State of Grace

by Sandra Moran

  “But—”

  “No buts about it, although . . .” She looked down at her naked body. “I guess there is at least one butt involved, huh?” She laughed. “You wouldn’t believe the things he did to my butt, either. You know that, don’t you—what he did to me? How he raped me and sodomized me and then made me beg for my life? I am assuming you saw the police report.”

  I stared and shook my head numbly.

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t see—I mean, they wouldn’t let me. But I didn’t want to see it anyway. I . . . I . . .”

  “‘I, I, I.’ You always did have a weak stomach. That’s why you need me now. You can’t deal with what scares you. Like when we were kids, you left me to fend for myself. Why didn’t you ask about my mom and Reggie? Why didn’t you tell me about Don Wan’s drawings?”

  I gasped. “Was that who did this? Was he the one?”

  She shook her head slowly back and forth and made a “tsk, tsk, tsk” sound. “Birdie, you know as well as I do who did this.”

  “No,” I exclaimed. “I don’t. They never solved the murder. They tried. Natalie’s dad worked so hard on it. Please, Grace, tell me who did this. Let me fix this!”

  “You know,” she said. “If you think about it, you’ll realize. But I have to go. The ants are making it too hard to think. Too hard to talk.”

  “The what?” I leaned forward. “I don’t—”

  “The ants.” Her voice was scarcely a graveled whisper. “Quick, come closer. I need to tell you.” A large black ant crawled out of her nose. “They’re . . .”

  She grabbed my shoulder and pulled me close. She opened her mouth to speak. An ant the size of a peanut skittered out and landed on her chin. And then suddenly, there were ants everywhere, crawling out of her mouth, her nose, her ears. Her lips moved as she tried to speak but nothing came out. Her body shook.

  “Grace!” I tried to pull away, but her grip on me was too strong. “Let me go!”

  “Rebecca!” The voice was sharp and clear. “Rebecca! Wake up.”

  I sat up with a gasp. The clearing faded and Adelle’s worried face came into focus.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re safe. It’s just a dream.”

  My body was covered in sweat and my breath came in short, strangled gasps. I felt sick and guilty.

  “You scared the shit out of me,” Adelle said as she pushed wet tendrils of hair off my forehead. “What can I do?”

  I closed my eyes and pressed my fingertips to my temples. “Nothing,” I said softly. I inhaled deeply, and shakily exhaled. “I didn’t mean to wake you. It was just one of those scary, weird dreams about all sorts of stuff that doesn’t make sense. Know what I mean?”

  Adelle grasped one of my clammy hands in her own and squeezed gently. “Rebecca, what’s going on?”

  “It’s nothing. Really. I—”

  “Stop. You’ve had nightmares for as long as I’ve known you. But they’ve gotten worse.” She looked down at the quilt I had brought from home. “Roger told me about your appointment today.”

  I studied our clasped hands and considered telling her about Grace. About the dreams. About everything. But even as I had the thought, I could feel Grace shaking her head. I forced myself to meet Adelle’s gaze. I gave her hands a final, quick squeeze and then let go.

  “I’m just tired. But I’m fine. Really.”

  Adelle looked disappointed, but also resigned to the fact that, once again, there would be no discussion of this subject. She braced her hands on her thighs and pushed herself to a standing position.

  “Well, if you change your mind . . .” She pressed her lips together and then turned and walked out of the room.

  I waited until the door was closed to lay back down. The sheets were damp and twisted and I considered changing them. However, I knew that the chances of me being able to go back to sleep were slim. I glanced at the clock. It was 3:15. I had once read that 3:15 was the least likely time for anyone to wake because of REM sleep patterns. It was also, I suddenly recalled, the time of night that the marching band music blared and all hell broke loose in The Amityville Horror. Perhaps it was an evil time of the morning.

  “Now I’m just being stupid,” I muttered as I rolled onto my side and reached for the book I always kept on the scuffed red milk crate I used for a nightstand. It was the same paperback I had been reading when I first met Roger—A Separate Peace.

