Losing Faith (6 page)

I glance back to find Dustin and Amy, figuring they’ll help me get some equilibrium. But all I see is the top of Dustin’s head. The way his hair jitters every few seconds, he must be playing games on his cell phone.

I’m not mad. Jealous, if anything. I wish that could be me, that I could find a distraction that takes me anywhere but here. Amy, nowhere in sight, is likely giving herself a makeover in the bathroom.

I almost scream when Mom grasps my leg. But the picture of Faith in church shocks me, too. She stands up on that same stage in front of us now, with arms outstretched in abandonment. She’d been part of the worship team for years, so it isn’t an unusual sight, but because she’ll never stand there again, it makes me catch my breath. Makes everyone in the whole room catch their breath.

Pastor Scott rests a hand on the podium, but doesn’t say anything when the picture fades. The silence is eerie. I fight the image of Faith in my dream with the same outstretched arms.

Even with the music stopped, Faith’s voice echoes in my head. Not any particular words, just a humming melody. Finally, the pastor flips through papers, clears his throat, and uses his forced professional voice to read an excerpt from the Bible. It ends in, “These three remain: faith, hope, and love.”

My stomach lurches at the words. No, they don’t remain. They don’t! Gripping the pew on either side of me, I suck in through my nose. I can hold it together if only her voice in my head would shut up.

Pastor Scott rustles through his stack of notes again, the congregation silently watching. Waiting. At last he pushes the papers aside, and without any notes, leans toward the microphone ready to ad-lib. “I don’t mean any disrespect,” he says, using a different tone now, like he’s ready to cheer us all up, “but there is a great side to all of this.”

A murmur covers the congregation. Mom’s choked cries intensify and Dad moves closer to comfort her.

“Of course we’ll miss Faith, but let’s think of the glory she’s enjoying now. She gets to be with her Lord! This is what she wanted!”

There’s a bustle around me. I want to check on Mom, see how she’s taking this, but I can’t seem to turn my head.
Deep breaths, Brie.

“I hadn’t spoken to Faith much lately,” he goes on. “Last year, when she was more active in my group, she was a real welcoming force for the new kids. Everyone really loved her.”

Last year? More active? How could she possibly have been more active? Faith was a youth group junkie since the day she turned twelve.

Mom’s breathing becomes quick, like she’s hyperventilating, so I place my hand back over hers. I glance at Dad, but he’s busy stroking Mom’s hair.

“So we thank you, God,” the youth pastor bellows, “for the time we did have with Faith.”

I feel a jerk to my hand as Mom pulls away and stands in one quick motion.

“The time we had with her?” Mom laughs a loud, cynical laugh, almost choking on her tears. “
We
didn’t spend any time with her!” She drops back to her seat, as though she can’t hold herself up any longer.

I get Mom’s point, though. Even the years we did have with Faith, she was either in school, or at some youth event. The youth group at Crestview surged in the last couple of years, and they have their own church services at the old fire hall, so Mom and Dad stopped seeing her Sundays, too. Still, I don’t think it’s really fair for her to blame Pastor Scott for that.

Dad stares straight ahead, like Mom’s outburst didn’t happen. And no one else steps in. When I glance around, people look away as if they aren’t really watching us. Mom folds over, almost in half, sobbing so loud I want to cover my ears.

Dad puts his arm over her, but keeps his eyes straight ahead. Apparently, the wall in front gives him strength. With
his face scrunched tight, Pastor Scott stands behind the podium. He blinks, clears his throat, and attempts to recover.

“I’m, um, terribly sorry.” He runs a hand through his shaggy hair. “Perhaps now would be a good time to open it up for those who would like to help us remember Faith.” His words are so quiet, he sounds like a different person. He backs away from the microphone. Now is the time when he’s supposed to give me the nod (so I can give him the corresponding
no way
shake) but he doesn’t angle even slightly in my direction. He probably doesn’t want to look at Mom.

