Losing Faith (10 page)

“Corey was hit by a truck.”

I blink, not knowing what she’s talking about, but also not about to ask.

“My sister, Corey. I was supposed to be watching her while my mom went inside to get us a snack,” she adds, without emotion, like she’s said it a hundred times.

“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. Does she want to talk about it? I mean, obviously she does if she’s brought it up. “Were you and Corey close?” As soon as it leaves my mouth, I bite my lip. It’s so not what she wants to hear. I, of all people, know that. “I mean, does it get easier? Like, after a few years.”

Even though she doesn’t answer right away, the question feels much better. And the look on her face tells me she’s thinking about it.

“Yes and no,” she says, finally. “Sometimes you have to force things to get easier.”

I think about that. About her wardrobe and attitude. I try to think of ways I could force my life to get back to normal, force my parents to talk to me, but I can’t imagine myself taking such drastic steps. Things must have been pretty bad for her.

“Is that why you were at Faith’s funeral?” I ask, picking at the stitching on the side of my jeans.

She shrugs. “I guess. I just thought, you know, we should talk.”

I offer a smile, thinking we’re having a bonding moment. But suddenly she walks straight for the door beside me, and whips it open so hard it bangs against the wall again.

“I gotta bail,” she says, and tromps down the hallway without even saying good-bye.

chapter
NINE

b
y the time I get back to my locker, it’s after four and I’ve almost regained my proper breathing pattern. Who knew Tessa and I could relate on any subject, especially this one? I grab my backpack, stuff it with books, and head for the door. My cell phone beeps through the canvas, and I bend down to dig it out.

Three missed calls. Two from Dad’s office, and one from home. Dad doesn’t like wasting minutes on my cell phone, so whatever it is, it’s important. My hands tremble while I scroll to the last call and hit send.

All I can see in my mind is Mom’s depressed face.

“Are you okay?” Dad asks when he answers the phone on the first ring.

“Uh, yeah, of course,” I say. “Is everyone … is Mom okay?”

“Yes, yes. Where are you?”

I start to clue in that he’s worried about
me
because I’m late getting home from school. “I’m on my way, Dad. I had to stay after class to catch up.” He doesn’t need the whole background on Tessa Lockbaum. He’s got enough to worry about and I don’t know how I’d even start to explain.

“When will you be home?”

He suggests picking me up, but I talk him out of it and promise to be home within minutes. I hang up and break into a run.

Plan H: Apologize profusely until Dad calms down.

After catching my breath, I push through the doorway and wait for Dad to start his lecture so I can reply with my apologies. Then, while we’re at it, I can tell him how confused and alone I feel. Get it all out before I start dying my hair black and covering my body with piercings. I’ve spent the last few years avoiding talking to my parents, but maybe now’s the time to start. Maybe this one good thing could come of Faith’s death.

“I have to get back to the office,” Dad says, reaching
past me for the door, not saying another word about it.

My mouth drops open as I watch his back all the way to the van.

The rest of the week, I focus on avoiding Amy in the hallways. Tessa doesn’t come by our lockers while I’m there and I wonder if it’s coincidence or if she’s avoiding me now. I’ve been coming up with fresh excuses of why I can’t be alone with Dustin. Thankfully I haven’t had to use the “my sister just died” excuse yet, but I can feel it coming, especially Friday afternoon when he tells me he has the whole weekend free for me.

“My dad, he’s not letting me go out at night right now,” I say.

He cocks his head like he doesn’t understand, and I feel like a child, an elementary school student who has to ask permission to go to the neighbor’s and play.

“Maybe we could go to a matinee or something?” I offer.

He purses his lips, not like he’s considering it, but like he doesn’t quite have the words to reply. Like he’s caught on to my sidestepping and is about to call me on it.

“Or maybe I can sneak out,” I add quickly, not meaning to, hardly comprehending that I could do that to my parents right now, but feeling him slipping away.

He smiles and kisses my cheek.
“That’s my girl. I’ll call you,” he says before backing into the school for wrestling practice and leaving me to walk home with my horrible self.

