an array of ratty baseball cards and a pair of fake diamond studs where some of Mom’s stuff used to be.

  “I mean,” Frank says, impatiently, “that you two were the only people buying it. Not exactly running a wide margin here, am I?”

  “So where’d you put it?” I can’t hide the panic tight in my voice, the fight already stirring in my body. If it’s gone, if he’s ditched it, it’ll be my fault somehow.

  He gives me the same look most people in town do once they’ve met my mother. Disbelief, and a little bit of worry—which I hate more than anything else, because what right do they have to worry about me? She’s my mother, and when I hurt, I know she does too. “Just put it in the back, that’s all,” he says, and nods toward the door behind the register. “Take it easy.”

  “Sorry.” I swallow hard, force myself to relax. “Can I see?”

  He gestures for me to follow and heads to the back room. It’s stacked so high with junk it’s probably supporting the whole building. Clothing, books and enough watches to cover both my arms all the way up to the elbow. At the far side of the room, a table that looks antique but is probably particleboard is covered with five or six battered boxes, the sides peeling away from each other. Nielsen written on each one in fading black ink.

  “There,” Frank says. “Told you.”

  “Thanks.” I shift from foot to foot, suddenly cold. “You don’t have to stay in here with me.”

  “So you can smuggle half your mom’s stuff out under your shirt?” He sounds like he’s joking, but he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. Something about the sight of his kneecaps poking out below his cargo shorts makes me feel sick. “Figure out what you want. Prices should still be marked.”

  I ease toward the table, trying not to let Frank see that I’m nervous. They’re Mom’s belongings, things she decided she didn’t need. I’ve never really looked through them before—she does it herself, has me wait where Frank is standing now. And whenever I’ve come here without her, it’s been for myself, usually to see if Frank’s willing to sell me a better phone for half the marked price. He never is.

  “Any day now,” he says, grabbing one of the tagged watches to tap it impatiently.

  “It’s not like you have a bunch of customers waiting for you,” I say. Meaner than he deserves, but I’m on edge, and it’s true. “Just give me a minute.”

  I open the first box and peer inside. It’s mostly empty except for an odd assortment of silverware and a frying pan coated with something unspeakably pungent. I cough, my eyes watering, as Frank lets out a delighted laugh behind me.

  “That one’ll
get you,” he says as I turn to get a breath of fresh air.

  “Why the hell would you buy that from her?” I ask. “I didn’t take you for a charity.”

  “Shows what you know,” Frank tells me, his chest puffing up proudly. “I’m the nicest guy in the world.”

  I look back at the boxes of Mom’s stuff. If the others are like the first one, Frank might be right. It’s junk. All of it junk. And it’s sad, really. My mother’s life. Thirty-five years. This is all she has to show for it? She had me young, I know that, but it’s hard to remember that when she’s as far from me as she is. Hard to realize that in the eighteen years before I came around, she barely had a chance to live at all.

  I ignore the tightness in my throat and tug the smallest box toward me. I’ve never seen this one. Inside is mostly fabric, and at first I think it’s clothing and maybe we could take it to the tailor, like I planned. But then I tug one piece all the way out and it’s not clothes. It’s a blanket. Small, and soft, and a pale new pink.

  “That’s what you want?” Frank says. “Cheap enough, I guess.”

  I don’t answer. Can’t answer. This was mine. It has to have been mine. There’s no monogram in the corner, no name written on the small white label, but this box: these are all my baby things. A catch in my throat, a prick in my eyes. The very beginning of me, packed up and sold, and she couldn’t keep it and couldn’t get rid of it either. Just the way she is with me.

  “Not this,” I say, my voice rough and low.

  “Fine. Hurry up, then.”

  I set the blanket down on the table and root through the rest of the box. Here a board book, bright colors and no text, the edges warped with humidity. Here a T-shirt, cut up and stitched haphazardly into a onesie for someone unimaginably small. You, I remind myself. This was for you. But it stings too much to linger. This was a bad idea. I should go.

  I take one last look before giving up. At the very bottom, the dim light is bouncing off something bright. I reach in and take it out carefully. A Bible, the words stamped in gold across the white cover. It doesn’t look like the ones I’ve seen whenever I can be bothered to sidle into the back of a church service. This one’s bigger, nicer, a pattern bordering the cover, the edges of the pages all gilded and thick. I open it to the first page, the spine creaking. There, written in blue looping cursive, is a message.

  If it be possible, let this cup pass from me;

  nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt.

  —For my daughter on her twelfth birthday.

  With all my love, your mother. 11/8/95

  I’ve spent a long time looking for proof that there was somebody before Mom. That our family existed, somehow, in some form. This is the first of it I’ve seen. Somebody wrote this. My mother was a child once. And I knew that, of course I knew that, but not the way I do now.

  “This,” I say. “How much for this?”

  “You could check the tag,” Frank grumbles, but he comes over and reaches for the Bible. I don’t give it to him. Just turn the spine toward him so he can see. “That?” He raises his eyebrows, and I do my best to keep my own expression blank. “Weird choice.”

  “You want to sell it or not?”

  “I’m just saying, that’s all.” He props up the cover and frowns at the price scrawled on the top corner of the title page. “It’s forty.”

  I should haggle, but I can’t stand to be here a minute longer. I fish the bills from my pocket—turns out two twenties is all I have—and slap them into his palm before heading back through the shop toward the door. The leather cover of the Bible is sticking to my chest and the sun is too bright. Mistake, I tell myself over and over. A mistake.

