{"id":456,"date":"2025-11-20T21:31:41","date_gmt":"2025-11-20T21:31:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/?page_id=456"},"modified":"2025-11-22T08:16:24","modified_gmt":"2025-11-22T08:16:24","slug":"conservation","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/fiction\/conservation\/","title":{"rendered":"Conservation"},"content":{"rendered":"

Em Platt-Schulz<\/span><\/p>\n

When Mom brings out the silver tea kettle, I know she has bad news. She doesn\u2019t say a word as she fills it up and puts it on the stove. I bring out two mugs and two bags of chamomile tea. We sit kitty cornered at the kitchen island, so we can look at and away from each other with ease. Mom pours the steaming water. We each cup the mugs with our hands and let the tea brew in silence.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then Mom says, \u201cArial. We had to sell the land in Nantucket.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She says it with such weight and sadness that I\u2019m almost hurt just by the sound of it. Then the meaning of the words land. \u201cOkay,\u201d I say. \u201cIs that it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She looks confused. I feel confused. \u201cI guess . . . that\u2019s it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I wonder, why all the production for a measly half-acre in a place I never went? If anything, it should\u2019ve been a cake-and-coffee situation–I can only imagine how much the land and house went for.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI guess I\u2019m sorry you had to sell it,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, we are too,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

I sip the tea. The flavor is a little thin. It\u2019s only been brewing for a couple minutes. Definitely a coffee situation.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIsn\u2019t it a little sad?\u201d Mom asks. Not accusatory, just looking for empathy.<\/span><\/p>\n

I nod. \u201cYeah. It\u2019s been in the family for, like, generations.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd we had to sell it.\u201d She sips her tea. Her gaze is far off.<\/span><\/p>\n

I look away from her and out the window where our wicker porch furniture sits. \u201cDo you mean, like, you couldn\u2019t keep up with the upkeep?\u201d I ask. She keeps\u00a0saying\u00a0had to\u00a0<\/i>like that\u2019s the most important part, but she\u2019s not usually so coy about the important stuff.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNot exactly,\u201d she says. \u201cThe neighbors made an offer.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow much?\u201d I ask. \u201cSorry.\u201d It\u2019s too hasty, too eager to know. And I know we\u2019re not even close to broke–the set of new stainless steel kitchen appliances says it all. And the year-old wicker furniture.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d she says. \u201cIt was a lot. More than we could reasonably refuse.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are they going to do with it?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThey want to turn it into a conservation area,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s only half an acre. Isn\u2019t that a little small?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

She shrugs. \u201cIt\u2019s their little project,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

I turn my cup in my hands a few times, and say, \u201cI mean, that\u2019s kinda cool though, right? Better than another mega mansion, right?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. I mean, yeah, it is nice that they\u2019re doing that,\u201d she says. \u201cStill.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Family land. Right. \u201cIf it\u2019s conservation, maybe you can visit.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She nods.<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s something she\u2019s not saying, and I know it. We don\u2019t bring out tea for conversations like this. \u201cMom,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She finally looks at me, lips pursed. \u201cThere\u2019s something in the house we need to get,\u201d she says. \u201cIt\u2019s in the basement.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt had a basement?\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt has a basement,\u201d she says. \u201cA secret basement.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I smile a little. \u201cSeriously?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSeriously,\u201d she says. \u201cAnd we need to get something out of it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I can\u2019t help the smile on my face. \u201cA super secret spy mission?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

She smiles, finally. \u201cSomething like that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Mom\u2019s side of the family is the rich side of the family. Dad\u2019s family\u00a0isn\u2019t\u00a0impoverished, but they\u00a0don\u2019t\u00a0have the\u00a0wealth\u00a0<\/i>that Mom\u2019s family does. Like, each kid got a beach house type rich. Mom doesn\u2019t flaunt it and neither does Dad. That\u2019s not to say I grew up financially neglected or whatever. Very much the opposite–a car when I was sixteen, Xboxes, PlayStations out the wazoo. I\u2019m spoiled the way anybody with money is spoiled. At twenty-two I still get an allowance from my parents that covers groceries and part of rent for my single bedroom apartment in Southie. So, yeah. I at least like to think I\u2019m aware of it.<\/span><\/p>\n

