by Sandra Moran
I felt my knees wobble and realized too late that I was about to pass out. My mother caught me before I hit the ground, though I don’t remember it. Everyone said it was the heat and the stress of my grandfather’s death. I, however, knew better. It was my body’s reaction to seeing Grace and the realization of what seeing her meant.
“You’re okay, sweetie,” my mother said as I came to. “You just fainted.”
I looked frantically from side to side, unsure where I was or what had happened. Awkwardly, I tried to sit up.
“No, no,” my mother said. “Just stay down for a little bit.”
Around me, the people of Edenbridge spoke in low tones, bending and craning to get a better view.
“You fainted, Bird,” my mother said. “Your Aunt Rita’s getting you some water.”
Natalie’s face popped into my line of vision. “You okay?”
I nodded.
“What were you trying to tell me before you passed out?” she asked in a low voice.
I thought about Grace standing at the edge of the cemetery and the stillness of her hair despite the wind. No one would believe me if I told them—not even Natalie.
“Nothing,” I muttered.
She frowned, but before she could press the issue, Aunt Rita returned with a napkin wrapped around ice cubes that smelled like Dr. Pepper. She slipped it into my hand.
“Put this on your forehead,” she said and pushed my hand to my face.
The ice felt sharp against my flushed skin. A trickle of cold water ran down my temple and into my ear. “Grandpa,” I said suddenly, realizing that I had fainted in the middle of the funeral and probably ruined the service.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” my mother said. “They had just finished the prayer when you passed out.” She looked around at the people who were beginning to disperse. “Let’s get you to the car and into the air conditioning.”
She stood awkwardly and several people moved to help me to my feet. Once on my feet, I looked to where I had seen Grace. She was no longer there. I craned my head to see where she might have gone, but before I had a chance to look around for her, my mother turned me toward the cars and began to lead me away. Exhaustion washed over me and I leaned into my mother. We were almost the same height. She squeezed my shoulder gently.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she said again. I nodded in agreement even as I acknowledged in my own mind that it wasn’t going to be okay. It was never going to be okay as long as I was in Edenbridge. The realization came as clearly as if Grace herself had whispered it in my ear. If I were to stand any kind of chance at a normal life, I needed to break the hold that Grace and this town had on me. And the only way to do that was to run away. As long as I remained in Edenbridge, I would never be free of the memories. I would never be free of her. If I were to survive, I had to run as far away as possible and never look back. And that’s exactly what I did.
Part II:
1989–1993
Chapter 13
Despite my desire to run as far away from Edenbridge as possible, being a seventeen-year-old with no job and decidedly average grades meant that I only made it as far as the University of Nebraska at Lincoln. It wasn’t as far away as I would have liked, but it was someplace where I was, for the first time ever, anonymous. There was only one other person from my class who chose the same school and we didn’t really run in the same circles. Only occasionally did we see each other on campus, and when we did, all that was exchanged was a polite nod or wave.
At first, I worried that Grace would follow me out of Edenbridge and because of that, I spent the first few weeks of college tiptoeing around the edges of my new life—probing the limits of who I was allowed to become. Even as I made decisions or expressed opinions, I questioned if my thoughts were really my own. But after the first month or so, I began to relax and reinvent myself. In that way, college was liberating. No one knew my parents or my parents’ parents. No one knew me as the girl who found her dead friend in the woods. No one knew anything about me except what I wanted to share—and that was very little. I kept the few friends I had at a distance and cultivated a sort of detachment that gave the impression of having too much on my mind to be bothered with conversation. I worked hard to maintain that same sort of detachment, with varying degrees of success, with my family and my hometown.
Distance from my father was not hard to achieve. For whatever reason, the closeness we shared prior to Grace’s murder all but vanished after her death. It was as if he were scared to be too familiar with me. And as the investigation progressed, he became more and more distant. No longer did he take me with him to the station. And as junior high flowed into high school, we became like acquaintances. We spoke, but only about generalities. And never again was it just the two of us.