I scan the room for an aunt or uncle, for someone who I can give my most pleading puppy-dog look to, but everyone avoids my eyes. Gripping my notebook with both hands, I totter up on shaky legs. Dad wants me to say something? Well, here goes, I guess. The people in the pews around me are still like a photograph while I inch my way up to the podium.

Everyone’s eyes fix on me at the microphone. Hopeful eyes. Like I’m going to say something that will make it all better.

“I can’t,” I blurt.

Pastor Scott immediately steps beside me and places his hand on my shoulder. He thinks I can’t bring myself to say anything. I scan the crowd again. That’s what they all think.

Flipping open my journal, I decide to just read the stupid
poem. People will be grateful for whatever I say at this point.

“I wrote this poem,” I say into the mic. The pastor’s hand falls off me and he backs away. “I’ve never read my poetry for anyone, not even Faith. But somehow I think she would want me to read this today.” I glance around the upper part of the room to catch my breath, but then realize how stupid I look.

I drop my head and race through the first lines.

“I wish I could talk about things from our lives

Faith would have retained it all, had she survived.”

I look up and smile a little to make it clear that I know it’s pretty lame, but then with all the somber faces staring back at me, I clue in to how inappropriate I look. I stare down at my journal.

I scan over the next lines and they’re all about me and my struggle to get through this. That suddenly seems inappropriate too. Shouldn’t this be about Faith? I run my finger halfway down my page looking for something about my sister. I swallow down my nerves and start again.

“That time with the tuba and breaking her arm

Will no longer conjure our whimsical charm.”

I can’t stop the flashes of memories in my head. The tuba that was bigger than she was. The coat hanger she used to shove down her cast to scratch with. It’s hard to clear the images. Part of me wants to keep concentrating on her face. But everyone is waiting for my next words and I can barely feel my tongue now from nerves.

“Disneyland seems like forever in the past.

That vacation, apparently, would be our last.”

My voice cracks and I stop for a second to catch my breath.

“The paint on the carpet will always remain.”

Just for a moment I visualize moving the ottoman permanently, so we could see the splotch all the time. Remember it.

“Why take the good things and leave us the stains?”

Even with these memories, I’m keeping calm

And wondering why I don’t lose it like Mom.”

I snap my mouth shut. When I wrote it, all I thought about was the fact that I haven’t cried all week. Now it looks like I’m
just bringing even more attention to Mom’s outburst. I know I need to push on. And fast.

“Whatever I say doesn’t help with the grief

If only I didn’t feel so much relief.”

As the words leave my mouth, they shock me. I know what I meant when I wrote them: the relief of having the cops out of our house, of Dad and his strength, of every moment I seem able to put one foot in front of the other. But saying it out loud, it sounds all wrong. My face heats up and I start to close my book in embarrassment. But the words ring out in the air, and I can’t just leave them there. With only two lines left, I reconsider and decide to just finish.

“All I can hope is she’s somewhere above

My sister, Faith, who I hated and loved.”

When I finish no one moves, and the buzz of the sound system takes over the silence. The moment is way too uncomfortable and when I peek up, stares come at me from all around the room. The relief line still rings in my head and I swallow hard, wondering just how wrong people
could have taken it. Or was it wrong to admit that sometimes I hated Faith, even if it is the truth?

I try to come up with some words, but suddenly Mom leaps out of her chair again, taking everyone’s attention, and before I can open my mouth, she runs for the back of the church.

The echo of her sobbing resonates, even after the doors close behind her.

Oh no.

“Excuse me,” I whisper, and don’t wait for a response. Rushing through the pews, I fly out the back doors into the lobby.

She’s not there, or in the bathroom, so I open the outside doors and scan the parking lot. Nothing. I race up the stairs to check the balcony. With no sign of her, I start to panic.

As I’m about to find a side door leading into the sanctuary and grab Dad, people start filing out of the main exit into the lobby. Somehow, Pastor Scott must have wrapped things up.

