State of Grace (19 page)

I took a deep breath and, in the top right-hand corner, scribbled the date. I sat back and studied my work, particularly my handwriting. It was too sloppy. Almost illegible. Also, the ink was blue. I had mistakenly purchased blue instead of black pens at the student union bookstore at the beginning of the semester. I preferred black ink, so I had given the pens to Adelle. Or at least I thought I had. Clearly I had missed one.

Frustrated, I ripped out the page, wadded it into a tight ball, and threw it into the wastepaper basket. Blue ink would
not
work. I climbed back out of bed and went back into my closet, where my backpack hung on a heavy metal hook. I unzipped it and rooted around for a pen with black ink. I found an almost empty Bic pen, zipped the
backpack closed, and returned to the bed. Maybe, I thought, if I lay on my stomach as opposed to sitting up, I would be better able to write clearly.

“Okay,” I said once I was situated, the pillow bunched up under my chin. “Let's try this again.”

Angling the notebook slightly, I again wrote the date at the top of the page. This time I printed, rather than using cursive, and liked the look of it much better. I scooted the notebook up and poised my pen in anticipation of the first line. I considered again, where to begin. Immediately, my mind drifted to Charles Dickens' introduction to
David Copperfield
. I scribbled:
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born . . .

“Plagiarism,” I said as I ripped out the page.

My name is Birdie Holloway and this is my story
, I wrote.

“Boring and I don't go by Birdie anymore,” I said, ripping out the page.

I don't know where to begin this journal
, I wrote. The letters were sloppy and oddly shaped. Again, it wasn't how I wanted my handwriting to look. I ripped the sheet of paper from the notebook and put it with the rest of the mistakes. The fresh sheet glared brightly up at me. I tried again.

My name is Rebecca and I don't know how to begin.

“Better,” I muttered, “but I don't think I want my name attached to this. What if someone finds it?”

Suddenly, I was gripped by fear. What
if
someone found this and read it? The thought made my stomach clench into a tight knot. They would know what happened to me. They would know about Grace. They would know about the fear I carried inside me. Suddenly, journaling didn't seem like such a good idea. I ripped out this page as well. I looked at the stack of papers. They didn't just need to be thrown away. Because of the power of their intent, they needed to be destroyed. I folded them carefully and hid them under a stack of T-shirts in my closet. I would burn them tomorrow. Journaling was out. It was too . . . honest. Too real.

I considered Laura's other suggestions. The gym was out because of the germs. Running, which I had done in high school, was also not feasible because it would mean I was outside. She had also suggested art. I hadn't drawn anything since Grace's murder. It was too closely tied to everything that had happened—Don Wan's drawings, my selfishness in sneaking away to draw, and finding Grace's body. But what, I thought, if I didn't draw? What if I simply scribbled? Let the pen go wherever it wanted. There was no agency in that. It was just . . . lines.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I placed the point of the pen onto the blank sheet of paper. My hand shook and the urge to throw the pen and paper against the wall was overwhelming. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and let my hand and mind wander. Unlike in the past, I didn't try to control my thoughts. And as my mind worked, my hand moved, seemingly of its own accord. The lines were smooth and graceful. There was no control or even desire to control. It was hypnotic and cathartic and after what seemed like ten minutes, I stopped. I felt calm.

I glanced at the digital alarm clock, which read 5:05. I blinked, unable to believe it was the correct time—that more than an hour and a half had passed. I got up and padded to the kitchen. The time on the microwave read 5:08.

I turned and walked back to my bedroom. I picked up the notebook, which was covered with spirals and long curving, interconnected lines. It was a mess, but I could make out some images—a violin, an iceberg, an eye like the one on the back of a one-dollar bill, but ornamented with long, spindly eyelashes. I didn't remember drawing any of the images, although clearly I had. I felt tired. Weighted. Sleepy. I turned off the light and lay down on my bed, letting my body relax into the mattress. I sighed and turned my head to stare at the nightlight plugged into the socket next to the closet. My eyes became heavy, and before I knew it, I had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 16

It was after ten o'clock when I awoke the next morning. I didn't feel refreshed, but I did feel better. I had already missed my first class, so rather than get up immediately, I continued to lie in bed and think about the night before. Nightmares were nothing new to me—especially ones involving Grace. But this one had been particularly disturbing. The fact that she spoke to me, that she moved—it was a new and upsetting twist. And the ants. The ants were like something out of a Stephen King novel.

