State of Grace (20 page)

I nodded but said nothing.

“It can be the warmest, safest place in the world,” she said absently, as if she were talking to herself. “And at the same time, it can suck you in and keep you prisoner. It never lets you go.”

She again raised her gaze and met mine. This time, neither of us looked away.

“You have no idea how much I envy you,” she admitted. “I wish I could run away—go someplace different. Be someone different.” I swallowed, unsure how to respond. She gave an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I'm just tired. I don't sleep well. Most of my dreams are pretty crappy—that Mom has died but I wasn't there, or that I'm lost in a forest and can't find my way out.” She paused. “I know you don't want to talk about your nightmares, but I
need
to talk about mine. I dream a lot about Grace.”

I felt Grace shift within me, as if she were leaning forward in an effort to hear every word. I tried not to touch the back of my neck.

“Sometimes I have these dreams she's still alive.” Natalie said as she turned back toward the prism. The reflected light played across the side of her face. “And when I wake up, I feel sad. Let down. Like someone gave me a present and then stole it when I wasn't looking.”

I cleared my throat. “I didn't know you thought about her so much.”

She nodded slowly. “I have this dream. We're adults, but we're also not. We're still kids, sort of, but in adult bodies. And you and I are sitting at the Mercantile. And we're trying to decide what kind of ice cream we're going to get. And out of the blue, Grace walks up. It doesn't look like her, but it is. And we both stare at her—like we're surprised. And you say something about how we're getting
ice cream and what does she want. And she looks at you and says she can't have any; they don't let them have ice cream where she is. And I remember then that she's dead.” Natalie's eyes again filled with tears. “And, as soon as I realize it, as soon as I understand it, she begins to get paler and paler. She shimmers and slowly starts to fade away. We run over to her, try to touch her, but she's not solid. She's like . . . vapor. She's just disappearing in front of our eyes and we're telling her it's going to be all right—that we're going to take care of her. But we can't.”

Her words began to come faster.

“We're running around trying to find something to keep her there. We're looking under trees and abandoned tires and all sorts of junk that just seems to suddenly be there. But we can't find what we're looking for.”

Without tearing my eyes from Natalie, I moved to the couch and sank down. She turned her attention from the prism to look at me and I nodded to let her know I was listening—that I understood. She walked to the couch and sat down next to me. I reached out my hand and she clasped it. Her expression was stricken, her voice tight as she continued.

“We're so desperate to find some way to help her. But we can't. And I turn to you and say something like, ‘What are we going to do?' And—this part is always so clear—you point to Grace and I turn to look at her. And all that's left is a whitish outline—kind of like what you see when people try to take pictures of ghosts. But Grace's eyes are still visible. We're both looking at her and then she begins to scream—this high, little girl's scream. And in my heart, I know that was probably the last sound she made when she was alive. And then she's gone.”

My heart was beating wildly as Natalie finished her story. In my head, I could feel the pressure of Grace's reaction filling every space. My temples throbbed. My tongue felt thick and dry in my mouth. Natalie looked sideways at me.

“I guess that sounds pretty crazy, doesn't it?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“No.” My throat was constricted and the word sounded garbled.
I cleared my throat and tried again “No, it doesn't. I . . . I dream about her, too.” Natalie squeezed my hand and waited for me to continue. “The thing is, I kind of think I deserve the dreams. I knew she had been sleeping at the Nest. I just . . . I didn't do anything about it.”

“Neither of us did,” Natalie said. “And that's something that we're going to have to live with. But we can't let it control our lives.”

“Do you feel like she's . . .” I was about to say, “still with us,” but at the last moment amended it to “in a good place?”

Natalie sighed and squeezed my hand again. “I think she's in heaven, looking down on us, watching over us. Protecting us.”

I felt my heart skip a beat. Was Natalie saying she felt Grace, too?

“How do you know that?” I asked quickly. “Do you feel her with you? Hear her sometimes in your head?”

Natalie frowned and shook her head slowly. “Nothing like that. It's just a feeling I have that she's in a better place.”

“But your dreams . . .” I began.

“Just me working through the fact that I miss her and that a lot of things in my life are out of my control,” she said. “I think it's my brain's way of processing it. That's probably what's going on with you, too.”

I nodded, disappointed that she had no idea what I was experiencing.

“Birdie, I know that it's not something you want to do, but maybe you should consider going to see someone,” Natalie said and then added quickly, “You don't have to take drugs. But just going to a therapist has helped me a lot. More than I ever thought it could.”

“I
did
go to see someone,” I said, almost angrily, and felt her flinch. I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice calm. “After Adelle's . . . after what happened to Adelle, I went to someone on campus.”

“And?”

I shrugged. “She was nice.”

“Are you still seeing her?” Natalie's tone was pleased and surprised. She smiled in encouragement.