My mother, however, was a different story. We spoke at least once a week although I’m not sure why, given that the script of our conversations never changed.
“How are you?” she would ask.
“Fine,” I would say.
“Really?” she would ask.
“Really,” I would say.
“I don’t believe you. How are you really?”
“I’m fine.”
Long silence.
“How are classes?”
“Pretty good.”
“So, you’re doing okay?”
“Yes, Mother.”
She was trying to stay connected. I knew that. And deep down, in the part of me that was actually quite lonely, I appreciated it. To be honest, I’m sure I secretly wanted it. But I had also come to realize that ties to the past were dangerous—as were connections on an emotional level. To become emotionally involved meant being vulnerable. And that was something I simply could no longer do. Survival meant changing everything—including my name. No longer did I introduce myself as Birdie. Now, I was Rebecca—Rebecca who wore plain, too-large sweatshirts, camped out in coffeehouses, and always carried a book as defense against conversation. Unlike Birdie who felt too much, Rebecca was cool and untouchable. She observed but didn’t participate. She was everything Birdie was not.
And so, it was with this carefully constructed persona that I walked through campus to biology class on that late September afternoon of my sophomore year. The air was crisp and I walked briskly, enjoying the sound of the leaves as they crunched under my feet. I breathed in the fall and suddenly, inexplicably, felt homesick. I longed, suddenly, for caramel apples and hayrides. I wanted to sit at a bonfire with Natalie and drink apple cider. It was rare that I had a longing for anything having to with Edenbridge and that realization, in itself, was enough to snap my focus back to the present.
I slowed my pace and took the sidewalk that ran along the south side of the Woods Art Building and past one of the campus’s most celebrated sculptures, a bronze piece titled Sandy: in Defined Space. It had originally been a temporary exhibit in 1970, on loan from the artist, Richard Miller. But everyone had fallen in love with it; and when it came time for it to be taken down, the people of Lincoln raised enough money to purchase it. Each time I passed by it, I understood why. It was an evocative piece and one that always spoke to me. Something about the woman, who I could only assume was Sandy, suggested she understood me. She, too, was haunted, though by what, I didn’t know.
In the sculpture, she sits nude, almost curled to fit within the confines of one side of a square box. She is positioned with her back against one side of the box, her left hand braced behind her, her right hand dangling to the side. Her face is relaxed, her eyes closed. She appears calm even as her legs are bent and propped so she can fit into the impossibly small space. She is confined, trapped. And so she makes herself as comfortable as possible.
As much as I always saw myself reflected in Sandy, I realize now I also saw Grace. When she was alive, she, too, was boxed—forced into a small space in which she had no other choice but to make herself as comfortable and as small as possible. She, like Sandy, was lonely and isolated, which is likely why, at least t
wice a week, I found excuses to walk past the sculpture. Sometimes, I stopped and spent time with her. But other times, like that day in October, I forced myself to hurry past with no more than a lingering glance.
My biology class was only two buildings away from Sandy and I arrived much earlier than necessary. Though I always tried to be the first to arrive, rarely was I this early. I looked down at the scratched face of my Timex and contemplated sitting outside. The bitter cold of a Nebraska winter would make me long for days like this. I closed my eyes, raised my face to the pale afternoon sun, and inhaled deeply. Something about the taste of the air again made me think of Edenbridge. I opened my eyes and shook my head. Inside was a better choice.
I hefted my backpack more firmly over my right shoulder, turned, climbed the four concrete stairs of the back entrance, and pulled open the heavy glass door. Inside, I walked quickly to the auditorium where our class was held. The doors were propped open and I stepped inside. In the seat where I usually sat was a thin, neatly dressed man about my age. I narrowed my eyes, irritated that he was sitting in my seat. His lunch was spread out on the desktop in front of him.
He looked up as I came into the room and smiled. “You’re early, too,” he said.
