Losing Faith (7 page)

I know this is not the time to think about cute guys, but still, I take another step toward him. How did he know Faith? How come I don’t recognize him? He doesn’t look like the clean-cut guys from church youth group. I take another step, edging out of the circle of mourners this time. They’re all so captured by Pastor Scott’s speech, none of them seem to notice.

Mystery guy wears a red and black checkered jacket and now that I’m closer I can see the crease down the front of his blue jeans. He holds a bundle of carnations down at his side. I try to ignore the clothes and concentrate on his etched expression, intent and contemplative. Something about him seems different and I’m drawn toward him.

Maybe he senses this, because he turns in my direction. I’m not sure what I’m doing exactly. I have a boyfriend. I guess I just want to say hi, maybe ask where he knows Faith from. But suddenly he jolts like he’s been woken up from a dead sleep, drops the flowers, which scatter around him, and backs quickly behind an adjacent tree.

I dazedly look behind me, wondering what spooked
him. Nothing. No one in the service seems to have moved a muscle.

Staring in the direction of the tree where he disappeared, I drop my bag, check over my shoulder to make sure my parents are still occupied, and inch into the woods. But he’s not there, behind that tree. In fact, I don’t see him anywhere. Did he just vanish into thin air? I focus on a path through the trees, and when I’m out of sight of the burial group, I take off in a run.

Soon the path fades into bushes and stumps, and I’m not sure which direction to head in. When I look around, I think I catch movement straight ahead. I pick up my pace again. I don’t even know what I’ll say if I find him, but now I need to. It feels like my sanity depends on it.

Well into the forest, I take in my surroundings. Everything looks like it’s moving now. The rustling of leaves envelops me like surround sound. I make a false start, but then realize it’s only another gust of wind.

“Hello,” I call out. “I just want to talk to you.”

But there’s no response. It takes me several minutes to admit he’s gone, whoever he is. And if I don’t return soon, I’ll have no idea how to find my way back to the cemetery.

My lungs ache after the jog back to Faith’s grave and I’ve questioned my muddled brain the whole way. Did I really see him?
Maybe my mind was so desperate for distraction that I created a mirage of a hot guy. That makes more sense than anything.

When I near the clearing, I slow down and peer around a tree until I’m sure no one will notice my reappearance. People are consoling my parents and the service must be finished.

The sky has clouded over and I wish I’d brought a heavier sweater, but when my parents glance over and give me the look that it’s time to go, suddenly I’m not ready. I wasn’t here for the service and didn’t get a chance to think about what just happened. They’re burying my sister.

People clear quickly, either from the cold or from the realization that my parents want this to be over. I get Dad alone and ask if he minds if I hang around a few minutes and catch a bus home. “I’ll be home before dark,” I add.

I half expect him to say no, but he must be too emotionally exhausted. He nods, then leads Mom back toward their car.

When the last car pulls away and I walk over to collect my backpack, I spot the carnations. They’re blowing around the perimeter of the cemetery. The boy
was
here. But he couldn’t have known Faith well if he brought full-bloom carnations. Flower buds were her favorite—didn’t matter what kind, as long as they were young flowers. The promise of new blossoms, she always said.

I pick up each carnation and bring them over to Faith’s plot. Even in full bloom, Faith would want them. It’s tempting to keep thinking about the boy, keep wondering about him, but I don’t let myself.

Faith’s gravestone isn’t up yet, but there’s a plaque propped up that emblazons the dates of her birth and death. They look like the expiration dates on a can of soup. Seventeen years doesn’t appear like nearly enough time for the life of a person. The rest of the flowers surrounding the plaque and atop the casket are barely buds. I keep my eyes from the lowered casket and distract myself by wondering if people will come down here to change the buds so they don’t bloom.

Under the date and her name reads a simple Bible verse and I have to ask myself,
Can’t anyone be a little bit original and come up with something other than Scripture to say something about her?

I shake my head, suddenly realizing maybe this is what she would have wanted. Still, a part of me knows there was more to her than youth groups and Bible verses.

