Simple Gifts

By the fourth day, Claire was no longer surprised when she went to the freezer for ice and found herself face-to-face with six dead gerbils. It was her daughter’s love that had killed them. Emily, all of six years old, had brought them a toxic bouquet of flowers hand-picked from the neighbor’s garden. She had plucked daffodils and bluebells, yanked geraniums by the fistful, oblivious to the sky darkening above her. With the first patter of rain, Claire had hollered her inside, unaware of her daughter’s impending gift to the colony.

The gerbils lived in Emily’s room in a plastic-walled cage on top of the dresser, always scrabbling about, scampering through multi-colored tubes, trundling around the running wheel, gazing vapidly into the distance as they gnawed at the water dispenser. Emily had to stand on tiptoe to place the flowers in their cage.

“Brought you a present,” she said, smiling.

Six pink noses twitched toward the greens. Emily watched them nibble. Tito and Frank – her secret favorites for the way they squeak-purred when she snuggled them – held the bluebell stems upright in their furry hands. The others stuck their faces straight into the daffodils. Pollen dusted the tips of their whiskers as they feasted. When Emily found all six of them belly-up and drooling blood two hours later, her resulting shriek set the neighbor’s dogs barking.

It was a common enough mistake, said the articles Claire read online. She sat at the kitchen counter while the rain continued to fall. Five webpages at a time, she opened new tabs, each article saying the same thing as the one before. There was no use calling the vet. Dead was dead.

It was a common enough mistake, said the articles Claire read online. She sat at the kitchen counter while the rain continued to fall. Five webpages at a time, she opened new tabs, each article saying the same thing as the one before. There was no use calling the vet. Dead was dead.

And yet! one article claimed, here was also a gift – an opportunity to teach a child about loss. Claire slammed the laptop shut.

This was Joel’s fault. He had bought the gerbils as a gift for their daughter in the midst of the divorce. They were a bribe, as far as Claire was concerned. Wasn’t that what ex-husbands did in movies? Buy elaborate gifts to garner favor from afar? Why not a kite, or a jump rope, or tickets to the zoo? Why a living, breathing creature? Why six of them?

Claire looked to the mail slot in the front door. The papers were nearly final, and should arrive any day with Joel’s signature. She’d been waiting for them all week, in fact. Once the papers were signed, she’d put it all behind her. Bury the past along with the gerbils. She had promised herself.

In the drawer beside the sink were gallon-sized Ziplocs. Claire stood and took one from the box. It crinkled in her back pocket as she trudged down the hall toward the sound of crying.

***

Emily sat on the edge of her bed, eyes red-rimmed, nose streaming. The springs groaned as Claire sat down and scooped her daughter into her arms.

“We’ll bury them out under the maple,” Claire said, smoothing wisps of Emily’s hair. “They’ll be safe there. And we can visit them whenever you want.”

“Do we have to do it now?” Emily’s tears eased to sniffles. Snot crusted above her upper lip. Rain clattered against the rooftop, a persistent drone. Through the window, the earth beneath the maple was turning to mud.

“We’ll have to wait until the ground dries,” Claire said. She drew in a breath. “But until then, we’ve got to put them somewhere.”

When Emily said nothing, Claire stood and approached the dresser. She popped the spring latch on the front of the cage. Leaning over the box, she inhaled the scent of pine shavings, musk, and wilting greens. She began to lift the bodies out. Tito and Frank, Gerald and Bonbon, Lucy and Pearl, their fur still downy beneath her fingertips. She placed them in the Ziploc and the plastic fogged, just slightly, with the last of the gerbils’ heat.

“Is it my fault?” Emily asked from the bed.

“It’s no one’s fault,” Claire said, pushing away her thoughts of Joel.

Leaving Emily behind, she carried the gerbils back to the kitchen and made space for them in the freezer. They watched her through cloudy, half-closed eyes – a mordant reproach, a silent accusation.

In the front hall, a bundle of coupons and bills and grocery store fliers spilled through the mail slot and scattered across the floor.

***

The rain lasted through the week. Joel’s letter didn’t arrive. But on Friday morning the skies cleared, and by Saturday, the ground was dry enough for digging.

In the garage, Claire sifted through cobwebs and clutter, hunting for the proper tools.

“Daddy said he’ll bring me a new gerbil when he visits next month.” Emily stood at Claire’s elbow, holding the shoebox they had chosen for the gerbils’ coffin.

“You need to ask me before you use the phone,” Claire said. She pulled a rake from a tangle of equipment, and a cascade of gardening gear crashed to the ground.

“The garage was more organized before,” Emily said, a note of disdain creeping into her voice. Claire didn’t respond, didn’t want to say something she’d regret, or admit that what Emily said was true.

A glint of white, pointed metal caught Claire’s eye, hidden beneath a coiled hose on the shelf.

“Found it!” Claire said, and yanked.

***

In the backyard on her hands and knees, Claire brought the trowel down hard. The first strike glanced off a rock, sending shock waves jolting up her wrist and forearm.