“No, I'm not.” I squeezed her hand and tried to pull away. Her
fingers gripped mine. “It's not what I need,” I said finally. “It didn't do for me what it does for you.” As gently as possible, I pulled my fingers from hers and smacked my palms against my thighs. “I don't know about you, but I could use a drink. How about you take your stuff into my room and I'll get us a couple of beers?”

I stood and pointed to my bedroom door. Natalie looked surprised and slightly hurt at my withdrawal, but stood, picked up her bag, and headed toward my room. As she reached for the door handle, she stopped and turned to look back at me. We stared at each other for several seconds and I could tell she wanted to say something—to continue the conversation.

“Natalie, don't.” It was a request, but also said firmly enough that it was a command. She started to protest, but, seeing my expression, pressed her lips together, nodded tightly, and opened the bedroom door. It was as if we had silently agreed to call a truce. And it was a truce we both honored until the last day of her visit. We were standing on the sidewalk next to the same dented Chevette she had driven all through high school. Seeing it now made me smile.

“It was good to see you, Birdie,” she said.

“You, too,” I said and was surprised to realize I actually meant it. We had spent most of our time sprawled out on the living room couch watching old movies, drinking margaritas, and eating popcorn. Grace had been present, but not as powerfully as that first day when we had talked about her. It had been nice to spend time with Natalie, but I was ready for her to leave.

“You know, if you ever need anything,” Natalie began.

“I know,” I said quickly. “Thanks for coming up. Sorry it was a false alarm. Roger overreacts.”

She nodded, accepting my lie. “Let's do a better job of staying in touch. I know you don't want to come back to Edenbridge, but I could come here.”

“Sure,” I said. We stood that way for several seconds. The afternoon sunlight was warm on my shoulders. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was take a nap.

“Birdie,” she said and I steeled myself for this, her final assault. “I know you don't want to talk about it, but always remember there
are people who love and care about you—your mom, me, Roger. We will do anything to help you.”

“I know,” I said as she pulled me tightly to her. “Drive safely?”

She nodded and yanked open the car door. The groan of metal made both of us laugh.

“I'll call next week,” she said after she had climbed in and rolled down the window. “Or you can call me if you want to talk before then.”

She put the key in the ignition and twisted it. The engine came to life with a roar. I stepped back in mock horror. “Tell your folks hi,” I said as the motor settled into a softer rumble.

“We'll do it again soon, yeah?” she asked, squinting up into the bright sunlight.

I think we both knew it wasn't true, but still I nodded and waved. She grinned and then eased the car away from the curb. The engine knocked a couple of times until she gave it more gas. I watched until she turned the corner and was out of sight before turning and trudging back up the steps to my apartment.

Chapter 17

After Natalie's visit, I returned to my routine of skipping classes and staying inside. But instead of reading when I couldn't sleep, I found myself trying to recreate the experience I had the night I made the ink drawings. Sometimes it worked and when it did, my sleep was deep and dream-free. When it didn't, however, I lay awake frustrated or floated in a strange sort of half-sleep that was almost worse than the nightmares. It was during one of these nights of sleeplessness that I recalled Adelle's observation about labyrinths and meditation. She had suggested color. And then there was Laura's suggestion of a creative outlet. I knew I would never again draw. And I had no desire to take an art class. But the idea of something like painting—something new with no ties to the past—sounded appealing. Or, at least, it did until the next day when I found myself wandering through the art supplies section of the student union bookstore. Almost immediately I realized that I had no idea what I was looking for or what I was going to do with it once I found it. Forgotten grade school memories of construction paper, minty-smelling paste, and thick poster paints came to mind as I walked down one of the aisles.

“Can I help you find something?” A thin, scruffy man in a blue Mr. Rogers cardigan appeared at my side. His dirty blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He smiled and tipped his head slightly as he waited. His teeth were small, even, and very white. “You look a little lost.”

“I am,” I admitted and spread my hands wide. “There's just so much.”

The man's smile widened. “Okay, well, tell me what you need.”

“Art supplies,” I said. “But I'm not sure where to start. I'm not an artist.”

“That's okay.” He placed his hand on his chest. My name is Jeff and I'll help. So, a couple of questions. Is this for you or for someone else?”

“Me,” I said.

“Right. So, what medium were you thinking?”

I stared at him, overwhelmed and embarrassed at not knowing how to ask for what I wanted. “You know,” I said quickly, “maybe this is a bad idea. I don't even know what I want. I'm a business major, not an artist.”

“Nonononono,” he said and reached out as if to place a reassuring hand on my arm, but thankfully, stopped before touching me. “We can find what you need. Seriously.” He looked around the art supplies section. “Were you thinking drawing? Or painting? Paper mache?”

“Paint,” I said with more authority than I felt.