Gnawing my lower lip, I read the verse. “He said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.’”—Mark 5:34.

I know this is meant to bring some kind of comfort, but when I read the word
healed
, all I can picture is Faith’s mangled body at the bottom of Blackham
Mountain.

I try again to focus on anything but the casket and I’m done looking at her plaque, but my knees feel glued to the ground. I can’t leave yet. I fiddle with the handle on my backpack.

“There’s this thing,” I say quietly. As if she can hear me anyway. “I guess I should read you this thing.”

Digging through the front pocket of my pack I find the folded piece of paper. “I’ve been kind of confused these last few days. And angry.” My eyes drift over the first couple lines. “Yeah, it’s not Shakespeare or anything.” After the complete mess I made at the funeral yesterday, I can’t believe I’m even thinking of this. But I glance around and the cemetery’s empty. Just her and me.

Even though I know this is stupid, I can’t stop staring at the words. “Well, I’m going to read it to you. Because you’re the only one I can read it to. But take it with a grain of salt, okay?”

I smooth out the paper and clear my throat. “It’s a poem just for you.”

“Everyone knew you much better than me.

Our empty house mutters instead of sings

Your voice annoys me wherever I go.”

I choke a little on this line, but don’t let myself stop.

“You went before me, taught me to grow.”

I glance at her grave. “Way too sappy, huh?” I brush a tear from my cheek and press on.

“They wanted me to be more like you

I hate that this is probably true.

But most of all, I’m mad that you left

I hate you for that. Your greatest theft.”

The last words are barely recognizable because I sob through them. I fold up the paper and her humming trickles back into my head, softly at first, like the flutter of butterfly wings, then louder so I can almost make out her words. Even though I don’t know when her humming stopped, now, hearing it, I feel like I can breathe again.

“You always wanted to hear my poetry. I told you it was bad. And this is one of the better ones.” I choke out a laugh. “You know, the one thing I should scratch out is the part about your voice. I can’t say anything bad about it. I just can’t.”

I rub at my throat, as if I suspect her voice might erupt out of me. But no such luck. I push
myself up from my knees and lean down to pick up my backpack. “It sucks, you know?”

When I turn to leave, my legs don’t let me. Looking back at her grave, the buds of newness, I wipe away my tears one more time.

“I miss you, Faith,” I whisper.

And then I’m done. I know I am.

chapter
SEVEN

t
he next day is Friday and I spend the whole day and most of the weekend in bed like I haven’t slept in weeks. The truth is, I feel as though I’ve been sleeping more than ever, since my whole life is like one big hazy dream. But my body is exhausted and each time I wake up, it seems just as easy to shut my eyes again and let Faith’s hum lull me right back to sleep.

Sunday afternoon I get around to checking my cell phone and e-mail and find several “How R U?” messages from Amy and a couple from our friend Steph. I double-check to make sure I didn’t miss anything from Dustin, but there’s nothing.

It’s not personal, I know that. Just discomfort. It’s better
if I see him at school, where we have our history of how we act together.

I hit reply and tell both Amy and Steph that I’ll be back in class tomorrow. Even though I haven’t discussed this with my parents, it seems obvious to me. Get on with things so I can find some part of my life that feels normal again.

When I head downstairs for something to eat, Dad sits on the living room couch staring at the wall.

“Hey,” I say, trying to make my voice as even as possible.

He blinks and looks both directions before dropping his eyes to a pile of papers on the coffee table in front of him. “Oh, hi, sweetie.”

“Hungry?” I ask, heading for the kitchen. I’m not even sure
I’m
hungry, but I’ve barely eaten lately and I’ve been getting more and more dizzy since the burial. At first I assumed it was an emotional reaction, or a consequence of too much sleep, but now I’m wondering if it could just be lack of sustenance.

“I’m busy,” he says, which doesn’t answer my question.