“Yes,” I said coolly as I chose a seat far enough away that there was no obligation to talk to him. He nodded and returned his attention to the partially eaten sandwich—what appeared to be tuna salad with avocado slices. He glanced up, noticed my interest, and gestured toward the other half, which sat on a square of creased wax paper. He raised his eyebrows.
“No thanks,” I said, appalled at the thought of taking food from a stranger.
He nodded, finished chewing, and swallowed. “I’m actually thinking about going vegetarian,” he said conversationally, as if I had asked a question. He wiped at his mouth. “I don’t know why, but I’m really struggling with the whole concept of eating animals. It’s barbaric, don’t you think?”
He reached into the plastic sandwich bag of pretzels and delicately removed one. He lifted it carefully to his lips, placed it in his mouth, and then chewed slowly. As he had with the bite of sandwich, he swallowed and then wiped at the corners of his lips. I watched, mesmerized by the meticulous way he ate. Every three bites he would pick up the sweating can of Coke with just the pads of his fingers and thumbs and take a sip. A folded paper towel served as a coaster.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like half of this?” he asked as he noticed my continued scrutiny.
“No, really, thanks,” I said, quickly. “I’ve already eaten. I didn’t mean to stare, I just . . . You’re just such a precise eater.” The words sounded rude and perhaps a little accusing.
He blinked several times in surprise and then looked down at the desktop and the careful arrangement of his lunch. “I guess you’re right,” he said finally and picked up the second triangle of sandwich with an exaggerated flourish. I watched as he took a bite and then blushed when he winked at me.
More for something to do than anything else, I opened my backpack and fished around for my spiral notebook and a Bic pen. Science was not my strong suit and the speed at which the professor moved through the material had left me more than a little overwhelmed. Already I felt like we had covered the extent of my high school biology class and we were only six weeks into the course.
“What do you think so far?”
I looked up, surprised to find him watching me.
He reached for his soda, took a measured sip, and then placed the can back onto the folded paper towel. “I hate it. In fact, I think this—” he gestured at the open textbook that lay on the desk next to him “—is the most boring, and frankly disgusting, class I can imagine.” He picked up his sandwich and took another bite. Breadcrumbs fell into his lap and as he chewed, he carefully brushed them away. He tucked his chin against his chest and looked down at his shirt. His tie lay crookedly across his stomach and he carefully straightened it. His fastidiousness was fascinating to observe.
“You know I’m gay, don’t you,” he said when he looked up and caught my gaze. I blushed and looked quickly away.
“I didn’t—”
“I’m just telling you because I don’t want you to think I’m available.”
I shook my head quickly from side to side. “No . . . I wasn’t . . . I just . . .”
“I know.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “It’s the clothes. They’re so Republican. Trust me, if I didn’t have to go to work from here, I’d wear something with a little more style. But no one in the Bible Belt wants to buy their fancy furniture from a fag—even though we are the ones who have the best eye for decoration.”
I swallowed and nodded quickly as if I agreed. I had heard about gay people, of course. But I had never really met one. At least, I didn’t think so. Everyone in Edenbridge talked about Phil Grant and how he liked to hire teenage boys to work around his property, but I had never personally spoken to him. He was scary, with a perpetually stubbly face and small, darting eyes. Every time I had seen him in town, he was dressed in faded overalls that stretched over his massive belly—a big man who constantly licked his chapped lips and ran his hands over his own chest. He was nothing like the man who sat near me—a man who, I realized, had asked me a question.
“What?”
“I said, Don’t tell me I’m your first gay.” He looked even more closely and then drew back in amazement. “Oh my god, I am, aren’t I? Honey, just how small is your hometown?”
“Pretty small,” I admitted. “Actually, very small.”