“Great.” He rubbed his hands together. “You have a lot to choose from. Oils, watercolors, acrylics, tempera, enamels.” He glanced over at the paint aisle and then back at me. My expression must have told him everything he needed to know because he smiled kindly. “How about this: I'll ask you some questions and we'll go from there.” He raised his eyebrows and I gave a quick nod.

“What do you want to paint? Do you care how long it takes to dry?”

“I don't know yet what I'm going to paint,” I said. “It's going to be kind of stream of consciousness. And the faster it dries, the better.”

Jeff rubbed thoughtfully at the whiskers on his chin.. “Okay. Do you want to be able to paint over it and do you want to mix colors?”

“Painting over it is probably good.” I shrugged. “I'm not sure about mixing colors.”

“Okay, are you going to paint on canvas or paper?”

“I am assuming paper is less expensive, so probably that.”

“Acrylics,” he said happily, as if that were the answer to everything. “They dry fast, can be painted over, and the cleanup is a lot easier than with oils because they're water-based and you can just wash them out.”

He gestured for me to follow him to the next aisle.

“You'll probably want to start out with student paints.” He pointed to a display. “They're cheaper because they have more filler, but I think for what you're doing, they'll be fine. I'd recommend you start out with red, yellow, blue, white, black, brown, green, orange, purple, and maybe gray.” He began to pull tubes of paint out of their dispensers and hand them to me.

“And brushes,” he said. “You'll need some stiff-bristled and a couple of soft-bristled. And we'll get you some paper, too. How big?”

By the time he was finished, I had more than enough supplies. I surveyed them piled on the checkout counter.

“Jeff,” I said as he began to ring them up. “This is a lot. I'm not sure I can afford—”

“Shh,” he said, looking around as if to make sure we weren't being overheard. “I'm going to let you use my employee discount on top of your student discount.”

“Oh, Jeff, thank you,” I protested. “But that's not—”

“Stop,” he continued in his conspiratorial voice. “This stuff is way overpriced. Just remember: acrylic paint dries quickly, so don't put too much on your palate.”

“I don't know how to thank you.” I felt suddenly awkward.

He grinned shyly and said, “You could buy me a beer.”

I looked up in surprise.

“Or not,” he said quickly when he saw my expression.

I began to gather up the bags.

“Sorry,” he said and then sighed. “This is all coming out wrong. How about this: if you need help or advice or, you know, just want to go grab a beer and talk, I'd really like that.” He tore off the receipt and wrote something on the bottom of it. “This is my phone number,” he said. “Give me a call sometime?”

“Thanks,” I said as I stuffed the receipt into one of the bags and hefted them off the counter.

Jeff nodded and raised his hand in a weak wave. I nodded quickly and hurried out of the store.

The encounter had unsettled me. I wanted to go back to the safety of my apartment—to the familiarity of my things. Everything
outside of the world I had created for myself seemed almost too busy—too full. Outside of the student union, I stopped and forced myself to take several deep breaths. The afternoon sun was mild for a change and around me students stood in small clusters or pairs, backpacks slung casually over their shoulders, talking and laughing. Everyone and everything seemed so normal.

I thought again about Laura. Maybe there was value in going to see her.
Or maybe she'll show you just how crazy you really are
, the voice in my head intoned.

“It's just a rough patch,” I murmured. “It's just because of what happened with Adelle. There's nothing wrong with me that time won't fix.”

Though, later that afternoon, as I sat on my bed and fingered the brushes and the tubes of paint, I questioned if that was really the case. Would time really fix this? Would “expressing myself through art” really make everything better? I imagined my grandfather and how he would sneer at the idea.

“I don't care what he thinks,” I said aloud. “Maybe this
will
work.”

Before I could change my mind, I went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of trash bags. Back in my room, I spread one out on the floor and split open the other. Using masking tape, I taped it to the wall and then stood back to survey my work. Against the cream-colored wall, the filleted trash bag looked like a glossy portal to another world. I picked up one of the large squares of paper Jeff had suggested for my “canvas” and tacked it to the wall, squarely in the middle of the black plastic. I hadn't wanted to buy an easel, so this seemed like a good alternative, although as the pins ground into the old-fashioned sand plaster, I suddenly wasn't so sure.

Next I changed into old jeans and a T-shirt. Jeff had said I would need rags, so I pulled a couple of old, ratty T-shirts from the back of my closet, ripped them in half, and tossed them on the bed next to the palette and the paints. I wasn't sure what to do next, so I spread the contents of the bag onto the bed and sorted it into piles. Paints. Brushes. Palatte knife. I went to the kitchen to get the spray bottle we used for our houseplants and paper towels
to blot my brush—both tips from Jeff.

Jeff.