  The story was not a happy one, but it was one that resonated with me because I understood Gene’s guilt at what happened to Finny. His split-second decision to jiggle the branch upon which Finny was balanced to jump into the water below and the guilt that he carried was not unlike the feelings of remorse that I myself harbored. Everything you needed to know about his torment was captured in the cover. Gene stands next to a towering, heavily branched tree. He is turned toward the reader, his face serious, his hands thrust into his pockets. Behind him, Finny, a pale, indistinct figure, balances on one of the lower branches, bent over as if to jump into the water below. A second figure climbs the trunk of the tree. Gene’s eyes are haunted.

  My copy was battered and worn from reading. It had been given to me in high school by one of my English teachers. She had recognized my love of reading and sought to encourage it by providing me books from her personal library. I had loved it so much that when I graduated, she gave it to me. In the time since, I had read it so many times that I almost knew it by heart. I found it a comfort on nights when I couldn’t sleep. Tonight, however, I found it hard to concentrate. My mind kept returning to the dream and to my conversation with Laura.

  Perhaps she was right. Maybe I did need an outlet—a way to take what I had in my head and exorcise it. And, maybe in doing so, I could exorcise Grace’s presence as well. I got up and went to my closet, where I kept extra spiral notebooks and pens. I hadn’t tried journaling before, but of all the suggestions Laura had offered, it sounded like the one that would be most safe.

  I settled back into the bed and opened the cover. The blank page seemed almost too clean. It glowed with promise. I stared at it, unsure where to begin. Did I start with my childhood? With my day? With the dream I had just had? The size of the task was overwhelming and my hand trembled. What did I need to get down on paper? What should I write?

  “The date,” I muttered. “I should start there.”

  I took a deep breath and, in the top right-hand corner, scribbled the date. I sat back and studied my work, particularly my handwriting. It was too sloppy. Almost illegible. Also, the ink was blue. I had mistakenly purchased blue instead of black pens at the student union bookstore at the beginning of the semester. I preferred black ink, so I had given the pens to Adelle. Or at least I thought I had. Clearly I had missed one.

  Frustrated, I ripped out the page, wadded it into a tight ball, and threw it into the wastepaper basket. Blue ink would not work. I climbed back out of bed and went back into my closet, where my backpack hung on a heavy metal hook. I unzipped it and rooted around for a pen with black ink. I found an almost empty Bic pen, zipped the backpack closed, and returned to the bed. Maybe, I thought, if I lay on my stomach as opposed to sitting up, I would be better able to write clearly.

  “Okay,” I said once I was situated, the pillow bunched up under my chin. “Let’s try this again.”

  Angling the notebook slightly, I again wrote the date at the top of the page. This time I printed, rather than using cursive, and liked the look of it much better. I scooted the notebook up and poised my pen in anticipation of the first line. I considered again, where to begin. Immediately, my mind drifted to Charles Dickens’ introduction to David Copperfield. I scribbled: Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born . . .

  “Plagiarism,” I said as I ripped out the page.

  My name is Birdie Holloway and this is my story, I wrote.

  “Bor
ing and I don’t go by Birdie anymore,” I said, ripping out the page.

  I don’t know where to begin this journal, I wrote. The letters were sloppy and oddly shaped. Again, it wasn’t how I wanted my handwriting to look. I ripped the sheet of paper from the notebook and put it with the rest of the mistakes. The fresh sheet glared brightly up at me. I tried again.

  My name is Rebecca and I don’t know how to begin.

  “Better,” I muttered, “but I don’t think I want my name attached to this. What if someone finds it?”

  Suddenly, I was gripped by fear. What if someone found this and read it? The thought made my stomach clench into a tight knot. They would know what happened to me. They would know about Grace. They would know about the fear I carried inside me. Suddenly, journaling didn’t seem like such a good idea. I ripped out this page as well. I looked at the stack of papers. They didn’t just need to be thrown away. Because of the power of their intent, they needed to be destroyed. I folded them carefully and hid them under a stack of T-shirts in my closet. I would burn them tomorrow. Journaling was out. It was too . . . honest. Too real.

