State of Grace (29 page)

We didn't talk about it the next morning. I didn't bring it up and neither did she. We simply drank our coffee, silently ate our toast, and then Natalie went upstairs and brought down her bags. As I helped her carry them out to the car, I struggled to figure out what to say.

“Nat,” I said as she slid the bags into the back of the station wagon and closed the hatch.

“Don't.” She turned to smile at me. Her eyes were shiny. “It's okay. I just wasn't ready to go home. But I'm okay now.”

“What you said—” I began but she cut me off.

“Just the wine talking.” She pulled me into a hug. We stood that way for a long time. After several seconds, I broke the embrace.

“I love you,” she said as she stepped back and looked into my eyes. “I know things have been hard for you, too. After Grace . . . I'm sorry I wasn't able to be more help to you.” She continued to look at me and for a second, she looked like the old Natalie—the fearless, strong Natalie of our youth.

“Well, I had better get on the road,” she said and walked to the driver-side door. “Thanks for everything.”

“Let's do it again in a couple of months,” I said suddenly. “Maybe you could come and stay longer.”

She opened the door and then stepped back and pulled me into a final good-bye hug. “That would be great.” She squeezed my shoulders once and then climbed into the car.

“I'm sorry about—” I said after she started the engine and rolled down the window. She held up her hand.

“It's okay. Really.” She paused and reached her hand out the window. I stepped forward and grasped it. “I love you, Birdie.”

I squeezed her fingers tightly. “I love you, too.”

She bobbed her head a couple of times in acknowledgement, squeezed my fingers again and then withdrew her hand.

“See you later alligator.” It was our old good-bye.

“After while crocodile,” I responded.

She grinned, rolled up the window, and put the car into gear. I stood on the porch with Toby and waved until she had turned out of the driveway and onto the dirt road that led to the highway.

It was the last time I saw her. It was about a month after Roger and Adelle's visit that my mother called to tell me that Natalie was dead. They were doing an autopsy, my mother said, but it appeared that she had taken an overdose of prescription narcotics.

I was silent for several seconds.

“Birdie?” my mother asked. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, not considering that she couldn't see my response through the phone line. All I could think about was our talk on the last night of her visit and the stilted phone conversations since. We had never talked again about that night, and each time we spoke on the telephone, Natalie had seemed less and less engaged. She had seemed to retreat into herself, and because I felt unable to help her, I had taken to not picking up when she called.

“Birdie,” my mother said again.

“Yeah, Mom, I'm here,” I mumbled. “Sorry. How's her mom holding up?”

“She's taking it hard,” my mother said. “She asked about you when I called her. She wanted you to know that the funeral will be on Friday.”

My stomach clenched in its familiar knot. Images of Grace's funeral flashed through my mind. I hadn't been to the cemetery since my grandfather's burial. My grandmother had been cremated, so her service had been held at the funeral home. The thought of going out there now left me breathless.

“I'll have to check my schedule,” I mumbled. “I want to, but I've got a lot of work . . . deadlines. There's a new show . . .”

“Birdie,” my mother said. “I know you have . . . issues. And most of the time, we try to be sympathetic to them. But this isn't up for discussion. Natalie was your best friend. She loved you like a sister. You owe it to her to come back.”

I was silent. I hated myself for what I had become. I needed to go to the funeral—for Natalie's parents, but also to say good-bye. Even though we never recaptured the closeness we had before Grace's death, we had held onto each other, bound together in a common orbit. Natalie had never shown me anything but unconditional friendship and had only asked for one thing in return—the one thing that I couldn't, or wouldn't, give her. The thought of her being gone was unfathomable. I felt a void—a loneliness that was as palpable as if she had physically been in my presence and then had been yanked away.

“I know,” I said finally. “What time's the funeral?”

Chapter 24

Ultimately, I didn't go to Natalie's funeral. I tried—even going so far as to pack my bag and load it into my Jeep. But then, instead of forcing myself to get into the driver's seat and start the engine, I went back inside and sat down on the couch. “Any time now,” I kept telling myself. But after three days of locking the house, getting in the Jeep, and sitting in the driveway, I finally acknowledged that I wasn't going anywhere and brought my bag back inside. My mother was disappointed and angry. I sent a letter to Natalie's parents explaining that I couldn't get away, but that when I came to visit my mother, I would come see them. Her mom eventually sent a vague, polite response that made me feel worse than I already did.

That's not to say that I didn't commemorate Natalie's death. I did. I mourned privately. And I drank—a lot. I also talked to Grace. She was the one person who I thought could understand—the only one who wouldn't judge me. In the end, though, there was little she could do to make me feel better, though her idea of holding a private service for Natalie was a good one. I was midway through my second bottle of wine when Grace suggested it—
“so you can say goodbye.”

I considered the idea.

“But how would we do it? We don't have a body.”

“You don't need to have the person there to have a memorial service,”
Grace said.
“Just light some candles and put on some special music. Say a few words.”

“We could drink a toast,” I said starting to get into the idea. “To her memory.”

