IN WHATEVER WRECKAGE REMAINS by Maeve Kirk
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In whatever wreckage remains Item Type Thesis Authors Kirk, Maeve Download date 24/09/2021 15:50:49 Link to Item http://hdl.handle.net/11122/6617 IN WHATEVER WRECKAGE REMAINS By Maeve Kirk RECOMMENDED: Advisory Committee Chair Richard Carr, PhD Chair, Department of English --- ---^ APPROVED: ------ Todd Sherman, MFA IN WHATEVER WRECKAGE REMAINS A Thesis Presented to the Faculty of the University of Alaska Fairbanks in Partial Fulfilment of the Requirements for the degree of Masters of Fine Arts by Maeve Kirk, B.A. Fairbanks, Alaska May 2016 Abstract In Whatever Wreckage Remains is a collection of realistically styled short stories that examines both the danger and potential of change. These pieces are driven by the psychology of the men and woman roaming these pages, seeking to provide insight into the unique weight of their personal wreckage. From a woman craving motherhood who combs through forests searching for the unclaimed body of a runaway to a spitfire retiree’s struggle to accept her husband’s failing health, the individuals in these narratives are all navigating transitional spaces in their lives, often unwillingly. Along the way, they must balance the pressures of familial roles, romantic relationships, and personal histories while attempting to reshape their understanding of self. These stories explore the shifting landscape of identity, belonging, and the sometimes conflicting responsibilities we hold to others and to ourselves. v vi Dedication This manuscript is dedicated to my parents, who read me so many stories. vii viii Table of Contents Page Signature Page................................................................................................................................i Title Page...................................................................................................................................... iii Abstract ........................................................................................................................................... v Dedication....................................................................................................................................vii Table of Contents......................................................................................................................... ix Acknowledgements......................................................................................................................xi Resurrection of a Road Girl..........................................................................................................1 Catching Crazy............................................................................................................................. 19 A History of Leaving..................................................................................................................53 When the Echoes Hit Home....................................................................................................... 81 Gunshooting............................................................................................................................... 109 In Whatever Wreckage Rem ains............................................................................................ 151 ix x Acknowledgements Writing itself is often an isolated act, but I truly believe the final product is usually a testament to collaboration. There are so many individuals who helped me shape the stories contained in this collection, and I’m incredibly grateful for their help. I would like to thank Gerri Brightwell for providing so much guidance on the writing process, reading various drafts of these stories, and keeping me focused on the end goal. I would also like to thank Daryl Farmer for all of the feedback he’s provided on my work over the past three years, as well as for always being so incredibly encouraging and generous with his feedback and insights. Finally, I would like to thank Chris Coffman for her kind words and advice on the final project. Thanks to Craig Sanders for reading parts of my thesis even in the midst of writing his own (and for drawing plot diagrams of my work). Your stories and thoughts on writing always make me excited to sit down and create something; thanks for always being willing to share your insights and also for making me realize that I don’t include nearly enough cows in my writing. I also want to thank Natalie Taylor for kindly and patiently listening to all of my existential writing crisis moments, as well as for always having the answers to my never-ending questions. Your emotional support and baked goods are very appreciated. I would also like to thank all of the writers who have been in this program with me. I’ve spent the last three years giddy with amazement over the incredible amount of talent temporarily housed on the 8th floor of Gruening. I’m so glad I was able to read your stories, essays, chapters, poetry, and pieces that wonderfully defy genre altogether (I’m looking at you, desk buddy). Thanks for all the shared wisdom, good friendships, and inspiring me to no end. Words don’t express how much I’ve loved working with you guys. xi Last, but never least, I’d like to thank Riley Dugger for so many things, but there’s not enough space to list all of them, so I’ll settle for reading my entire thesis, helping me navigate graduate school, and, most importantly, for always being there. You’re forever my favorite. xii Resurrection of a Road Girl Most nights, Eileen Haskell gathers bones in her dreams. She searches for pieces of hitchhiker girls, the ones who vanished from highways and truck stop restrooms. The ones with fake names, dirty fingernails, graveled hearts. Sometimes she’s in a meadow, pushing aside thistles and Queen Anne’s Lace. Sometimes a shaking aspen grove where leaves hiss in the breeze. Her favorite is a dried-up lake bed: a hollow space filled with fish cartilage and water- smoothed rocks; a place where settling feels natural. The bones are always wrapped in blue cotton. Eileen finds them cocooned inside empty beehives, wrapped in weed tangles, embraced by tree boughs, places only she would think to look. They clink against themselves as she unwraps them. They spill out pitted and chalk-pale. She brings them back into the light, her hands full of the forgotten, the forsaken. How wonderful it is, to be the one who always pulls the outcast home, the girls who wander too far. But then she wakes with fingers curled into fists. Eileen was married by twenty-three and searching for more by twenty-five. She found the house first— a two story three bedroom with sea-green walls and an overgrown garden in the back, wild and sprawling, a space their future children would sculpt into other worlds. She could already hear them laughing. The night they moved in, she pulled Owen up to their room, kissing him with the certainty and eagerness of a prophet about to see God, a warmth that wouldn’t gain an edge for three months. She tried to be patient at first, she knew such things take time, but then a year passed and she was still waiting. When an apologetic doctor told her she’d never be a mother, Eileen realized she might spend the rest of her life searching. She stared at tongue 1 depressors while the woman in white explained logistics: the way things should be versus the way things were. She was given in-vitro pamphlets and numbers for specialists, a stiff hug. That night, she and Owen climbed to the roof of their sea-green home to escape the papers lining their dining room table—ink-stained with estimated costs, likely odds, a series of equations factoring in house payments and the too-small sums of their jobs, none of which gave them an answer they wanted. Eileen pressed her bare feet to the shingles until she knew the pressure would leave marks. “It’s going to work,” said Owen. “It will.” Eileen stared down at the garden, how dangerous it looked in the dark. “It’ll take so long. All that money.” Owen shook his head. “Our timeline’s changing, but it’ll work. We’ll save the money. Don’t worry. It’ll work.” Eileen tried to imagine waiting years rather than months. How badly it would hurt if this too fell apart. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” she said, the ache in her own words cutting her all over again. Owen drew his knees to his chest. “I know,” he said, wrapping his arms around his legs. “But it’ll happen. And, you know, waiting will make us love it more, I can promise you that.” The way he said it, careful and heavy, Eileen knew he was thinking about the other one: the one his high school girlfriend didn’t want to keep, the one Eileen didn’t want to hear about right now. “Please don’t do that,” she said, her fingers tracing the outline of a shingle. “What?” “Pretend like you know how I’ll feel,” she said. “This isn’t the same thing, not at all.” There was a rustling below them, a shiver of leaves as a neighborhood cat ran out from beneath 2 one of the drooping shrubs in the backyard. Its eyes glowed in the streetlight as it looked up at Eileen. “I’m trying to say this means so much to me too, Eileen. It’ll be worth it when it happens. That’s all I’m trying to say.” The cat turned and Eileen watched its sleek, thin body wiggle through the slats in their fence. “We should go in,” said Owen. He stood up and offered her a hand. Eileen was the one who decided to make a preliminary appointment. “There may be things they want me to do in the meantime,” she told Owen after making the call, not mentioning how faith had hardened into doubt, how she needed someone to