His telephone number was on my dresser. I glanced over at the folded slip of paper and then up to the mirror I had nailed to the back of my door. I tried to see myself as Jeff would have. Roger had indeed given me a makeover and I had to admit, he had done a good job. My mother had been right. I had become pretty. Was that what Jeff had seen? Was that why he had given me his number or was it more than that? Appearances could be deceptive. Still, he
had
shown an interest and he had seemed kind.

Kind of what?
came the nagging voice in my head.

The voice wasn't Grace's—it was my own.

“Give it up,” I muttered to myself. “He'd just change his mind as soon as he got to know you.”

The thought made me sad, though somehow, I understood its truth. I was untouchable—both because I didn't want to touch or be touched. Or did I? The question took me by surprise. Was that what all of this was about? It seemed too much to process, so I turned my attention to the blank square of paper in front of me, waiting for whatever image I was destined to paint to take shape.

Nothing.

I frowned and cocked my head to the side, hoping to get a different perspective.

Still nothing.

Finally, after about ten minutes of staring at the paper, I decided that it wasn't going to work. At least, not yet. I went back out to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a bottle of beer. This wasn't working the way I thought it would. I was considering returning the art supplies to the bookstore when my thoughts were interrupted by the peal of the cordless phone on the counter. I picked up the handset and looked at the caller ID. It was Roger. We had spent several weeks not speaking after he'd called Natalie, but lately we were talking again.

“Guess who?”

“I have caller ID, Roger.”

“Yeah, well, good for you. What are you doing?”

I took a drink from the bottle and glanced in the direction of my bedroom. “Working on a project.”

“Not anymore. You're going out with me.”

“I can't,” I said quickly, preparing to launch into my usual litany of why I couldn't, or didn't want to, go out.

“Yes, you can. You need to get out of the house and I want to go dancing.”

I took another swig of beer. “I don't like to dance. You know that.”

“Well, then you can watch me,” he said. “Besides, it's a gay bar.”

“All the more reason—”

“—that you'll have a good time,” he finished. “You need to relax a little. And you don't have to worry about anyone hitting on you or anything because they're all gay men.”

“Roger, it's a school night.”

“Which means nothing because you never go to class anymore anyway. I'll pick you up at 8:30.”

Before I could protest, the line went dead.

I held the receiver in front of my face and considered calling him back to cancel, but then decided that it would do no good. When Roger was in the mood to go out, he wouldn't take “no” for an answer. And, he was right about going to gay bars. There, as long as I didn't touch anything, I felt fairly safe. And, I enjoyed the music.

I picked up my beer, wiped the ring of condensation from the counter with the bottom of my shirt, and wandered back into my bedroom. “I should just go,” I said to myself. I studied the blank page of paper and lifted the bottle to my lips. “It's not like I have anything else to do.”

Roger picked me up at exactly 8:30 and we drove downtown to the bar district and his favorite haunt, Alpha-Beta. A rainbow flag hung limply in the window, backlit by the flashing strobe lights inside. The deep throb of dance music emanated from the building
as we walked from the parking lot to the club.

“Isn't he gorgeous?” Roger yelled in my ear as we entered the club and he waved to a muscular man I could only assume was his new love interest. “His name is Douglas.” Roger pointed at the bar and the man nodded. “Come on.” He grabbed my hand and led me through the throng of men posing and grinding to the pulsating beat of the music. When we reached the bar, Roger dropped my hand and leaned down.

“Beer?”

I nodded and he turned to the bartender, held up three fingers, and then reached into his back pocket for his wallet. When our drinks arrived, he handed one to me and watched as I pulled a wet wipe from my pocket, tore it open, and carefully wiped down the mouth of the bottle. I met his eyes.

“What? You never know.”

He rolled his eyes and then turned to look at the crowd. Douglas had been stopped by a group of men who were all talking animatedly.

“So?” Roger spoke to me without taking his eyes off of Douglas. “What do you think?”

“I don't know,” I said. “He's nice looking.”

“And he's great in bed.”

Never sure how to respond when Roger shared information like this, I simply nodded. I was about to ask how they met when Douglas finally broke free of the group of men and started toward us.

“Hi,” he said as he pulled Roger into a hug. “I'm glad you made it.” He smiled at me over Roger's shoulder. “Hey.”

I raised my beer bottle in greeting.

“So,” Roger said when they separated. “Rebecca, this is Douglas. Douglas . . . Rebecca.” He winked. “She's my fag hag.”

His words, despite being true, stung. I scowled.

“What?” He looked from me to Douglas and back. “It's true.”

I forced myself to smile and leaned forward toward Douglas, who smiled in greeting. He was at least eight inches taller than me and I had to tip my head backward to meet his eyes. I had to yell to
be heard over the pulsing beat of the techno music. “Nice to meet you.”

He grinned again and the black light made his teeth glow. There were several specks of lint on his black t-shirt. He dropped his arm casually over Roger's shoulders.

“So, you guys wanna party?”

I looked at Roger who slid his arm around Douglas' waist.