I rolled onto my side and felt around for the notebook. The entire experience of drawing and losing time felt as if it hadn't happened. It was surreal. But as I flipped through the pages, I realized that it had, in fact, happened. The images were there as proof. I studied them with a fresh eye. The drawings were rudimentary and almost childlike. But something about them was mesmerizing—especially the intricate spiral. I followed its path with my index finger.

“Rebecca,” called Adelle from the kitchen. “You still here?”

“Yeah,” I hollered back. “In my room.”

Adelle opened the door and looked in. She was dressed all in black and apparently had already been to class. “Whatcha doin'?” Her eyes zeroed in on the notebook and she pointed. “What's that?”

I looked down and tried to laugh off my discomfort at being caught, though caught at what, I wasn't sure.

“Oh, it's just some doodling I did,” I said. “Last night when I couldn't sleep.”

She came fully into the room and picked up the notebook. “Interesting,” she said as she turned the pages. She paused,
seemingly thinking about something before handing it back. “I wonder what it would look like in color? Or paint?” She continued to study the drawings. “It's almost like a labyrinth,” she mused. “Or like some of those rock carvings you see in the aboriginal tribes or with the Anasazi. Some people think they're maps and others think they were used for meditation or spiritual activities.” She looked up, saw my expression and grinned.

“Art History,” she said by way of explanation. She laid the notebook back on the bed. “So, I just wanted to see if you were all right. You know, after last night.”

“I'm okay. Tired, but okay. I eventually went back to sleep around five.”

“That's good.” She hesitated, as if considering whether or not to continue. “Listen, I know I said it last night, but if you ever need to talk . . .” She shrugged.

“I know.” I smiled at her. “And I will if I need to.” I glanced at the alarm clock. “But right now, I need to get up and go to class.”

Adelle smiled. “I'm glad.”

I frowned, not understanding what she meant.

“That you're going to class,” she explained. “Even though they don't take attendance, it's good that you're going. Some professors figure out when you just show up for the tests. So, maybe yesterday's visit helped?” She looked hopeful.

“I think so,” I said and pushed back the covers. “We'll see.”

I was surprised to find Natalie sitting on the front steps of the house when I came home that afternoon. More of Roger's work? I wondered as I returned her wave.

“Hiya,” she said as I reached the foot of the porch stairs. Even though she was trying to be lighthearted, I could tell she was anything but.

“Hi yourself. What are you doing here?”

She shrugged. “I needed a break from Mom, from Edenbridge.” She squinted into the pale afternoon sunlight. “So, how are you?”

I swung my backpack off my shoulder, climbed the steps to where she sat, and settled down next to her. “This semester's been kicking my butt.” I shrugged. “How's your mom?”

She sighed. “Depends on the day. Lately, she's been pretty bad, but they've finished the chemo, so now it's just, you know, recovery.” She shrugged. “That's part of how I was able to get away, though I'm not so sure that's a good thing.”

“Nat, I'm sorry,” I said and reached over to touch her arm. She smiled wearily and suddenly, I realized how worn and beaten down she looked.

“So,” she said in an attempt to change the subject. “Tell me about you. How are things?”

“Not much to tell,” I said. “Classes, homework, you know.”

She studied my face, no doubt taking inventory of the dark shadows under my eyes, my gaunt cheeks, the ever-deepening furrows of my forehead.

“You look tired.”

“All-nighters,” I lied. “School is . . .”

She looked pointedly at me and I knew she could tell I was lying.

“I heard about your friend,” she said finally.

I snorted softly and internally cursed Roger. “Make the papers in Edenbridge, did it?”