  THREE

  I can’t go home. What am I supposed to do—just wait until Mom gets there? It’s too much, and not enough, and I end up at Redman’s, in the back booth, a glass of water in front of me and no money to pay for anything. If it were any busier, they’d kick me out. But as it is, it’s just me and the waitress, and a guy slumped over at the counter who I’m mostly sure is still alive.

  I watch a bead of condensation run down the side of the water glass to pool on the table. Now that I’m not faced with the spread of Mom’s stuff, the panic has started to wear off, but there’s still an uneasiness in my stomach, a sourness on my tongue that I can’t swallow, because I figured out why I’m doing this.

  It takes a while, sometimes. To understand. It would mean something to me to have a gift from Mom, and so it’ll mean something to her to have a gift from hers. That’s what I told myself when I went to Frank’s. But Mom’s spent my whole life hiding us from her past, and this isn’t a gift. I’m punishing her. I’m trying to hurt her.

  According to her, I try that a lot. Usually I don’t mean to, but this time I do, even if it took me a second to realize it. I’m going to show her that Bible and say, “Look what I found. I’ve been breaking your rules this whole time. You can’t keep me from my family forever.”

  I open it again, trace the handwriting with my fingertip. Twelfth birthday. I can’t imagine Mom that young. Can’t imagine her reading a Bible, for that matter. Did her mother take her to church? Read her Scripture as she dressed for bed?

  Her mother. I press the heels of my palms to my eyes and breathe deeply. My grandmother. This is my grandmother. My name and my blood—they came from her. She was real. And she still might be.

  I just have to find her.

  I turn a few more pages. Here and there in the margins I spot bits of handwriting. Underlined passages, and a game of tic-tac-toe scrawled across one of the headings.

  “Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asks me. I jump, shut the Bible too hard on my fingers.

  “No thanks,” I say. She stares pointedly at the empty spot in front of me where a plate of food should be. I put on a smile. “Maybe some more water.”

  She picks up my full glass and then sets it back down. “There you go.”

  As soon as she’s gone I flip the Bible back open. Something inside’s been nudged just out of place, poking out like a bookmark. Carefully, I turn to the spot where it was placed deep in the press of the pages, near the back of the book.

  A photograph. Its edges are crisp, but the glossy surface is dotted with fingerprints, as though someone has spent a long time tracing the features captured in the picture. I bend closer. It’s of a house, or part of one, white paint fresh and proud against the sky, and the sun is bright enough that it’s nearly washing out everything else. The wide roll of the fields covered in snow, the blur of trees on the horizon. Everything except the girl in the foreground. She’s young, her face still round and full, unscarred and smooth, her arm outstretched toward the person behind the camera, and she’s smiling so wide I can see a gap where one of her front teeth has fallen out.

  Mom, I think. It looks like her. Like me, when I was that age. This must be where she grew up.

  Gently, I tug the photo free of the pages. I’m not telling her about it. The Bible she can have. This I’m keeping for myself. She was like me once, but I won’t be like her.

  I flip the picture over, ready to fold it up and tuck it into my pocket. There’s handwriting here too. The script matches the dedication on the front page of the Bible. It must have been written by the same person. By my grandmother.

  Fairhaven, 1989, Nielsen Farm. Followed by: Remember how it was? I’ll be waiting. Come when you can.

  After it, luckier than I ever have been before—a phone number.

  I’m smiling, a laugh nearly tipping out of me, before I can help it. All those days looking and looking, and it was right here. Someone calling me home.

  Calhoun only has one pay phone, smack in the middle of town. I’d rather use my own phone, an old one with no touch screen and no caller ID, but we use pay as you go and my card ran out early this month after I spent a whole afternoon playing a game at the library and forgot to join the Wi-Fi network. So it’s the phone booth outside the center of commerce, and it’s right no
w, while Mom’s still at work and the streets are empty. With any luck, nobody will see me, and I’ll be able to keep this hidden from Mom a little while longer.

  The booth is empty when I get there, like it always is, so I sidle in, drop the Bible onto the plastic shelf under the phone, and slide the photograph from my pocket, unfolding it carefully. The phone number is still on the back. I didn’t imagine it.

  Can it really be as simple as this? A photo in a book, a quarter I stole from the tip jar in the diner and my family on the other end of the line?

  Maybe the number will be out of service. Maybe it’ll be another Nielsen who doesn’t recognize my name. Or maybe it’ll be my mother’s parents, who’ve been waiting and waiting and wishing for me.

  I shut my eyes for a moment, square my shoulders. Stop stalling, I tell myself. Do what you’re here to do. Life with Mom will always be this way, and you have a shot at something else.

  But I can still hear her as I reach for the phone, as I lift it off the hook. Nobody but you and me. Nobody, nobody, nobody.

  The phone feels too heavy in my hands, and I clutch it tightly, feel the slip of sweat against the plastic. The quarter I swiped from Redman in my pocket. My family waiting for me to find them. Now, Margot. It has to be now, before Mom comes back, before the door you managed to push open slams shut.

  I drop the quarter into the slot and dial the number. Take a deep breath and wait for the line to connect.

  For a moment it doesn’t. Worry rippling through me—the number’s too old, it’s out of date, and I’ll never find my family, not ever—but it fades as the line clicks on and starts to ring. Once. Again. Again, and again, until finally.

  Quiet. What sounds like the slow draw of breath. Then, a woman’s voice. Real, and in my ear. “Nielsen residence, Vera speaking.”

  I open my mouth. Wait for the words to come out of me, but they don’t. I should’ve practiced, I should’ve planned what to say, but how could I have prepared for this? For another Nielsen on the phone, for the answer I’ve been looking for since I was ten years old?