When people make their way through the main doors, they all give me concerned looks, like they wonder how I could possibly have said what I did. And now I wonder the same thing myself.

Okay, I’m sorry!
I feel like shouting.
But give me a break. Someone had to say something and it’s not like anybody else was taking over!

But I guess we all have to deal with grief in our own way. I just deal with mine by, oh, I don’t know, writing bad poetry.

Tessa Lockbaum comes into view. I’ve already assumed my defensive stance, due to the stares coming at me from every direction, so I’m ready to confront her. But when she lifts her head, my scowl stops at the tear on her cheek.

A tear. From Tessa Lockbaum.

How could she have even known Faith? Them hanging out would’ve been like Hitler consorting with Mother Teresa. In fact, I’m almost positive I’ve seen Faith move aside in the hallways right along with everyone else when Tessa tromped by.

Just as she spins away and hides her face, Dad grabs me by the shoulder. “Where’s your mother?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, my words drenched in apology. All I can think of is how I can ever get her to forgive me.

chapter
SIX

d
ad makes a beeline for the van while I tag along behind, rattling off all of the places I’ve searched for Mom.

“Maybe she walked?” Craning my neck in both directions, I see no sign of her in the parking lot. “She must be headed home, right? Where else would she go?” I’m not a babbler, so my incessant muttering makes me want to pinch my lips shut with my fingers. But I don’t. “Do you think she’s angry?”

Dad finally looks at me, but not in the way I expect. He studies me, eyes circling my face, as though I’m a mathematical equation, something he has to figure out. “Angry,” he murmurs. “Angry.” He turns away again and I can’t tell if he’s
thinking of how horrible I am or if his mind is somewhere else. We ride the rest of the way in silence.

Inside our front door, Mom’s coat lies across a chair. I let out a breath, but snatch up the coat and hang it in the closet. Mom’s the one who always nags at the rest of us to do this, and I try not to think about the oddity of cleaning up after her.

After seeing the coat, Dad heads back out the front door. “I’ll put the van in the garage.”

The house is quiet, which means Mom’s already gone up to their room. Good. I don’t have a clue what to say to her yet.

As I unzip my boots, a shadow appears behind me from the living room and I almost come out of my skin.

“What? Oh, Mom. It’s you.” Still with my other boot on, I stand there, lopsided. “You’re home. I mean, I’m glad you’re home. I didn’t mean what I … I’m so sorry about what I … said. Mom, are you … okay?”

She stands as still as the empty room behind her with her head down, listening, or not, to my rambling. If we were normal right now, she’d be pondering my apology, wondering whether or not she should let me off the hook. But if we were normal, I guess I’d have nothing to apologize for.

“Mom?”

Her clammy hand reaches to the back of my neck and
pulls me in. She kisses me on the forehead, something she never does, backs away, and turns for the stairs. In her right hand, she grips the Jesus statue from the mantel.

The way her hand wraps over his face makes me think she’s not taking it upstairs to pray.

During the burial the next day, the three of us are zombies. Thankfully, none of us have to speak or actually do anything. We’re all just there for show. I keep my eyes on the ground as the pallbearers lower the casket, as Pastor Scott reads from his Bible, as the small group of extended family and my parents’ friends say good-bye. Still no Celeste. Faith’s humming in my head is the constant that’s keeping me distant from it all. Keeping me in an alternate reality.

I try to focus on the least emotional people of the crowd. Men are the safest bet and I count how many are wearing dark suits. Back by the trees there’s a guy in jeans, which is a bit out of place, but if Dustin had come I’m sure he would have worn jeans too. This guy’s so far away from everyone else that he doesn’t even look like part of the service, but I can tell by the way he stares toward the closed casket that he must be here for this. For Faith.

I inch back from my parents and they don’t seem to notice. I’m lost in my thoughts and in Faith’s humming, when
I notice the guy in jeans glancing around. His features are chiseled, even from a distance. I’ve always loved longer hair on guys, and when he pushes his dark bangs away from his face, my heart skips a beat.