That\u2019s why I\u2019m a little surprised that Mom sold the land in Nantucket. We don\u2019t need the money. Whatever this secret in the basement is seems important enough that she would have at least kept it for that, but she won\u2019t tell me what it is. I have a feeling Dad convinced her to sell when he heard they wanted to turn it into a conservation plot, or whatever. He\u2019s the eco guy in our house. I try to be. Started buying all my detergents and shampoo from an eco-friendly refill store. I installed a bidet. All by myself. I donate money to the WWF. Etc. If I had a little parcel of land that I never really went to, I might sell it so it can be conserved. But Mom doesn\u2019t really lighten up about it on the drive over, even though we sing Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of our lungs, in full.<\/span><\/p>\n

By the time we make it to Nantucket, we\u2019ve eaten most of the pastries we picked up from my favorite bakery at home, and drank two lattes with oat milk each (and Mom blames my caffeine addiction on Dad). Mom parks in the public beach parking instead of driving into the strip of land her property was on. She reaches into the back of the car and pulls out a big tote bag.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, I bought some things,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

She pulls out a couple baseball caps with the Sox bright B on the front, then a handful of dollar store sunglasses, big enough to cover half my face, and then a few packages of shitty wigs from Party City. I peak in to see a few nondescript t-shirts in the bottom. I laugh.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh my god! Mom, what is this?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d she says, a little offended. \u201cWe don\u2019t want people to know we were there.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think anybody would care,\u201d I say. \u201cPlus, like\u2026it\u2019s not even that illegal, so\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, I don\u2019t think there\u2019s a sliding scale of legal to illegal. It\u2019s pretty black and white,\u201d she says. \u201cJust put on a different shirt.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I pull off my crop top and slip into a patterned yellow t-shirt with pineapples with sunglasses on it. \u201cIs this low key?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, well. It\u2019s summery,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s so ugly,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

She grimaces and nods. \u201cWe know you\u2019ll never wear it again,\u201d she says. She dons a plain black t-shirt herself. I look back in the bag, but there\u2019s only another ugly patterned shirt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou couldn\u2019t get two black shirts?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf we look exactly the same, that would be suspicious,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, so you didn\u2019t bring ski masks?\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

She shakes her head at me and fits a Red Sox cap over her hair. \u201cC\u2019mon.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I put on a cap and sunglasses and follow her out of the car. It\u2019s breezy but hot today. The sun beats on down, the heat cut some by the wind. I can already feel my arms start to burn. I forgot sunscreen. Crap. Mom wanders around a little and I follow behind her like a puppy. We don\u2019t stop at any of the beachfront stores, just mosey on like we\u2019re any other tourists for the season.<\/span><\/p>\n

We finally start in the direction of the land. From the map I looked at, it\u2019s about a mile from the town proper, on it\u2019s own little private drive. As we get farther from the town, I walk beside Mom and ask, \u201cSo this secret thing, we don\u2019t need the car to move it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNope,\u201d she says. \u201cIt\u2019s not like that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, is it an emotional secret, like you have to go one last time to tie up some kind of loose ends? Oh my God, did you have a secret lover their before you met Dad who mysteriously disappeared one night?\u201d I ask. The story fabricates well in my head, Mom (now for some reason wearing a Victorian style dress on the seaside) looking longingly out from an ocean cliff as she recalls her long lost lover.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, yeah, secret lover, that sounds like me,\u201d she says. \u201cNo, no, it\u2019s a real thing.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNot a deep seated metaphor for family trauma?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