  I considered Laura’s other suggestions. The gym was out because of the germs. Running, which I had done in high school, was also not feasible because it would mean I was outside. She had also suggested art. I hadn’t drawn anything since Grace’s murder. It was too closely tied to everything that had happened—Don Wan’s drawings, my selfishness in sneaking away to draw, and finding Grace’s body. But what, I thought, if I didn’t draw? What if I simply scribbled? Let the pen go wherever it wanted. There was no agency in that. It was just . . . lines.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I placed the point of the pen onto the blank sheet of paper. My hand shook and the urge to throw the pen and paper against the wall was overwhelming. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and let my hand and mind wander. Unlike in the past, I didn’t try to control my thoughts. And as my mind worked, my hand moved, seemingly of its own accord. The lines were smooth and graceful. There was no control or even desire to control. It was hypnotic and cathartic and after what seemed like ten minutes, I stopped. I felt calm.

  I glanced at the digital alarm clock, which read 5:05. I blinked, unable to believe it was the correct time—that more than an hour and a half had passed. I got up and padded to the kitchen. The time on the microwave read 5:08.

  I turned and walked back to my bedroom. I picked up the notebook, which was covered with spirals and long curving, interconnected lines. It was a mess, but I could make out some images—a violin, an iceberg, an eye like the one on the back of a one-dollar bill, but ornamented with long, spindly eyelashes. I didn’t remember drawing any of the images, although clearly I had. I felt tired. Weighted. Sleepy. I turned off the light and lay down on my bed, letting my body relax into the mattress. I sighed and turned my head to stare at the nightlight plugged into the socket next to the closet. My eyes became heavy, and before I knew it, I had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 16

  It was after ten o’clock when I awoke the next morning. I didn’t feel refreshed, but I did feel better. I had already missed my first class, so rather than get up immediately, I continued to lie in bed and think about the night before. Nightmares were nothing new to me—especially ones involving Grace. But this one had been particularly disturbing. The fact that she spoke to me, that she moved—it was a new and upsetting twist. And the ants. The ants were like something out of a Stephen King novel.

  I rolled onto my side and felt around for the notebook. The entire experience of drawing and losing time felt as if it hadn’t happened. It was surreal. But as I flipped through the pages, I realized that it had, in fact, happened. The images were there as proof. I studied them with a fresh eye. The drawings were rudimentary and almost childlike. But something about them was mesmerizing—especially the intricate spiral. I followed its path with my index finger.

  “Rebecca,” called Adelle from the kitchen. “You still here?”

  “Yeah,” I hollered back. “In my room.”

  Adelle opened the door and looked in. She was dressed all in black and apparently had already been to class. “Whatcha doin’?” Her eyes zeroed in on the notebook and she pointed. “What’s that?”

  I looked down and tried to laugh off my discomfort at being caught, though caught at what, I wasn’t sure.

  “Oh, it’s just some doodling I did,” I said. “Last night when I couldn’t sleep.”

  She came fully into the room and picked up the notebook. “Interesting,” she said as she turned the pages. She paused, seemingly thinking about something before handing it back. “I wonder what it would look like in color? Or paint?” She continued to study the drawings. “It’s almost like a labyrinth,” she mused. “Or like some of those rock carvings you see in the aboriginal tribes or with the Anasazi. Some people think they’re maps and others think they were used for meditation or spiritual activities.” She looked up, saw my expression and grinned.

  “Art History,” she said by way of explanation. She laid the notebook back on the bed. “So, I just wanted to see if you were all right. You know, after last night.”

  “I’m okay. Tired, but okay. I eventually went back to sleep around five.”

  “That’s good.” She hesitated, as if considering whether or not to continue. “Listen, I know I said it last night, but if you ever need to talk . . .” She shrugged.

  “I know.” I smiled at her. “And I will if I need to.” I glanced at the alarm clock. “But right now, I need to get up and go to class.”

  Adelle smiled. “I’m glad.”

  I frowned, not understanding what she meant.

