State of Grace (12 page)

“In a bit,” she said and flopped back to stare at the canopy of leaves. The afternoon was bright and, surprisingly mild. I lay back next to her, our bodies at angles, our heads touching. I looked up to see bits of blue through the green.

“Sometimes I go outside and lay on the grass and look up at the sky,” she said. “I stare up at the clouds or, if it's night, the stars. When I'm out at Grandpa and Grandma's, it's so dark . . . you can see every star in the sky. It's like someone tossed a bunch of glitter into the air and it's just suspended there, catching the light.”

We lay for several minutes, not speaking, until Natalie finally broke the silence.

“Sometimes, I wonder if the stars are really just the souls of the dead, up there looking down on us.”

I rolled my head sideways to look at her. Her expression was wistful.

“I wish she were here.” She turned her head so she could look at me. I blinked, but said nothing. “Do you think about her?” Natalie asked, her gaze unwavering. “You never really talk about her. You don't really talk about much of anything.”

“There's nothing to say,” I said finally. “And talking about her doesn't change anything.” I lifted my head, chin to my chest and raised the bottle to my lips. Vodka spilled out of my mouth and ran down my chin onto my shirt. I immediately wondered how I was going to explain the smell of alcohol to my mother.

“I sometimes think about the last thing she saw before she died,” Natalie said.

“Jesus, Natalie!” I exclaimed, even though I had wondered the same thing myself. “Why would you think about that?”

She shrugged and reached for the bottle. I handed it to her and she lifted it to her lips and drank deeply. I watched the muscles of her throat work as she swallowed.

“Natalie, you weren't there,” I said as she swiped the back of her hand across her lips. “You didn't see her. You didn't—”

“You can't continue to blame me, you know,” Natalie interrupted, emboldened by the vodka.

“What makes you think I blame you?” I snapped.

“I can tell,” Natalie said. “Ever since the funeral. I see it in your eyes. You blame me because it was my idea to lie to our parents. It was my big idea to meet up there. It was my fault that you found her.”

“That's not it,” I said and then stopped, unsure what “it” really was.

“But you know what?” Natalie said and stabbed her finger in my direction. “It was her mom's fault. It was Reggie's fault. It was her dad's fault.
They
were the ones who let her down.
They
were the ones who broke the rules. You and me . . . we were the
good
part of her life.”

I stared at her, the warmth in my belly replaced with something else—something dark. I had accepted that Grace's voice in my head, her energy living inside me, was punishment for letting her down and for finding her body when it was most vulnerable. I cared more than Natalie and, as such, was being punished while Natalie was spared. It wasn't fair.

“Bullshit,” I said, suddenly, unaccountably angry. “
We
were the ones who let her down.
We were
, Natalie. We should have been there for her. We should have helped her. We knew what was going on.”

“We were kids, Birdie.” Natalie threw up her hands in frustration. “Jesus, we're
still
kids.”

I shrugged and we sat for quite a while in uncomfortable silence.

“I miss her,” Natalie said suddenly. “Not just today. I miss her every day. I miss the three of us—the way we used to be.” She reached out to touch my arm. “I miss you, too—the way you used to be.”

I turned, then, to look at her.

“You've changed,” she said. “You're distant and . . . I don't know. It's like you're untouchable.”

I felt my anger fade at the sincerity and vulnerability of her words. “You're touching me now.” I gave a conciliatory half-smile.

“That's not what I mean,” she said and pulled her hand away. I could tell that her feelings were hurt.

“Nat,” I began and then stopped. There was nothing I could
say—no words that would explain any of it. “I'm sorry.”

She raised the bottle again to her lips.

“It's okay,” she said sullenly and took another drink before handing me the bottle. She flopped back down and closed her eyes. I looked at her. She wore makeup now and the mascara made her eyelashes seem impossibly long. I wanted to touch her face—to tell her again how sorry I was. Instead, I took another gulp of vodka and lay back down next to her.

“You're going to get me in so much trouble,” I said. “Mom is going to kill me.”

“You?” she laughed. “Fat chance. You have to break the rules to get into trouble.”

“And what do you call this?” I asked, gesturing broadly to include the Nest, the clearing and the vodka.

“I call this . . . necessary,” she said with a grin.

I looked up at the leaves, stationary in contrast to the Nest, which now seemed to spin.

“Whoa,” I said. “It feels like the Nest is moving.”

Natalie laughed. “You should probably stop.” She sat up, her upper body swaying slightly. “Whoa. We probably both should.”

“I don't want to,” I said, frowning as I tried to make my thick tongue work. “It feels good. I'm so . . . relaxed. I don't think I've felt like this since . . . since . . .” I threw up my hands. “A long time.” I could hear my words; they were slurred despite my best efforts.

“I think you're drunk,” Natalie said.

“Me, too,” I said and laughed loudly. “But I don't wanna stop. I wanna stay like this.”

Natalie made a face and then nodded seriously. “Okay, but we should go down to the clearing now.”

Her words sounded . . . blurry.

“If we have more and try to climb down, we'll probably fall and kill ourselves.”

She stood and extended her hand. I grasped it and allowed her to pull me up. The floor of the Nest seemed to tilt under my feet and I stumbled.

“Feels weird,” I muttered.

“Birdie!”

It was Grace's voice.

“Huh?” I moved on rubbery legs to the opening in the floor.

“Sit down,”
she said softly.

“But I just stood up,” I said.

“Birdie, listen to me.”
Unlike the fuzziness of everything else, Grace's voice was crisp and clear.
“You need to sit down and scoot over to the hole. Don't walk. Scoot.”

“Okay,” I said.

“
Just take it slow
,” Grace said.

“Hurry up,” Natalie said from behind me. “I need to pee.”

“I'm going to sit down and scoot on my butt,” I said. “I need to take it slow. You can go first.”