She snorts. \u201cWhere do you come up with this stuff?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I shrug. \u201cWell, you won\u2019t tell me what it is.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not important, trust me,\u201d she says. \u201cI mean, it\u00a0is<\/i> important, but for me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cUgh, so not a secret family heirloom that would make us billionaires,\u201d I say. She doesn\u2019t say anything. When I look at her, she\u2019s totally lost in thought. \u201cOh my God. It is, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She still doesn\u2019t answer, which pretty much tells me, yeah, it is something valuable. Or at least, some kind of heirloom. \u201cIs it cursed? Is that why you won\u2019t tell me? Like, to get any reward from it, you have sacrifice your first born–that\u2019s why you\u2019re bringing me, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she says. \u201cIt\u2019s not a\u00a0cursed\u00a0<\/i>family heirloom.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBut it is a family heirloom,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

There are fewer cars passing us and more trees all around, the grass turning to underbrush, the briny smell of low tide floating to the distance. \u201cIf that\u2019s what you want to believe,” she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t believe you\u2019re making me heist something from property you don\u2019t even own anymore and you won\u2019t tell me what it is,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t have to,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLike I\u2019m not going to,\u201d I say. \u201cHow many chances do you get to commit a crime with your mom?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI guess it depends who your mom is,\u201d she says as we arrive at the overgrown property. There are two other houses within sight, but far enough away and shrouded in trees. Mom pauses at the edge of the dirt road and end of what was once a driveway. It looks more like a winding road into a dangerous fairytale, now. Mom takes a deep breath and takes the first step onto the driveway. I follow.<\/span><\/p>\n

The house is a small cottage–small enough that it could be mistaken for a carriage house or guest house by the more affluent members of Nantucket (most of them). It has a porch that\u2019s sloping into the ground and a few six paned windows with a handful of the panes broken. Me and Mom stare at it, and it\u2019s not until she sniffles that I realize she\u2019s crying. I stand there awkwardly before putting an arm around her shoulder.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSorry, Mom,\u201d I say because I don\u2019t know what else to say.<\/span><\/p>\n

She sighs a wet sigh. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d she says. \u201cI used to love this place, that\u2019s all.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou never brought us here,\u201d I say. \u201cAt least, not me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s hard to explain,\u201d she says. She gives my back a pat, then walks toward the house, eyes still red. \u201cC\u2019mon.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I stand back as Mom climbs the porch. It sags a bit under her, the boards clearly rotten, but doesn\u2019t give and I follow with great trepidation as she enters the house. There\u2019s no door on the house. The whole place smells like rot and brine and mice. I watch Mom navigate through the house. There may have been carpet in that front room at some point, but it\u2019s impossible to tell now.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

This place looks like it\u2019s been abandoned longer than I\u2019ve been alive. I can\u2019t imagine how much work upkeep would be by the time I was born, but it seems a little strange that Mom would abandon it, only because she seems to care about it so much. Even now, I can see how she stares at each corner so fondly, like she\u2019s remembering something sweet from her childhood. I wouldn\u2019t know what considering she never spoke a word about the house. I follow her footsteps exactly, waiting to see the whole floor give in below her, but it stays sturdy, even in the parts that are a little squishy.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mom is silent this whole time.<\/span><\/p>\n

When we stop at the door to the basement, she takes another of those deep breaths.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s down there?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cJust a basement,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIs it one of those scary, dirt floor basements?\u201d I ask. My friend Georgia in middle school had one of those and it always smelled like cat pee.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s concrete,\u201d she says. She waits a few moments more, eyes trained on the brass door knob. Then she reaches out and twists it. It crunches its way to open, and the door squeaks as Mom pulls it open. A blast of cool air comes up from the space. It cools the sticky sweat on my face. I sigh.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mom doesn\u2019t move. The dark basement looms down before us, the dim light from the main area barely illuminating down the stairs. The air tastes thick when I breathe in. Mom clutches the door handle tightly.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