She ignored my sarcasm. “No. Your friend Roger called me.”

“Great!” I said, suddenly angry. “Fucking fantastic.”

“Birdie,” she said quickly, surprised by the vehemence of my reaction. She reached to put her hand on my shoulder. “Don't be mad at him. He's just worried.”

I wrenched away from her grasp, stood, and stomped up the steps. Natalie jumped up and hurried to my side as I fumbled to find the right key to the front door.

“It still gets to me, too,” she said softly. “I can only imagine how Adelle's attack brought back memories of what happened to Grace.”

At Natalie's mention of her name, I could feel Grace's interest pique. More and more frequently I felt her there, at the base of
my skull, her presence almost like an itch that was too deep to be scratched. Having Natalie present only intensified the sensation.

“I don't want to talk about it,” I said shortly. I felt Grace's disappointment.

“Fine,” Natalie said quickly. “You don't have to talk, but there are some things I want to say—things I
need
to say.” She hesitated and then said more softly, “Things I need you to hear.” She looked around the porch and then gestured toward the front steps. “Can we sit?”

“Don't you want to go inside?” I knew I sounded angry and defensive.

“In a little bit.” She walked back to the steps, sat down, and patted the space beside her. “Come sit with me? Please?”

The tickle that was Grace intensified. I sighed and moved to sit next to Natalie.

“I know you don't want to talk about Grace and I understand that, but we've never really talked about it—not really. I mean, there was that one time when we were kids and then that day at the Nest, when we got drunk, but other than that, not really.” She turned her head and studied me with an intensity that made me squirm. “Do you remember?”

“Yes,” I admitted softly. “I do.”

“And do you remember that I said some day we would need to talk about it? Well, that's today. I need to talk about it. And, whether you like it or not, I think you do, too.”

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. I didn't want to have this conversation. Not today. Not ever.

“I know you blame me,” she continued. “You think that if I hadn't convinced you guys to lie so we could go swimming, this might not have happened or that you wouldn't have been the one to find her. But that's not fair. I have spent more time than I can possibly tell you asking ‘what if . . .' I have tortured myself with what I could have done differently. How I could have stopped it. And you know what? There wasn't anything.”

I started to protest—to stand up, to leave. But Natalie put a firm hand on my arm and held me in place. I looked down at where
we were joined. Her fingernails were chewed to the quick, her cuticles ragged and scabbed.

“I know what happened changed you,” she said. “I saw it at school when you withdrew from everyone and everything. And I see it now. You never come home to visit. You avoid my calls and I know from talking to your mom that I'm not the only one who has noticed.” Her grasp on my arm tightened. She lowered her voice. “Birdie, her death affected all of us. It damaged
all
of us. And we've all had to deal with it. You're not alone. Let the people who love you, help you.”

I shook my head. “I don't need help.”

“Birdie, we all need help sometimes.” Natalie took a deep breath. “I take Prozac. My mom's doctor prescribed it. And it's helped. Maybe you should—”

“Jesus!” I exploded. “Why the fuck does everyone seem to think that medication or therapy or fucking talking about this is going to change anything?” Natalie jerked backward, startled at my display. “Taking
Prozac
isn't going to fix this. It's not going to
change
anything.”

“But it
will
,” Natalie said quickly. “It does.” She shook her head as if she were searching for the words that would change my mind. “I was having a hard time dealing with my mom's cancer. Leaving college to take care of her has been tough.” Her eyes filled suddenly with tears and I stared, caught between anger and curiosity. It surprised me to know that Natalie, who was always so strong, so in control, so powerful, was also so . . . fragile. She cleared her throat and wiped at the corner of first one eye and then the other. The edge of her finger, I saw, was smudged with mascara. She wiped it on her jeans and continued. “I'm seeing a psychologist. It's helped—to talk, I mean—about Mom. Dad. Life. Grace. I was having nightmares.”

Her expression, when she raised her gaze to meet mine, was knowing. Roger again. I said nothing and waited for her to make the point this was all leading up to.

