Before my shovel’s blade descends, it scrapes away a two-foot-square surface of interwoven twigs that snap as they break apart; the dried, burnt-umber leaves crumble into almost unrecognizable pieces; and the smashed acorns that have lost their caps roll farther away from wherever they’ve fallen.
The damp soil evokes a muskiness I might have savored if not for uncovering deer droppings that hastened my efforts. I force the steel’s edge into topsoil and toss the excrement into the forest. Then, I dig, thwacking the earth as I force my metal instrument deeper. To bury one’s past, one must reach the depth where disagreements can’t find daylight.
You might think I’m extreme. But I’m sane enough to understand that the real pain I’m trying to dispose of is in my head and my thoughts, so this ritual may not be enough.
When the flat blade thuds against unyielding roots, I kneel, muddying my jeans, as my bare hands claw and my nails cling to blackness. Though I only scrap a quarter-inch more, this primal act satisfies.
The first to be entombed is a book of family photographs.
Yesterday, after Thanksgiving dinner, my mother and I sat on her sofa and opened an old photo album. The pages of buckling plastic held distorted memories of my youth. Had my face really kept its baby-fat cheeks and chubby body long after my fraternal twin sister slimmed out of hers? Most of the pictures were from our summer vacations.
When my sister and I were five, our mother told us we each deserved some alone time with her. That year, I spent the summer with Aunt Susie in Montana while Caroline vacationed with Mom in Mexico. I thought I’d gotten the better deal because I got to ride a pony on a ranch while my sister got sunburned at the beach. At least, that’s how I remembered it. I flattened the crease in a protective plastic sheath to see an image I hadn’t recalled—my mother and sister dressed in matching embroidered Mexican peasant tops.
Caroline’s curly, blond hair—like my mom’s—always glowed in the sun, whereas my thick and dark mane, blunt-cut short as a child, resembled a helmet on a squatty figure who grew into what others called ‘big boned.’
The following year was my turn to be with Mom in Mexico, but Caroline made such a fuss that we all went, including Aunt Susie. I was surprised, as I turned the pages, to find that most of the photos were of Mom and Caroline. My mother pointed to one and said, “Look, that’s you when you were trying to jump the waves.”
“No, Mom, that’s not me; I’m Carley.” My mother's memory came and went like a car radio station that abandoned itself each time it rounded a mountain.
“Oh? But aren’t you sweet in that yellow polka-dotted swimsuit? Now, everyone, isn’t Caroline cute?” “No, Mom, I’m Carley. Caroline died.”
#
Caroline was sixteen when she drowned in a boating accident. The afternoon we learned the news, my mother sat on the back porch steps of our summer house and stared straight ahead at nothing. Not the geese wandering up from the lake and territorially squawking. Not the late afternoon sun faltering behind ever-darkening clouds. And not me, despite my folding her hands in mine as I said, “I miss her, too."
When I was seven, I discovered how to get my mom’s attention. One Sunday, two women with bluish-white hair approached our IHOP table. Caroline was waving her placemat drawing in the air while beaming what would become her winning cheerleader smile. “Isn’t that pretty,” one lady proclaimed. “Aren’t you the sweet one,” the other cooed. I flung a crayon that stuck in the second lady’s over-sprayed do.
“Carley, you bad girl!”
After that, it was easy to get noticed. She'd drag me to our neighbor’s house to apologize for not playing nicely, beg the drugstore manager not to press charges for the stolen lipstick, and accompany me to the principal’s office when I cheated on an exam. Lectures followed; this was our alone time. But after being pulled over for unsupervised driving and a DUI, she drove me home in a silence that lasted for weeks—a punishment I hadn’t anticipated.
Caroline wasn’t an angel, but to our mother, it was always different, even when my sister got pregnant and Mom “fixed” the situation.
On our sixteenth birthday, Mom threw us a party. One of Caroline’s friends had a boat, so my sister insisted all cake-eating and present-opening occur before her high noon sail. On our birthdays, we always exchanged something made of gold.
Since our dad, who died in the army before we were born, was awarded a medal, our mom thought his girls should remember him on their birthdays. We rarely did. Instead, we simply relished giving and getting each other small pieces of department store jewelry. That year, I’d found a necklace with the letter C for Caroline.
Our mother clinked her glass with a fingernail as she called out to our party of twelve, “Let’s hear from the birthday girls. Caroline, why don’t you start?”
“Okay, here goes: Sweet sixteen, and I’ve been kissed. Can’t say that about my sis!”
Her friends, all a year or two older, smirked and laughed. My mother smiled, though, to her credit, I could see her embarrassment, for she quickly added: “Time to cut the cake.”
While Mom’s knife sliced, Caroline broke from her pack to come over. “You know, I was just kidding, right?”
“Right,” I said, tamping down the sarcasm I wanted to convey.
Caroline snatched the long rectangular present I held and shook it as she handed me her gift. We tore open our boxes. She’d given me an engraved key chain. “For when you’re driving again," she said. "I thought it might give you luck.” I couldn’t recall such thoughtfulness and hugged her so hard that she practically fell backward.
“Whoa, sis. Now, let’s see what you got me. Oh,” she said, holding the necklace at arm’s length. “You know, this would look much nicer on you,” and spun me around as she undid the clasp and hung it around my neck before turning me back to face her. “Gotta run. My entourage is waiting!”
The second and last item to be buried is that necklace, its chain tangling as it lands with a faint thud. The lackluster gold will dull further in its new humus-consigned walls.
My sister and I didn’t argue so much as we never got along. I’d read books about twins, even fraternal ones, having some bond. But what I had was living proof of who I wasn’t, would never be, or want to be. Despite our differences, I couldn’t figure out how to separate myself from her. Even years after her death, I still can’t.
I grab a fistful of nature's compost and filter the particles through my fingers to soften their fall, wanting to release rivalry, anger, and sadness. With both hands, I sweep into the grave, this world I’ve unearthed. Afterward, I lie down and stare into branches crisscrossing a blank slate-gray sky. I scrounge around in my pocket for the keychain she’d given me. My grasp embeds grime within the indented letters, and I rub my thumb across the rest so all the engraved words appear bolded: “Sisters at Heart.”
I hope ridding myself of the bad will allow the good to take hold. When I sit up, I discover I’ve startled a deer frozen in place while her unaware single fawn nibbles at the underbrush nearby. Then it, too, stops and looks up. I wonder who they see.
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Originally published online in Potato Soup Journal and then in their annual "best of" anthology.