She let\u2019s go of the door and goes down the steps. She disappears into the darkness. I stand at the top, waiting for the sound of a stair breaking open, a yell from her. But there\u2019s nothing like that, no dangerous booby traps or caving in stairs. I take my first tentative step after her. The stair doesn\u2019t feel like wood, and as I scrape the sole of my shoe on it, I realize it\u2019s concrete. So, not prone to breaking or rotting.<\/span><\/p>\n

I feel a little better as I walk down the stairs, careful not to trip as the light grows dimmer and dimmer. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone when I get to the bottom. I turn on the shitty flashlight and swing it around until I see Mom in the middle of the space.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

She\u2019s turning around in a circle, looking at each crevice of the space. \u201cIt\u2019s in here,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

“The heirloom?” I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

“Yeah,” she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s get it then,\u201d I say. The coolness in the basement is starting to be less comforting and more ominous.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know where,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBut you know it\u2019s here,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. You\u2019re grandmother told me in a dream,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI had a dream and Grandma came to me, and said, \u2018The thing you\u2019re seeking is at the beach house,\u2019\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom, Grandma is alive,\u201d I say. \u201cPeople who are alive don\u2019t give you dream messages.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, this wasn\u2019t Grandma now, this was Grandma before,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBefore\u2026?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t have time to explain it right now,\u201d she says. She walks toward the wall away from me and puts her hand on it. The light from my phone barely reaches her. She runs her hand along the mossy concrete, puts her ear up against it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s here,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom,\u201d I say, exasperated.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t understand,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, but you don\u2019t.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know what I\u2019m supposed to understand,\u201d I say. \u201cYou want an heirloom and it\u2019s here, what more is there?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGod, you\u2019re so much like your father,\u201d she says, and it\u2019s not exactly fond, so I know it\u2019s not about one of the fun things about him, like the way he alphabetizes the grocery list or always tries to get us to play boardgames after supper every night.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, so what should I know?\u201d I ask. I keep my phone flashlight pointed at her.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her eyes flick over to me but she doesn\u2019t move her ear from the wall. She stares at me for a long time. Then she straightens up from the wall and walks towards me. \u201cGrandma before she had kids,\u201d Mom says. \u201cWay different lady. She never wanted kids, but she had us for my dad, your grandpa. She told me all this, so it\u2019s not really a secret. The secret part is she had a way out. An heirloom.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what this is?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell,\u201d Mom says. \u201cMaybe. In my dream, that\u2019s what she said.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow\u2019s the heirloom going to help her? I mean, how would it?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cShe couldn\u2019t have her own bank account when she was married,\u201d Mom says. \u201cI mean, she could\u2019ve but my dad wouldn\u2019t let her get one, so she had no way to save money. Or make money. But she told me–this was a long time ago, and she was really drunk–that her\u00a0<\/i>grandmother had given her a pendant full of precious gems and made of solid gold. That if she really needed to get away she had a plan.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd that\u2019s here?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLike I said. My Dream Mom told me that,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

I look around the empty basement. There\u2019s nothing to indicate a hidden pendant. There\u2019s a couple metal shelves that are empty. A few wet spots on the floor. It\u2019s generally damp. I don\u2019t see any hidden wall vaults. \u201cWhere would it be in here, though?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI think it\u2019s in the walls,\u201d Mom says.<\/span><\/p>\n

I frown. I have no conceivable idea how something would get in the walls, unless Grandma hid it when the house was built. \u201cHow old is this place?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI think she hid it when it was built,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