“I don't know if you really need more to drink,”
Grace said.
“You've had quite a bit already.”

“A fact that is really none of your business.”

I could feel her shrug.

“So, go get some candles,”
Grace said.
“And I'll pick out the music.”

I got unsteadily to my feet and lurched into the kitchen.

“Candles,” I muttered and began jerking drawers open. After about the fifth try, I found what I was looking for. “Got 'em,” I yelled as I put several on a plate and then grabbed the matches and the bottle of wine.

“
What do you think about the soundtrack to
Eddie and the Cruisers?” Grace asked as I came back into the living room. It had been one of Natalie's favorite movies and she had worn out the cassette tape playing it so often. She had brought it with her when she visited, and we'd listened to it one night while cooking dinner.

“Perfect,” I said. “Cheers to you, Grace!” I picked up my glass and raised it in a sloppy toast. I could tell that I was moving clumsily, so I compensated by trying to be very deliberate. I was, I knew, drunk. Again.

“‘Tender Years',”
Grace said.
“It was her favorite, right?”

“Let me light these candles first,” I muttered as I tried to arrange them on the battered wooden coffee table. My fingers felt thick as I struggled to extract a match from the box. “Why do they make them so stinkin' small?”

“Light the candles, Birdie.”
I could tell Grace was getting exasperated with me.

“I am,” I said, and struck the match against the side of the box. The tip of the match flared to life. “I love the smell of sulfur.”

“Birdie, light the candles before you burn yourself,”
Grace said.

I held the match to the wick of the largest candle. My fingers trembled as I waited for it to catch. The colors of the light were mesmerizing—red, yellow, orange, and, in the center, dark blue and black. I felt the heat of the flame as it inched nearer my fingers, but still I didn't move. I didn't blow it out or drop it. I just watched in fascination as the flame began to lick at my fingertips. I was amazed that it didn't hurt.

“Birdie!”
It was Grace.
“Blow it out. You're going to hurt yourself.”

“I was just watching it,” I said as I dropped the blackened matchstick onto the candleholder. “It's like it has a life of its own.”

I felt Grace sigh.
“You need to put some ice on your fingers. Go into the kitchen and get some.”

“No,” I said almost petulantly. “I'll use this.” I stuck my fingers into my wine glass and wiggled them in the red liquid.

“That's disgusting,”
she said.

“Oh yeah, music,” I said and suddenly leapt up. “‘Tender Years.'” I scanned the stacks of tapes and CDs. “John Cafferty & the Beaver Brown Band,” I said as I popped the cassette into the player and pressed Rewind. I winced as my fingertips came in contact with the button.

“Told you,”
Grace said.

“Shut up,” I said as the player clicked off. Using my other hand, I pushed Play. When the music began to play, I dropped my hands and walked back to the coffee table.

“What if you used a fireplace match to light the rest?”
Grace suggested. I nodded. After the candles were lit, I knelt in front of the table and poured the remainder of the wine into my glass. I was about to start my eulogy when Grace stopped me.

“You need a picture,”
Grace said.
“Remember the ones she sent you from her last visit? Get one of those.”

She was right, of course, and so I scrambled up and went to my desk. The pictures were in a small manila envelope in the top desk drawer. I flipped through them and extracted my favorite. It was Natalie, in profile, looking out across the mountains. I had grabbed her camera when she wasn't looking and snapped some pictures so she could have some of herself. She had a wistful expression and for a moment, I was reminded how disappointed in life she must have been.

I leaned the photo against one of the taller candles and settled back into my spot.

“Natalie,” I said. It was both a question and a statement—an entreaty. I paused, wondering what to say next. I looked down at her picture. I had no idea how to start. I took a sip of wine, cleared my throat, and began again. “Natalie, I'm sorry your life didn't turn
out the way you planned. I'm sorry I couldn't be . . . wasn't capable of being a better friend to you. And I'm sorry I didn't go to your funeral. I tried. I really did. But that place, that . . . town and everything that happened there . . . all of it . . .”

I shook my head and suddenly was aware of the lyrics to the song.

Whoa, whoa tender years . . . Won't you wash away my tears . . . How I wish you were here . . . Please don't go tender years.

“I haven't cried,” I announced, though I wasn't sure if I was telling Natalie, Grace, or myself. “I haven't cried since that day.”

I pushed myself to my feet and walked unsteadily to the window. “I don't think I know how to cry anymore. It's like my . . . my crying mechanism is broken.” My pronunciation of “mechanism” was slurred. “I'm sorry, too, Grace. I let you down. Natalie and I let you down. The whole fucking town of Edenbridge let you down.”

I spun and looked anxiously around the room. “Do you hear me? Natalie? Grace? I'm sorry!”

Toby jumped up, the fur on the back of his neck bristled. He growled and looked around for the cause of my outburst. The room was silent aside from the music and the crackling of the fire. The song had changed.

Dark side's calling now nothin' is real . . . She'll never know just how I feel . . . From out of the shadows she walks like a dream . . . Makes me feel crazy, makes me feel so mean.