  “That you’re going to class,” she explained. “Even though they don’t take attendance, it’s good that you’re going. Some professors figure out when you just show up for the tests. So, maybe yesterday’s visit helped?” She looked hopeful.

  “I think so,” I said and pushed back the covers. “We’ll see.”

  I was surprised to find Natalie sitting on the front steps of the house when I came home that afternoon. More of Roger’s work? I wondered as I returned her wave.

  “Hiya,” she said as I reached the foot of the porch stairs. Even though she was trying to be lighthearted, I could tell she was anything but.

  “Hi yourself. What are you doing here?”

  She shrugged. “I needed a break from Mom, from Edenbridge.” She squinted into the pale afternoon sunlight. “So, how are you?”

  I swung my backpack off my shoulder, climbed the steps to where she sat, and settled down next to her. “This semester’s been kicking my butt.” I shrugged. “How’s your mom?”

  She sighed. “Depends on the day. Lately, she’s been pretty bad, but they’ve finished the chemo, so now it’s just, you know, recovery.” She shrugged. “That’s part of how I was able to get away, though I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.”

  “Nat, I’m sorry,” I said and reached over to touch her arm. She smiled wearily and suddenly, I realized how worn and beaten down she looked.

  “So,” she said in an attempt to change the subject. “Tell me about you. How are things?”

  “Not much to tell,” I said. “Classes, homework, you know.”

  She studied my face, no doubt taking inventory of the dark shadows under my eyes, my gaunt cheeks, the ever-deepening furrows of my forehead.

  “You look tired.”

  “All-nighters,” I lied. “School is . . .”

  She looked pointedly at me and I knew she could tell I was lying.

  “I heard about your friend,” she said finally.

  I snorted softly and internally cursed Roger. “Make the papers in Edenbridge, did it?”

  She ignored my sarcasm. “No. Your friend Roger called me.”

  “Great!” I said, suddenly angry. “Fucking fantastic.”

  “Birdie,” she said quickly, surprised by the vehemence of my reaction. She reached to put her hand on my shoulder. “Do
n’t be mad at him. He’s just worried.”

  I wrenched away from her grasp, stood, and stomped up the steps. Natalie jumped up and hurried to my side as I fumbled to find the right key to the front door.

  “It still gets to me, too,” she said softly. “I can only imagine how Adelle’s attack brought back memories of what happened to Grace.”

  At Natalie’s mention of her name, I could feel Grace’s interest pique. More and more frequently I felt her there, at the base of my skull, her presence almost like an itch that was too deep to be scratched. Having Natalie present only intensified the sensation.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said shortly. I felt Grace’s disappointment.

  “Fine,” Natalie said quickly. “You don’t have to talk, but there are some things I want to say—things I need to say.” She hesitated and then said more softly, “Things I need you to hear.” She looked around the porch and then gestured toward the front steps. “Can we sit?”

  “Don’t you want to go inside?” I knew I sounded angry and defensive.

  “In a little bit.” She walked back to the steps, sat down, and patted the space beside her. “Come sit with me? Please?”

  The tickle that was Grace intensified. I sighed and moved to sit next to Natalie.

  “I know you don’t want to talk about Grace and I understand that, but we’ve never really talked about it—not really. I mean, there was that one time when we were kids and then that day at the Nest, when we got drunk, but other than that, not really.” She turned her head and studied me with an intensity that made me squirm. “Do you remember?”

  “Yes,” I admitted softly. “I do.”

  “And do you remember that I said some day we would need to talk about it? Well, that’s today. I need to talk about it. And, whether you like it or not, I think you do, too.”

  I closed my eyes and bowed my head. I didn’t want to have this conversation. Not today. Not ever.

  “I know you blame me,” she continued. “You think that if I hadn’t convinced you guys to lie so we could go swimming, this might not have happened or that you wouldn’t have been the one to find her. But that’s not fair. I have spent more time than I can possibly tell you asking ‘what if . . .’ I have tortured myself with what I could have done differently. How I could have stopped it. And you know what? There wasn’t anything.”