Telepathy,\u00a0<\/i>I think. \u201cWould that make sense? I mean, with when she got the pendant and when the house was built?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI think so. This place isn\u2019t that old,\u201d she says. \u201cI mean, relatively. It\u2019s older than I am.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDid you bring anything to get into the walls?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d she says. She frowns. \u201cI didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWait, you thought it was in the walls but you didn\u2019t even bring anything to get into the walls?\u201d I ask. \u201cYou also didn\u2019t bring a flashlight.\u201d I point to my measly little phone flashlight.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLook, there was a lot going on,\u201d she says. \u201cI had to get out here before they started taking the house down.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t they need, like, a bunch of permits for that?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s a lot going on, Arial,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mom starts walking around the basement and knocking on the walls, her ear close to the cement. She moves in small steps, takes her time knocking on the wall. She turns to me. \u201cC\u2019mon. Help,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHelp?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She turns back to the wall and starts her knocking again. I sigh and go to the opposite wall. It\u2019s darker over here, the diffuse light not quite reaching this far. I knock on the concrete wall. There\u2019s no hollow sound, just the thunk of concrete. I look over my shoulder to watch Mom. I wonder what\u2019s going through her head. I\u2019m not sure I really believe that there\u2019s a thing here. But her obsessive knocking, listening, stepping makes me want to believe there is.<\/span><\/p>\n

The pattern happens over and over. The sun is going down–the tiny slitted windows are glowing a little–and I\u2019m ready to leave. I\u2019m tired. I\u2019m about to give up. I knock the last section of wall. Rather than the thick thunk, it echoes. Hollow.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom,\u201d I say. I knock it again and it\u2019s hollow again.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mom materializes next to me, it seems, with how fast she moves. She shoulders me out of the way and puts her ear against the wall and taps the wall. Her eyes light up. \u201cIt\u2019s hollow,\u201d she says. She opens up the tote back and dumps it out. There\u2019s a couple sunglasses, her wallet, keys. Nothing practical for cracking open a concrete wall. She grabs the key fob and pushes the little button on it to pop out the key.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d I ask, but all she does is turn back to the wall and jam the key into it. Over and over. I don\u2019t know how concrete usually works, but this stuff breaks apart pretty easily–it might be how old it is. I\u2019m not sure how long it takes for her to get through, but a huge chunk flies off and slides across the ground.<\/span><\/p>\n

It leaves a hole big enough to look into, but not enough to reach a hand into.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGive me a light,\u201d Mom says. I fumble to get my phone and it falls with a hard smack onto the floor. The sound makes both of us jump. \u201cC\u2019mon, Arial,\u201d she says and she sounds annoyed. This doesn\u2019t feel so fun, anymore.<\/span><\/p>\n

I pick up my phone. There\u2019s a big crack diagonally through the screen, but the way Mom is gesturing at me to give her light, I figure that\u2019s a problem for a later. I tap the screen, but it won\u2019t turn on. I press the side button but it still won\u2019t turn on.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cArial,\u201d Mom says, and she sounds really annoyed now.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI think it\u2019s dead,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAre you kidding me?\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSorry,\u201d I say. \u201cMaybe we can get a flashlight–\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019ll just feel around.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mom pulls around the edges of the hole so more chunks of concrete come off. Then, she sticks her hand in up to her shoulder. My skin crawls. There must be so much creepy stuff in there–spiders, centipedes\u2026things that might bite.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think this is a good idea,\u201d I say, and Mom doesn\u2019t answer. I hear her hand hit something, then hit another something.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThis has to be it,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d I ask and inch closer to her. She doesn\u2019t hear me or doesn\u2019t want to answer.<\/span><\/p>\n

She pulls her hand out and pushes her face against the hole. She pulls her face back after a second and sits back on her heels.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d I ask again.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s like there\u2019s a compartment in there but I can\u2019t feel anything else,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCould somebody else have\u2026?\u201d I ask, a little afraid to say it might not be here.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she says. \u201cThey\u2019d have to tear down the wall and put it back up. It wouldn\u2019t make any sense.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