She was dimly aware of Emily watching over her shoulder, but the girl faded out of focus as Claire hacked around tree routes and muttered curses under her breath. Why had she suggested such a stupid place to dig? Why did there always have to be something beneath the surface? What was so hard about finding soft, easy dirt?

Claire didn’t notice when Emily slipped away. She kept on digging, focused, determined.

***

Half an hour later, Claire scrubbed grime from her fingernails at the kitchen sink. Post-rain sunlight dappled the yard and pooled the kitchen in clear, white light.

The mail carrier was late again.

She wiped her hands on her jeans, squared her shoulders, and tugged the freezer door. The gerbils waited behind the sweep of cold air, nestled between the ice cream and a bag of frozen shrimp – now expired – that Joel had bought but never cooked.

Claire took out the Ziploc and unpacked the rigid bodies one by one, lining the gerbils up on the Formica countertop.

The screen door scraped open, and Emily shuffled inside, her eyes puffy. In one grimy hand, she held a fresh bouquet, this one bolstered with clovers that had sprung up after the rain. Her shoes trailed mud as she crossed the carpet to the kitchen.

“For the grave,” she said, thrusting the flowers at her mother.

The screen door scraped open, and Emily shuffled inside, her eyes puffy. In one grimy hand, she held a fresh bouquet, this one bolstered with clovers that had sprung up after the rain. Her shoes trailed mud as she crossed the carpet to the kitchen.

“You can’t keep taking things from Mrs. Sherman’s garden.” Claire said. She didn’t bother pointing out the irony of a second gift of flowers, and accepted her daughter’s offering, nonetheless, shifting in front of the counter as she did so to mask the gerbils from view.

Emily traced a circle on the ground with her toe, then stomped in its center and turned away. She poked at the shoebox coffin where it sat on the counter, now filled with scraps of old fabric and leftover gerbil bedding.

“I don’t want to bury them,” Emily said at last. Claire’s knuckles tightened around the bouquet.

“They can’t stay in the freezer, honey.”

“I want to keep them in my room.”

Claire felt weariness seeping through her resolve. “We already dug the grave,” she said. “We can’t keep everything forever.”

Emily’s cheeks were steadily growing pink. Her hands clenched into furious fists.

“I want Daddy here for the funeral,” she said.

“I’m here,” Claire said. “You’ll have to make do with me.”

“You didn’t even like my gerbils.” Emily’s lower lip fought to keep from trembling. “I heard you tell Daddy he shouldn’t have gotten them for me.”

Claire looked out the back door where sunshine poured over the trees. She thought of the hours she had spent cleaning the gerbils’ cage, the money she had drained on food and bedding and toys, the way Joel had scoffed when she told him she was too overwhelmed to manage another set of lives.

“They’re easy,” Joel had said to her. “You know how much Emily’s going to love them.”

Somewhere down the street, a lawn mower started up and the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass wafted through the window. Where was the mail carrier? Where were those papers?

When Claire turned back, Emily was craning around her, slack-jawed at the sight of her gerbils cooling unceremoniously on the countertop.

“No, baby,” Claire gasped. She dropped down, scooped Emily into her arms.

“Let me go!” Emily shouted, wriggling and flailing. So much frantic energy in such a small body, so much pent-up fire, exploding out. “You’re so mean!” Emily screamed.

Claire lurched back and Emily hurtled away, dirty feet pounding, a blur of a girl, a comet of tiny rage. The hollow slam of the bedroom door finalized her escape. The lawn mower blazed on outside.

Breathing hard, Claire brushed a straggle of hair from her face. She stood and leaned over the counter, bracing her hands flat on its surface. She let her head hang low. The bouquet was a wreck on the floor, another mess to clean up. She allowed her eyes to slowly drift shut.

A signed piece of paper wouldn’t fix things now. It wouldn’t bring the gerbils back or help Emily understand how her mother felt. It wouldn’t make loneliness easier or repair past hurts. A document didn’t prove that the hard thing was the right thing, that digging a grave around roots and rocks was a worthier cause than digging elsewhere simply because the ground was soft.

When Claire opened her eyes again, a thread of water was snaking toward the tips of her fingers. The gerbils were beginning to leak, the frost on their fur now pooling beneath their soggy underbellies. Claire eyed them, dead and unknowing, murdered by the simplest of beautiful gifts.

Maybe Claire should call Joel, ask him to come over. Emily had said she wanted him there. Maybe a small part of Claire wanted him there too. But Emily was selfish in her childish way—was that a trait she had picked up from her parents? Maybe Emily simply didn’t know any better. Maybe Claire didn’t either. Maybe nobody did. Maybe all they could do was to keep marching forward.

Sniffing, Claire straightened and swept the wet bodies back into the Ziploc, one on top of the other. She threw the bag into the far corner of the freezer where it thumped against the wall and fell behind a pack of hot dogs.

The gerbils would be dealt with another day.

Claire strode out front to wait for the mail.