Even in my state I could appreciate the irony.

“Ha!” I said.

Toby eyed me warily and then returned to his spot on the couch. I looked around the room. I was alone. “So, anyway, here's to you, Natalie.” I raised my glass. “I'm sorry I let you down. And, here's to me, too. May I have continued success at being a failure.”

The next day was painful—both because I was very hungover and because the previous night had left me unsettled. I blamed the wine and promised to be more cautious of my consumption. But deep
down, I think I knew that the real culprit was my sense of guilt, loneliness, and desolation. My resolve to not drink was strong until about 6 p.m. Then with the night came my own personal darkness and my desire for a drink. I'm not sure if the wine helped or hurt, but it made everything easier to bear. Or, at least it did until I got
the
e-mail.

Hearing from Tommy Anderson was the last thing I could have expected to happen. It was late afternoon and I had poured myself a glass of red wine. I knew Adelle would be sending pictures of her trip to Florida, so I logged onto my e-mail. As I sat waiting for the internet to connect, it occurred to me that I also needed to send a message to Roger. I began to mentally compose it in my head as the AOL homepage appeared on my screen.

“You've got mail,” said the computerized voice as I logged into the system. I remembered Roger and his imitation and smiled. When the page finally loaded, I saw that I had four messages in my inbox—two from Roger, one from Adelle, and one from Thomas Anderson. The subject line of the last one read: “Your Paintings.”

Who is Thomas Anderson, I wondered, and how in the hell did he know about my paintings? My first inclination was anger that Roger had revealed my identity. I clicked on the message and waited for the computer to load the page.

         
Dear Birdie:

                
In all likelihood, you probably won't remember me. But, I believe I would be remiss if I didn't at least try to contact you. My name is Thomas Anderson. We met in 1981 in Edenbridge. I was the young man (boy) you befriended in the clearing near your tree house after Grace was murdered. I was spending the summer with my grandparents. Does this ring any bells?

                
The reason I'm writing is because I was at a restaurant in Chicago several weeks ago and was struck by a painting I saw there. It was of the back and upper body of a nude girl. The background was a green so dark it almost seemed black. The artist was identified as BEC. I was blown away
by the work. I couldn't stop staring at it. And so I approached the manager to find out where it came from. After much conversation and bribery, I learned the name of the man who designed the restaurant and installed the art. This was, of course, your friend Roger who, after much coercion on my part, eventually gave me your e-mail address. He said that your privacy and anonymity were sacred, which is why I hesitated to contact you. In the end, though, I really felt as if I had no choice.

                
Birdie (or Rebecca, whichever you prefer), your work is so evocative. It's about Grace, isn't it? I knew it the minute I saw it—or, at least, that's what it triggered in me. I have been haunted by her death most of my adult life.

                
I know this may seem strange and I know my attention is completely unsolicited (and, according to Roger, likely unwanted), but I just wanted to let you know that I have never forgotten you. I remember our conversations and I have always wondered what happened to you.

                
I currently live in New York and can be reached at this e-mail address—or, if you would like to speak in person, at the number listed below. Please know that I understand if you don't want any reminders of that time in your life. But if you would like to communicate, I would enjoy it very much. I feel it only right to admit to you that I have, since seeing the painting in the restaurant, purchased two of your pieces. I consider them some of my best investments.

                
Most sincerely yours,

                
Thomas Anderson

I stared at the message. Thomas Anderson. Tommy. The boy in the clearing. I remembered him vividly. His eyes. His dark hair. His connection to Grace. His intensity which had both scared me and drawn me in. I sat back in my seat, shaken, though something about his honesty and vulnerability struck a chord. He recognized my work for what it was. I felt lightheaded. I considered my response or even if I wanted to respond. My hand hovered over the
computer mouse. To reply would open up a dialogue I wasn't sure I was prepared for. I knew nothing about this man, I reminded myself. He was a stranger who had made me uncomfortable when I was young. Did I really want to begin a dialogue with him?

“Fucking Roger and his big mouth,” I said to Toby. “I should have known he couldn't keep this to himself.”

I immediately opened a new message box and began to type.

         
Roger:

                
Let me be clear when I say that I DO NOT appreciate you giving my e-mail address to Thomas Anderson! Our agreement was that I would remain ANONYMOUS. In case you don't have a dictionary handy, that means that no one knows who I am. Sharing my identity was NOT in our agreement, no matter how much you might think you're helping me. There are certain things that are none of your business and this is one of them. If you cross this line again, not only is our deal off, but so is our friendship.

                
I am going to politely answer his e-mail and explain that I prefer not to communicate with him—or anyone for that matter. In the future, DO NOT PUT ME IN THIS SITUATION AGAIN!

                
Rebecca

I stood up and stomped over to the window. With the end of summer had come the cool, crisp air of autumn. The leaves had begun to change and I made a mental note to lay in plenty of supplies for the winter. In the past, it hadn't been uncommon to be snowed in for weeks at a time. And although I had plenty of firewood in the event that the electricity went out, I needed to make sure that I had enough human and dog food.