Saturdays are not a usual workday for Dad, but he’s gone by the time I get up the next morning. Mom ignores me, which is nothing new. Since the funeral she pretty much ignores life, but today I take it personally. I think it’s my fault for scaring her yesterday when I didn’t come home right after school. Obviously Dad wouldn’t have had a clue if she hadn’t called him to come home from the office.

Mom pads around the kitchen in silence, and I know it won’t be long before she ducks back up to her bedroom.

“I’m sorry,” I say when we bump into each other at the kitchen sink. And I am. Sorry they got stuck with me. I’m sure they’ve wondered about it too: Why couldn’t we have kept the good one?

Mom doesn’t respond, just fills her coffee cup and walks out of the room.

I drop my head to the counter. Why won’t my parents talk to me?

When I lift my head several minutes later, I stare around at our drab kitchen. My loneliness personified. Mom used to breathe creativity and life into our house. Used to bring home
flower arrangements from the shop almost daily. Then she’d change up tablecloths, artwork, whatever, to give the place a fresh feel. That’s what she called it. Fresh.

Not that I ever showed any appreciation for it.

The dust on the blinds, scum around the usually shiny stainless steel sink, and crumbs accumulating on the edges of the floor make the place feel old and used-up.

Stale.

It wouldn’t kill me to do something about it.

For the rest of the morning, I don’t leave the kitchen. I wipe down the blinds and the counter; I pull out the scrub brush and go to town on sink scum. Scrubbing. Polishing with a vengeance. The harder I scrub, the harder I need to scrub. Hating myself. Hating Faith for leaving me to be the sole hope for my parents. Even hating Tessa for making me feel for only one second like I wasn’t alone.

When Dad walks through the door after lunch, he looks different. His suit jacket is folded neatly over his arm. He places his car keys down deliberately and walks across the room with measured steps.

“We have to talk,” he says, and pulls out a kitchen chair.

At first I can’t believe my ears. He finally wants to talk to me! I sit across from him but don’t pull my chair up to the table, since something still doesn’t feel right.

“I spoke with the school,” he says. “I’ve requested that any teachers who plan to keep you after class phone me first.”

Is he serious? I used to always come home way later. And okay, things are different now, but still. “I’m sorry, Dad. I should’ve called. I guess I didn’t think you’d worry as long as I was home by—”

“I’d appreciate that,” he says, and the way his voice sounds, he’s not angry. Not at all. Just scared. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

I lean forward, putting my hands flat on the table between us to show him I’m ready for this.

“It’s not healthy to go through this”—he clears his throat—“time alone. There’s a pastor at the church I want you to talk to about … uh … well … about how you’re feeling. I know you haven’t been attending youth group, but it’s important to lean on God and the church in times like these.”

He’s passing me off to the church? “Dad, if we could just …” I want to say more, but I know that look on his face. “Fine. When?” I ask.

His eyes stay fixed on the table between us. He can’t even look at me to see how much I need him. “I made an appointment for you at three today.”

I flick the edge of the table where the varnish is peeling off. Then again, going to the church would give me a chance
to get my mind off Dustin. And if my parents won’t talk to me, maybe the youth pastor, someone else who knew Faith, will.

“Sure.” I nod. “Three o’clock.”

Dad doesn’t say anything else. Just slides back from the table, spins, and marches out the door.

Great. Thanks, Dad. Glad we could have this enriching conversation.

Plan I: Track down Captain Scotty.

At five to three, I get out of Dad’s van and walk across the carpeted foyer of Crestview Church. The last time I was in the building was for Faith’s funeral. The time before that, the Easter service nearly six months ago. Faith’s voice booms in my head, and I notice it for the first time all day. Her ever-present hum has become so commonplace that it doesn’t even interrupt my thoughts anymore. It comforts me now as I grasp for my inner strength. I’ll need an extra dose of it to brush off whatever they’re going to preach at me here.

At the front office, I give the secretary my name, and wait while she looks up my appointment.

“I see you’re scheduled with Pastor Overly at three,” she says.

Pastor Overly. My parents have had him over for dinner
before. They should call him “Pastor Olderly” though, since he’s practically a fossil. “Shouldn’t I be seeing a youth pastor?”