“Roger called your mom. He said he wanted to surprise you by inviting me up for a girls' weekend. For fun. After he got my number, he called and said you were . . .”

“He said I was what?”

“He said you weren't sleeping well, weren't leaving the house, that you were skipping class, and that you have been very depressed since your friend was attacked,” she said. “He said he thought you needed a friendly face.”

When I didn't respond, Natalie reached for my hand. “Birdie, let me help.”

“Natalie,” I yanked my hand away before she could touch it. “I don't need your fucking help. Or Roger's. Or . . . anyone's. I just want to be left alone!”

“Calm down!”

I blinked at the command because it hadn't come from Natalie. It was Grace. Her voice the same as in my dream, the same as it had been when she had been alive.
“You need to stop overreacting. They already talk about you behind your back. Do you want to give them more ammunition? Just take a deep breath and chill out.”

I felt a calm—her calm—flow through me. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them to find Natalie staring at me—her eyes wide. I felt suddenly guilty and ashamed. I felt the blush crawl up my neck onto my face.

“I'm sorry,” I said quickly, my anger gone. “I . . . I don't know what hit me. I'm sorry.” This time I was the one who reached out—the one who touched her arm.

“Tell her you'll listen to what she has to say,”
Grace said. I hesitated and Grace's energy shifted, became more forceful.
“Tell her.”

“Please, Nat, I'm sorry,” I said. “Maybe I am stressed out.” I removed my hand from her arm and stood. “Let's just go inside and have a drink. I'll listen to what you have to say. I won't get angry again. I promise. I'm just tired from all the late nights. I didn't mean to go off on you like that.”

I stooped, picked up both backpacks, and slung them over one shoulder. She still hadn't moved. I looked down at her. She nodded slowly, thoughtfully, and then stood. She reached out for her bag, but I shook my head. We walked together to the front door and I inserted my key into the lock. As we stepped into the dark entry, I pointed up the wooden stairs.

“There are two apartments up there,” I said. “We have the
whole first floor.”

I inserted the key into the lock on the apartment door and then pushed it open. Natalie stepped in front of me into the narrow hallway. I followed her into the living room and set the bags on the floor next to the couch.

“Nice place,” she said as she studied the room. The afternoon light streamed through the window and caught in the prism Adelle had hung from the top of the window frame. Natalie wandered idly over to the mantel to look at the collection of bric-a-brac. “Not yours, though, is it?” She gestured to the mismatched candlestick holders that were covered with layers of different-colored wax from multiple candles.

“No,” I said. “My roommate's.”

“I didn't think so,” she said and then grinned. “You'd
never
leave candle wax on your holders. I'm surprised you haven't scraped it off when she wasn't looking.”

I smiled despite myself. There was, I thought, something strangely reassuring about being with people who had known you forever.

“It's good to see you, Birdie,” she said suddenly, as if reading my thoughts.

“You, too,” I admitted.

We studied each other as if gauging the damage of the past few years. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a banana clip, her bangs were teased into a fringe over her forehead. She was still pretty, but her looks were weighed down by the years. It was her eyes, I realized suddenly. When we were young, they had sparkled with playfulness and the promise of adventure. But now, they were simply a dull, tired brown ringed with smudges of fatigue. There were lines, too, along the outside corners that hadn't been there last time we were together. She looked, I realized with a shock, old.

“You look tired,” I said.

She smiled wearily. “I
am
tired. Taking care of Mom . . .” She shook her head and smiled sadly. “Some days it's all I can do to get out of bed.” She lowered her eyes and seemed to study the threadbare area rug Adelle's mother and father had given us for the apartment.

I cleared my throat. “I'm sorry about before.”

Natalie continued to look at the carpet. “I didn't just come here for you, Birdie,” she said finally. “I came here for me, too. I needed to get away—to be with someone who understands me.” She sighed and glanced up at me for a second before returning her gaze to the rug. “I needed to get away from Mom's sickness and Dad's denial and Edenbridge's, well, you know what I mean.”