He looked me up and down as he chewed the last bite of sandwich. “I guess I should have known, given how you are trying to make yourself invisible with that hair and those clothes.” He leaned back and seemed to critically study me. ‘But don’t you worry your pretty little head. Roger is going to take care of you.” He pressed his lips together. “I can recognize a cry for help when I see one and you, my dear, are crying out.”
“You can’t see a cry, first of all,” I said indignantly. “And secondly, I’m not crying out.”
He snorted softly, slipped the wax paper and napkin into the empty zipper bag and stood. “Honey, from one social misfit to another . . . you’re crying out. But, I can help you with this transition. Believe me. I have an eye for talent.”
He walked the length of the room and threw away the remnants of his lunch. He turned dramatically, crossed his arms over his chest and studied me.
“I don’t want your help,” I said. “I think I’m fine on my own.”
“Ummmm.” He pressed his lips out and raised his eyebrows. “Okay. You keep thinking that. But—”
The rest of his sentence was interrupted by the entrance of four boys in sloppy T-shirts emblazoned with different versions of the same Greek letters, talking loudly about a party they had attended the night before. As they slid into one of the rows of desks, one of the boys gestured toward Roger and said something in a low voice that made the other three laugh loudly.
Roger ignored them and looked at me. “So, what are you doing this time day after tomorrow?”
I looked around the room as if the answer was obvious. “We have class.”
“Right. So, we’ll meet here.”
“What do you mean?”
He arched one eyebrow and grinned. “You’ll see.”
I can say with complete certainty that the day Grace was murdered was the day I learned fear. When I say this, I don’t mean the fear of a scary movie or a roller coaster ride, but the deep, dark, gut-wrenching fear of vulnerability. Her death brought a heightened awareness of the dangers of everything around me. Strangers. Crowds. The dark. It happened slowly, but over time I felt myself constantly preparing for the worst-case scenario in every situation. I became consumed with fear of what would or could happen if I didn’t take the necessary precautions—if I didn’t immediately lock the doors after I got inside my car, didn’t stare down the guy in the jeans jacket or memorize the license plate of the car that drove slowly
past. Walking home from night classes were the worst.
I lived with another girl just off campus in a low-rent area comprised of squatty brick buildings and once-beautiful homes that had been cut up into tiny, cheap, oddly shaped apartments. My roommate Adelle and I rented the first floor of what at one time had been a single-family home. Once, it had been beautiful. Now, however, the outside was tired, seedy, and desperately in need of paint. The inside was much better, almost cozy, with its plaster walls, high ceilings, and hardwood floors.
I had tried living on campus. My thought was that it would be safer and, by being in an all-girl environment, I wouldn’t have to worry constantly about strange men. But what I quickly discovered was that living in close proximity to so many people, even girls, was too much. It was as incestuous as living in Edenbridge. I lasted the entirety of my freshman year before deciding to find an apartment with Adelle.
Adelle and I met in a cultural anthropology class. It was my first semester at UNL and the instructor—a tall, lanky man with an enormous Adam’s apple and a long, black braid that hung down his back—assigned research projects that were to be conducted in groups of three. He intentionally tried to make the groups diverse and my partners were Adelle, an outspoken African-American from inner-city St. Louis, and Jin, an international student from China who was studying biochemistry.
Though I had little in common with either of them, I enjoyed the time we spent working on the project and grew to be good friends with Adelle. She was unlike anyone I had ever known—and nothing like the Holmes family back home. She’d experienced discrimination (because now I could recognize what that was), but it had been different than what had been doled out in my hometown. I can’t tell you exactly why, but Adelle frightened and fascinated me in equal parts. She was easily five foot ten with closely shorn hair and enormous brown eyes. She looked and carried herself like a model, but with more than a touch of attitude. She was thoughtful and deliberate in how she approached everyone and everything, The oldest of four children, she was the first of her family to go to college. She was interested in public administration because she wanted to return to St. Louis and clean up her city, particularly the urban core. Her plan was to get a master’s in public administration and work as a city administrator with a focus on urban renewal.
