Stacie Ramey - The Secrets We Bury

Compulsively stirring my coffee in Nowhereville, New Jersey, I recognize Im going to have to do a lot of explaining when Emily gets here. Well, assuming shes figured out my code and picked the right coffee shop.

I look at my burner cell and check the time. 12:02. Not super late. Especially not for my cousin, who is less governed by rules than I am but still hates being tardy. Tardy is her word, not mine. Although I totally approve, because it feels specific to the situation of meeting with someone. I hate nondescript words.

Cell in hand, Im hit with a new, burning desire. Text Mom. Tell her Im okay. Tell her that Im sorry I do these things that only make sense to me. Like that time we went to my great-aunts farm. The older cousins wanted to scare us younger ones, so they told us there was a big pit where the previous farms horses were buried. We were warned to stay away. So of course, thats the first place we went. The place was nasty. It smelled. There were thorns everywhere, but that didnt stop me from digging and going deeper into the pit. They had to call the fire department to have me removed from what was really a sinkhole used as a large animal grave. My brother, Brad, and Emilys sister, Abby, got in huge trouble. Emily had burns on both hands from trying to pull me out by the rope I had tied around my waist. I was so freaked out about the bones I found, about the smell of death and all the animals buried, that they had to sedate me. Good times.

Man, I was a pain in the ass. Once I set my mind on doing something, I couldnt veer from whatever stupid thing Id decided to do. Mom never understood that I couldnt control my obsessive behavior. But it wasnt her fault. I am a lot to handle.

I start to type. Mom, Im sorry. I was always sorry after Id upset Mom. But for some things, like not following clear-cut rules, rules like Dont dig where you shouldnt or Dont run away from home , saying sorry doesnt help, so I delete the text.

Emily and I are more like brother and sister than cousins. From the time we were little, we were always together, only interested in what the other one was doing, never paying attention to anyone else. Ignoring the older siblings and cousins, especially.

We would hang out with other people if anyone else was remotely interesting, I always said. Emily agreed. Of course.

But this time, Im not sure shell agree with what Ive got planned, so I have to tell her the right way, which is never easy for me. Words come to me like pictures stored on a hard drive that cycle in front of me constantly. I cant always control which ones I choose as they spew out of my mouth. They call that verbal impulsivity . It comes along with a slew of other labels doctors have given me over the years. Whatever you call it, for me, choosing the right words is an exquisite sort of pain.

Be brief, Dad used to tell me. Let people catch up to your brain.

He said that to make me feel better. Like none of my dysfunction was my fault.

The waitress approaches, lifting the coffeepot and her eyebrows.

I shake my head, drink my coffee, and think about how I can explain my plan to Emily in a way shell get behind Operation Wild Thing.

The taste of coffee paired with the drizzling rain sends my mind back to a time when our families were on the Cape and everyone was at the beach. Emily and I hung at the house, because I needed some away-from-the-rest-of-them time. A fly buzzed around my head, the sound making me insanely edgy. So edgy, apparently, I was sitting there with my hands over my ears. Maybe even rocking a little. Okay, rocking way too much.

Emily yanked me out of the house by my arm and into the fresh air. We stood on the dock behind Uncle Bills house. The sky was overcast, and the breeze kept the gnats and mosquitos away.

I rubbed my shoulder joint. That used to be attached, you know!

She punched me in the arm. The fly is going after the crumbs, not you, Dylan, you big dork.

I knew that. I did. Its just that buzzing puts me in such a constant state of make-it-stop that I cant do the simplest thing, like figure out I can walk away. But Emily does. And she gets me.

If I was the kind of person who blushed, I would have blushed then.

It started to drizzle. Come on, I said, going around the side of the house. Theyll be home soon. I tapped my leg. Max, were going for a walk.

The rottweiler Dad brought home for me when I was six jumped up from his spot on the grass to join me.

Wait for me. Emily ran inside and grabbed a rain jacketyellow London Fog, because she wanted to be like her mom back then. I cant believe with all of the things you hate touching and the things you hate touching you, you dont mind the rain.

She was right. I didnt mind the rain. Never had. It was like natures drumming. I was obsessed with drumming. Not actually playing the drums, but listening to them as loud as I possibly could. A therapist had explained I liked the sound because I could feel them before I could hear them. Whatever the reason, they calmed me, for sure. Just like the rain did that day.

Now, a good five years later, sitting in a coffee shop in a tiny town in New Jersey, I wonder if Ill feel Emilys presence before I hear her. I sent her an email the other day using the fake account I set up for us before I ran away from home and the alphabet code we used when we were kids.

Zelda,

I have something big to tell you. Huge. Meet me. Next letter. Tell me when and where. But do it soon.

Yorik

Yorik,

Coffee. 12:00 3 on the list on TLD. You always scare me.

Z

I stare at my coffee. My Dad used to drink his coffee black. Like my heart, he always said. The rest of my immediate family uses a dash of cream and definitely no sugar. I like my coffee light and sweet. Is it any wonder we dont get along?

The waitress appears again. Alice, as her name tag says, refills my cup. Im supposed to thank her, even though she doesnt seem to mind our nonverbal exchange. But then she goes and ruins the silence. You want anything else?