I look in the fridge and the most obvious thing is a pizza box on the middle shelf. It’s not until I open it up and see the pineapple piled up on half of the remaining pieces that I realize how old it is. Faith was the only one in the family who liked pineapple. The thought of eating it, even if it isn’t filled with salmonella, makes me want to hurl. I dump the whole thing in
the garbage and cut up some cheese to go with a box of crackers from the cupboard. After making a plate up for Dad and one for myself, I push through the door into the living room.

This time Dad’s not zoned out, but rather looks like he’s had too much caffeine. He picks up papers, places them down again. Grabs the phone and starts dialing, only to shut it off and drop it back onto the table. I watch from just inside the room as his behavior becomes more and more frantic.

“Where’s Mom?” I finally walk over and place the plate of cheese and crackers beside his papers. Just as I do, he decides he needs that space to spread out his work and holds the plate up, darting his eyes around in frustration. Doesn’t seem like a hard problem, but it shocks me that Dad, of all people, can’t find the simple solution. “Here.” I take it and put it on a side table instead.

Since he doesn’t seem able to answer my question about Mom—it’s pretty obvious she’s up in their room again anyway and besides, I was only trying to make conversation—I head back for the stairs.

Being alone is just so much easier.

Plan E: Somehow we all need to get back to normal.

Monday the Jenkins Family of Three returns to real life. Dad looks like he’s been doing hard labor through the night
when he drags himself to the coffeemaker first thing in the morning. He spent the last five days taking care of all the remaining incidentals surrounding Faith’s death. It would probably have taken me a year to get around to contacting everyone affected, but Dad’s already called her optometrist, dentist, and schoolteachers, old and new. Taking care of all the details is obviously helping him get through it.

His real job, Concord Financial Services, could do without him for another week I’m sure, but he’s pushing himself, getting back on that horse. And I understand how it would be easier to just think about numbers right now.

I’ve tried all weekend to come up with a way to tell the church ladies to stop bringing us food. Mom needs to cook again. Cooking is numbers for her.

And for me, numbers, I’ve decided, is school. I’d never admit it to anyone else, but I actually don’t mind school. Of course that wouldn’t be apparent from the amount of homework I’ve done this week. Each time I open my schoolbooks, all I can think of is how Faith will never spend another day in classes. She’ll never graduate, even though she was a good student. I want to keep up on my schoolwork, I do, but at the same time it almost doesn’t feel fair.

Instead, I’ve spent most of my mind-numbing hours thinking about how I’ll act with Dustin when I go back.
Amy and everyone else will be easy, business as usual, but I don’t want my boyfriend to think I’m a basket case and not know how to talk to me anymore. I practice phrases like “Hey, how’s it goin’?” and “Yeah, actually, I’m doing okay” in front of my mirror until I can pass them off without a flinch.

But it’s far from business as usual at Sharon High Monday morning. It appears that way when I first step through the school doors, but then two kids near the entrance stop mid-conversation and stare. They go back to talking, but in nearly a whisper.

Give me a break!
I drop my eyes away from every silent stare and angle for my locker. I was positive the hum of Faith’s voice wouldn’t survive the busy hallways at school, but the odd tranquility makes the humming seem even louder. Amy stands only a few doors down from my locker, chatting with another girl, and hasn’t noticed me yet. Which is amazing, since the rest of the school seems to be on Brie Alert.

Tessa Lockbaum’s locker, right next to mine, is marked with a dull black lock that looks like something out of a junkyard. A sticker covering the number of her locker reads
F*** YOU
, the asterisks added overtop in her own handwriting in order to not officially break school rules. At least she’s nowhere in sight.

I call out, “Hey, Amy. How’s it goin’?” a little too loudly, so
all the students in the vicinity can take in my even-keeledness.

She peeks past the open door of her friend’s locker and smiles. “Hey.”

We walk toward our first classes together, and I know it’s my obligation to break the silence. I mean, what’s she going to ask about?

“So what’d you do this weekend?” I say, pulling from my repertoire of pre-practiced phrases.