“Whatever,” Natalie said as she stumbled to the entrance to the Nest, sat down, and swung her legs through the hole in the floor.

“Tell her to be careful,”
Grace said.
“Tell her to go slow and take one rung at a time. And tell her to hold on tight before she goes to the next one.”

“Grace says to be careful,” I began and then stopped.

Natalie tipped her face upward to frown at me.

“Huh?”

“I meant, if she were here, Grace would tell us to be careful,” I said quickly. “You know how careful she was.”

Natalie frowned and then nodded exaggeratedly.

“Just go one rung at a time,” I said.

“And tell her to hold on tight before stepping down for the next one,”
Grace said.

“And hold on tight . . . when you're stepping,” I said lamely.

“On it,” Natalie said and shoved the bottle into the waistband of her shorts. “Just . . . watch and learn.”

Before I could reply, Natalie pushed herself away from the edge of the opening and was clumsily lowering herself down the rungs toward the ground. I crawled to the edge and watched her progress.

“Made it,” she called from below. “Your turn.”

I scooted to the opening and swung my legs so they dangled down through the hole.

“Stick your foot out and put it on the first rung,”
Grace instructed.
“Now, put your hands on either side of the doorway to support your weight,”
she said.
“Go slow and push yourself forward.”

The ground below suddenly seemed very far away.

“Don't look down,”
Grace said quickly.
“Just focus on the next step.”

I nodded numbly and pushed forward so that I was standing on the first rung.

“Good . . . now slide your foot down to the next rung,”
Grace said.

“To your left—I mean, your right—no, I mean your left,” Natalie called helpfully from below. “Sorry.”

“One rung at a time,”
Grace said softly.
“Just focus on my voice.”

“One rung at a time,” I murmured.

“That's right. And hold on tight with your hands until your foot is on the next rung.”

From below I could hear Natalie's voice, too. “You've got one . . . two . . . three . . . five more to go.”

The minute I put my feet on the ground, my legs began to tremble uncontrollably and I felt as if I wanted to throw up. Unable to stand, I collapsed at the base of the tree.

“Damn,” Natalie said as she unscrewed the cap on the bottle and took a swig. “We forgot the blanket.”

I looked up at her and she held out the bottle. I shook my head. “I think I'm done.”

She frowned down at the bottle and then sighed. “Yeah, me, too.” She turned and flung the bottle into the woods. I heard it crash through the brush and land on the ground with a dull thump.

“I don't feel so good,” I said, surprised at how quickly the nausea hit.

Natalie squatted down next to me and studied my face. This close up, I could see what was left of her freckles. “You don't look so good,” she said finally.

“I'm . . .” I began and then stopped, turned my body, and vomited violently.

Natalie sprang back in disgust.

“Gross.”

I panted, trying to catch my breath, and then felt the familiar
roll of nausea as the second wave hit. And then the third.

“We need to get you home,” Natalie said once there was no longer anything left for me to throw up.

I nodded miserably.

“I'm going to be in so much trouble,” I moaned. “I'm drunk and I have puke all over me. Mom is going to kill me.”

“I could sneak you into my house,” Natalie said thoughtfully.

“I just want to go home,” I said.

She nodded and leaned drunkenly forward to help me up. I grasped her hand and allowed her to pull me upright. I glanced down again at my stained shirt. Natalie looked at it, too. “Don't worry.” She slid her arm around my waist and led me out of the clearing. “I think I have a T-shirt in the car.”

I didn't end up getting in trouble. In the end, no one knew what had happened. After Natalie dropped me off, I staggered up the sidewalk and around back to the kitchen door. When I turned the handle, it was locked.

“Great,” I muttered as I fished around in my book bag for my house key.

Inside, the house was quiet aside from the soft ticking of the kitchen wall clock. A note was pinned to the cork board by the phone. It had been written quickly but neatly in my mother's careful handwriting.

                
Birdie:

                
Your Dad, Tara and I are in Winston.

                
Your grandfather had a heart attack this afternoon and the ambulance took him to the hospital. I'm sorry, sweetie, but it doesn't look good. I'll call when we know something.

                
Love, Mom

                
P.S. There are frozen pizzas in the freezer.

The seventh anniversary of Grace's death and the first time I got drunk was also the day my grandfather died. Despite my mother's observation that he would have had to have a heart for it to stop working, it
was
, according to the doctors, what killed him. He was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette and waiting for my grandmother to fix his lunch when the first heart attack hit. The second occurred as the ambulance took him to the hospital in Winston, and the third as they wheeled him into the emergency room.

Although his death affected me differently than Grace's, I had the same questions about what happened to him once he was gone. I wondered, too, about his last moments. As he was dying, did his life flash before his eyes? Did he feel remorse or regret for his actions? And when he was dead, did he go someplace else or was he just . . . gone? The fact that Grace's presence lingered within me made me question the idea of death. Was there a heaven and hell? I imagined my grandfather trying to explain to St. Peter the reasons why he did the things he did—the hateful things he said to people he considered lesser than himself, his racism, his horrible treatment of Mr. Holmes and his family. I considered this as we sat in the second pew of the church, waiting for the organist to finish playing “The Old Rugged Cross.”

My grandfather's funeral was completely different than Grace's. While her death had been tragic, my grandfather's was simply the end of a life. To my left sat Tara and my mother, and to my right, my Aunt Rita and two cousins, Alfred and Frank. In front of us, in the first pew, was my grandmother, flanked on either side by my father and my uncle. I studied their backs as the song droned on. My father stared blankly forward at the casket and my uncle watched the organist. My grandmother, however, stared down into her lap. From behind, I could see her bony shoulder blades poking out the polyester fabric of her black dress and I longed to reach out and run my finger along the ridge.