As much as I don\u2019t want to, I say, \u201cI can look\u2026if you want me to.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mom looks at me, and smiles a little. \u201cYou\u2019d do that?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI will,\u201d I say. She moves out of the way and I crouch in front of the hole. It\u2019s an awkward height, so that I can\u2019t quite kneel down or stand fully up. I try to get comfortable, but I give up–this whole experience will be uncomfortable. I put my arm in slower than Mom did. My stomach turns when I feel a few cobwebs, but I keep my head and feel around a bit. It\u2019s dusty, a little dirty like the rest of the basement. I reach farther and farther in, feeling nothing but the rough sides of the compartment. Then at my shoulder, my hand touches the back. I feel around a little bit more. Nothing sticks out, feeling-wise. No secret latches. No pendant feeling things.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnything?\u201d Mom asks.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think so,\u201d I say. \u201cJust concrete and dirt.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDamnit.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSorry, Mom.\u201d As I pull my hand out, the back of it brushes against something hard on the side that I didn\u2019t feel as I was putting my hand in. I stop, and turn my arm as best I can. I get a feel for the whatever it is. Round, it seems. Cool to the touch. Smooth, except\u2026it feels like something is on it, intentional bumps. My fingers pinch around it a couple time, slide off. Then, I take a fingernail and dig into it, until I get an edge and pull. It feels like the whole side of the hole comes out. It feels like the hole is collapsing.<\/span><\/p>\n

I try to pull my hand out fast, but my grip is still on the pendant, and it gets stuck. And then my arm is stuck. I don\u2019t panic for a second. Nothing hurts for a second. And then the weight of the house is on my arm.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom,\u201d I say. My stomach is heavy with fear.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat happened?\u201d she asks, and she\u2019s right behind me, hands at the hole.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m stuck. I\u2019m stuck,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh my god,\u201d she says. She starts digging at the hole, where dirt and concrete have both collapsed. Everything shifts with every move she makes, and more pressure weighs on my arm.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cStop,\u201d I say. \u201cStop it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She stops. \u201cOh my god, Arial,\u201d she says. \u201cAre you okay? Does it hurt?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, it hurts a little,\u201d I say. \u201cI think I\u2019m okay though.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOkay. Okay,\u201d she says. She pulls her phone out of her pocket. \u201cOh my god. My fucking phone is dead. How is it dead?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do we do?\u201d I ask. I want to just pull my arm out, but every move I make makes it hurt more.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t move. Shit. Okay. I\u2019m going to run into town and get somebody to help us. Okay? I\u2019m going to get the police or the ambulance or whoever,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWon\u2019t you get in trouble?\u201d I ask. She was so secretive about this. We\u2019re trespassing, I know that much. I don\u2019t want to her to get in trouble. I don\u2019t want to get in trouble.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter. They\u2019ll be able to help you,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAre you going to leave?\u201d I ask, which is stupid. She just said that. But I don\u2019t want to be alone. The sun is going down. My phone is dead. \u201cPlease don\u2019t.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHoney,\u201d she says and gently touches my face, \u201cI\u2019ll be back as fast as I can. An hour, at most. Okay? I\u2019ll run into town. It didn\u2019t take us long to get here, right?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d I say, but my voice cracks.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll be back so fast,\u201d she says. \u201cI love you, okay?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI love you,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

She takes her phone and runs up the stairs. Mom has never really been a runner. Or an athlete. But I believe that she\u2019ll run the whole way to town. I focus on that and try to ignore the ache in my shoulder and the pressure on my arm. I stay as still as I can. My awkward half-crouch position, leaning over a little starts to hurt. My stomach cramps a little bit. My legs start to hurt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFuck,\u201d I whisper.<\/span><\/p>\n

The worst part of it is that I\u2019m still holding the pendant. It digs into my palm. I\u2019m afraid to let go of it.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\nEm Platt-Schulz When Mom brings out the silver tea kettle, I know she has bad news. She doesn\u2019t say a…\n<\/div>\n
Continue reading “Conservation”<\/span>…<\/a><\/div>\n","protected":false},"author":83,"featured_media":0,"parent":14,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-456","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/456","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/83"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=456"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/456\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":513,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/456\/revisions\/513"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/14"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=456"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}