She scrunches her wrinkly face at me. “Oh, yes, of course.” She scrolls down her computer screen. “Pastor Scott keeps his own calendar, but if you want to check at his office, it’s right that way.” She points down the hall. “If he’s busy, feel free to come back to see Pastor Overly. He’s wide open.” Her face is slightly smug and I have the feeling I’ll be back within minutes.

When I reach Pastor Scott’s office, I take a breath and knock. I shouldn’t be nervous, I tell myself. I’d much rather talk to someone who really knew Faith.

I wait several minutes before deciding he’s not in there. Maybe I could leave a note. Pushing the door open tentatively, I see books. Tons of books, all over the desk and the floor, but not neat, like in Dad’s office at home. Some left open, others stacked in precarious-looking piles. I scan the desk to see if there’s a day planner there somewhere, but it’s impossible to tell among all this crap.

The room is windowless, which makes me feel claustrophobic. I step inside anyway.

“Hello?” The booming voice of Pastor Scott sounds behind me and I knock the door open into a tower of books, toppling them over.

“Oh, I’m—I’m sorry!” I scramble to the strewn books, not even turning to acknowledge the guy. I do my best to scoop them into something resembling a pile.

He lets out a deep laugh. “Oh, leave them, please. Those things fall over all the time.”

No doubt.
I start to pull away, but it feels way too awkward leaving this haphazard pile. “I don’t mind,” I say. Lifting a big textbook from the stack, I start a new pile, quickly taking stock of the biggest books and arranging them in a structurally sound way.

He walks past me and drops into the chair on the far side of the desk, placing his freshly filled coffee cup down.

When I finish assembling the stack, I stand and would offer my hand, but Pastor Scott is busy sorting through his mess of papers with his head down. He is wearing that American Eagle sweater again and, even though I think it would look better on Dustin, it does do something to endear him to me.

“I’ll just be a second,” he says.

I wait in uncomfortable silence until he finally clears his throat and looks up.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m Faith Jenkins’s sister. Brie,” I say.

“Of course. I remember you from the funeral.” He checks his watch. “Have a seat.”
He motions to the one across from him. “How are you doing?”

His voice sounds kind and I want to give an honest answer, but I proceed carefully. “Um, okay. My dad thought I should come in and talk to someone here at the church.”

He nods, encouraging me to go on.

“I have some questions about my sister.”

“Obviously, I don’t know how you feel,” he says, “but I loved Faith. I love all the kids in youth, of course, but Faith was special. She had such a soft heart.”

I take a deep, slightly guarded, breath. It feels good to have someone talk about Faith so openly, like she really was real. “My dad wanted me to see someone because he can’t really talk about everything yet.”

“Has he told you that?”

I stare at him for a second. I’m not used to people being quite this forthright. “Look, my parents don’t want to talk about anything right now.” I stand up, feeling like it might make me come across as stronger so he won’t think he can manipulate the things I know are true. “I know you’re just doing your job. Talking things out is the best thing, and all that, but my parents just need some time right now, and to not worry about other stuff.”

Pastor Scott stands too. “You’re not other stuff, Brie. Whether you like it or not, you’re their daughter.” The force of his voice makes me
look at him. “I know it’s been hard, but maybe if they focus on you right now, it’ll help them through this. I know you’re trying to think of them, but maybe what you’re actually doing …”

He goes on, but I tune out. So I’m the cog that’s holding them back, huh? Whatever. These aren’t the kind of answers I came here for, and they make an anger burn within me.
I’ve tried!
I want to yell at him.

“You and Faith are so different, but it still makes me feel like a piece of her is around when you’re here.”

His comment takes me back and makes me think about Faith’s voice. How I can hear it and he probably can’t. And it is nice to have a piece of her. “How exactly do I remind you of her?”

A small smile tugs at the side of his mouth. “I don’t know. It’s something. Maybe your eyes. Or maybe it’s your smile. No, wait. I haven’t seen yours yet to compare.”

I let my mouth form into a smirk. Faith and I did look alike. Before she got her glasses and I discovered the world of straightening irons, people used to mix us up all the time.