Knives In
How far will I go to protect my family? A raw, (very) personal essay.
"Just a little deeper," I tell myself. I start to really lean into it. But rivulets of sweat suddenly pour down my forehead just as a rogue gust of wind passes me, and my eyes fill with a scratchy paste of dirt and salt. I'm blinded.
"Shit!" I yell, dropping my shovel and flinging my glasses aside. Then, too late, I clap my hand over my mouth: Someone could hear me. And I don't want him to know where I am.
Still sightless, I fumble down to the hem of my shirt. I hate to do it: it's a beautifully embroidered chiffon tank - dry-clean only - but I need to wipe my eyes. Cringingly, I go ahead. Dammit - but I keep silent this time. I can see dim shapes now. I remember that there's bottled water in my car, over in the bushes, where I left it.
After I've rinsed out my eyes and found my glasses, I survey my progress. That gust of wind filled my hole halfway up again! I sigh and begin to empty it out. Digging is really beginning to hurt my arm. Then it occurs to me that one of the items I'm burying is an axe. Could I sort of chop a hole in the ground? Would that be easier than digging? People do whatever they have to out here in the desert, right? I decide to try it.
~
Early that morning, I'd woken up - the bed empty - and stumbled groggily into the bathroom. I wasn't really up yet, but since he was, I poked my head into the living room. There he was, stretched out on the couch, scrolling through Twitter.
"Honey? Y'arright?" I slurred.
There was a grunt, maybe some kind of answer in response. I didn't smell coffee yet, but it really was very early, barely light outside. Still half-asleep, I took his response as an assent and stumbled back to bed.
The next time I woke up, the light had changed. He was back in bed next to me, a skinny, quivering mound under a thick fleece blanket. His face was mere inches from mine; his eyes were open wide - too wide. I flinched. "I'm up! I'm up! Sheesh!" I laughed and playfully pushed his shoulder. "God! You could've just asked." I sat up, laughing.
That's when I noticed he was crying.
"Oh, honey, what happened?" I lay back down and arranged myself around him so that I could smooth back his hair with one hand and press the other against his bare chest, over his heart, the way he liked.
"I almost did it," he whispered. "I found some. And I held one next to me. I almost ... I was so close ..." He burst into tears.
"Oh, my darling," was all I could say. I pulled him onto his side, close to me, as he sobbed into my chest, his bony shoulders wracking and heaving. I kissed the top of his head. And I thought about what to do.
~
I can't believe I missed some. I shake my head just thinking about it. I thought I'd gathered them all up. But this house is a furnished rental, and items are stored in strange places - items that aren't ours, that I don't know to look for.
But I'm pretty sure I've rounded up everything now, including some items I'll miss using, but that we just can't risk keeping around. I've got them here in a dark green plastic storage tote that I intend to bury: because they're not all our belongings, and some look pretty high-end, I can't just throw them away. So this is the next best thing.
As I sweat and turn away from another wind gust, I stop for a moment. Some water. Yes. The deeper I dig, the sandier the soil becomes. As I sip, I think idly that I hope I find an arrowhead or something, and this is such a frivolous, inappropriate thought to have that I can only assume it's my brain's way of helping me cope with what I'm actually doing.
~
I got him up and out of bed. I got some food into him, some water, and then, finally, crucially, his meds. They're being adjusted right now, so it was no wonder he was having a hard morning. Still, this was alarming. I felt somewhat responsible for this episode: he really only agreed to give this prescription a try because I felt so strongly about it. And now look what's happened.
He lay down on the couch and pulled up reruns of our favorite show. I sat behind him, his head nearly on my lap. I stroked his hazelnut hair some more, the ring on my left hand grazing his temple. My heart crunched. Looking down, I studied his bare chest: were those red dots marks made by what he'd done? Were they bug bites - maybe heat rash? You have heat rash yourself right now, my brain said. Oh, did it even matter?
What I really wondered was whether this warranted a call to his doctor. The doctor knew all about these hard days, but should I report that we're having another one right now? He'd already begged me that morning not to "send him away." He had taken both of my tiny hands in his big ones and squeezed - hard. "I don't want to leave you," he'd whispered as he cried.
"If I hear from your doctor that you need to go somewhere to stay safe, I'm going to have a very hard time ignoring that," I’d replied, feeling rattled. He had nodded, his amber eyes filling. But the truth was that I didn't think sending him would help.
I split the difference: I called his mother. The three of us had talked on speakerphone, she and I taking turns coaxing him to eat a bit, drink some water, or smoke some weed. He was coming around. We had relaxed a bit. And then, in the middle of my mother-in-law's story, I had an idea.
"Can you stay on the phone with him for a little bit?" I'd asked abruptly. "I need to go take care of something real quick."
Of course she would, she assured me. Take your time.
I grabbed the dark green plastic storage tote from inside the oven, where I'd shoved it in desperation, doubting it would see the light of day. But now I couldn't be too careful. I grabbed my car keys and bounded out the door.
~
I hope I have picked a place that's random. I think I have. I am standing at the foot of one of dozens of hills, digging in front of a bush. It's not any particular bush, either. In fact, I myself would be hard-pressed to find this spot again. It occurs to me that I ought to take a picture from where I'm standing. I line up the frame nicely, and it looks just like the dozens of other landscape shots I've collected.
Only I know. Only this shot is important.
Still, I decide to store it in my Locked folder.
Finally, I've cleared enough space for the contents of the dark green plastic storage tote. It's occurred to me, thankfully, that I don't have to bury the whole box - just what's inside.
My arm's killing me. That's a poor choice of words, my brain says. Shut up, I tell it. I overturn the tote and watch as ten expensive, exquisitely sharp chef's knives clatter down and into my hole. I stare them down. They're pathetic, really, lying there in the dirt, deprived of their power. Ha! Who's in charge now?! After a moment, I toss in a pocketknife and the axe I'd used to make the hole.
It only takes a few minutes to spread the sand back over the top of the hole. I grab a handful of pebbles; a few sticks. This spot is now totally indistinguishable from any other. Sure, rains or winds may unearth my cache of deadly weapons. But it won't be today, or next month. Probably not even next year.
I survey the horizon. The sun lands with heartbreaking softness on the mountains in the distance. Wind whooshes through the tallest trees; the hills and valleys spread out before me. Beetles scuttle; wide-winged buzzards caw as they soar overhead. Everything looks right.
l think about the strong and powerful women who came from here, the ones who settled here, who walked these grounds long before me. I see their braids in the stiff grasses; I hear their voices in the rustling breeze. So many of them could not change their fate. But they sure as hell did what they could. They took care of their families. And they survived.
I am strong, too. I am powerful. See what I have done? Like those matriarchs of long ago, I did what I could. I will take care of my own family.
Decades from now, this energy scar, the disembodied psychic cost of my distress, will roost in these mountains. these valleys. And the spirit of the hope I feel right now will guard this desert, shimmering sunshine and birdsong to those who need it. Those people will think of me - of us. And they will say that we survived.
~ Alison Hayes