State of Grace

by Sandra Moran

  I started to protest—to stand up, to leave. But Natalie put a firm hand on my arm and held me in place. I looked down at where we were joined. Her fingernails were chewed to the quick, her cuticles ragged and scabbed.

  “I know what happened changed you,” she said. “I saw it at school when you withdrew from everyone and everything. And I see it now. You never come home to visit. You avoid my calls and I know from talking to your mom that I’m not the only one who has noticed.” Her grasp on my arm tightened. She lowered her voice. “Birdie, her death affected all of us. It damaged all of us. And we’ve all had to deal with it. You’re not alone. Let the people who love you, help you.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t need help.”

  “Birdie, we all need help sometimes.” Natalie took a deep breath. “I take Prozac. My mom’s doctor prescribed it. And it’s helped. Maybe you should—”

  “Jesus!” I exploded. “Why the fuck does everyone seem to think that medication or therapy or fucking talking about this is going to change anything?” Natalie jerked backward, startled at my display. “Taking Prozac isn’t going to fix this. It’s not going to change anything.”

  “But it will,” Natalie said quickly. “It does.” She shook her head as if she were searching for the words that would change my mind. “I was having a hard time dealing with my mom’s cancer. Leaving college to take care of her has been tough.” Her eyes filled suddenly with tears and I stared, caught between anger and curiosity. It surprised me to know that Natalie, who was always so strong, so in control, so powerful, was also so . . . fragile. She cleared her throat and wiped at the corner of first one eye and then the other. The edge of her finger, I saw, was smudged with mascara. She wiped it on her jeans and continued. “I’m seeing a psychologist. It’s helped—to talk, I mean—about Mom. Dad. Life. Grace. I was having nightmares.”

  Her expression, when she raised her gaze to meet mine, was knowing. Roger again. I said nothing and waited for her to make the point this was all leading up to.

  “Roger called your mom. He said he wanted to surprise you by inviting me up for a girls’ weekend. For fun. After he got my number, he called and said you were . . .”

  “He said I was what?”

  “He said you weren’t sleeping well, weren’t leaving the house, that you were skipping class, and that you have been very depressed since your friend was attacked,” she said. “He said he thought you needed a friendly face.”

  When I didn’t respond, Natalie reached for my hand. “Birdie, let me help.”

  “Natalie,” I yanked my hand away before she could touch it. “I don’t need your fucking help. Or Roger’s. Or . . . anyone’s. I just want to be left alone!”

  “Calm down!”

  I blinked at the command because it hadn’t come from Natalie. It was Grace. Her voice the same as in my dream, the same as it had been when she had been alive. “You need to stop overreacting. They already talk about you behind your back. Do you want to give them more ammunition? Just take a deep breath and chill out.”

  I felt a calm—her calm—flow through me. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them to find Natalie staring at me—her eyes wide. I felt suddenly guilty and ashamed. I felt the blush crawl up my neck onto my face.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, my anger gone. “I . . . I don’t know what hit me. I’m sorry.” This time I was the one who reached out—the one who touched her arm.

  “Tell her you’ll listen to what she has to say,” Grace said. I hesitated and Grace’s energy shifted, became more forceful. “Tell her.”

  “Please, Nat, I’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe I am stressed out.” I removed my hand from her arm and stood. “Let’s just go inside and have a drink. I’ll listen to what you have to say. I won’t get angry again. I promise. I’m just tired from all the late nights. I didn’t mean to go off on you like that.”

  I stooped, picked up both backpacks, and slung them over one shoulder. She still hadn’t moved. I looked down at her. She nodded slowly, thoughtfully, and then stood. She reached out for her bag, but I shook my head. We walked together to the front door and I inserted my key into the lock. As we stepped into the dark entry, I pointed up the wooden stairs.

  “There are two apartments up there,” I said. “We have the whole first floor.”

  I inserted the key into the lock on the apartment door and then pushed it open. Natalie stepped in front of me into the narrow hallway. I followed her into the living room and set the bags on the floor next to the couch.

  “Nice place,” she said as she studied the room. The afternoon light streamed through the window and caught in the prism Adelle had hung from the top of the window frame. Natalie wandered idly over to the mantel to look at the collection of bric-a-brac. “Not yours, though, is it?” She gestured to the mismatched candlestick holders that were covered with layers of different-colored wax from multiple candles.

  “No,” I said. “My roommate’s.”

  “I didn’t think so,” she said and then grinned. “You’d never leave candle wax on your holders. I’m surprised you haven’t scraped it off when she wasn’t looking.”

  I smiled despite myself. There was, I thought, something strangely reassuring about being with people who had known you forever.

  “It’s good to see you, Birdie,” she said suddenly, as if reading my thoughts.

  “You, too,” I admitted.

  We studied each other as if gauging the damage of the past few years. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a banana clip, her bangs were teased into a fringe over her forehead. She was still pretty, but her looks were weighed down by the years. It was her eyes, I realized suddenly. When we were young, they had sparkled with playfulness and the promise of adventure. But now, they were simply a dull, tired brown ringed with smudges of fatigue. There were lines, too, along the outside corners that hadn’t been there last time we were together. She looked, I realized with a shock, old.

  “You look tired,” I said.

  She smiled wearily. “I am tired. Taking care of Mom . . .” She shook her head and smiled sadly. “Some days it’s all I can do to get out of bed.” She lowered her eyes and seemed to study the threadbare area rug Adelle’s mother and father had given us for the apartment.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry about before.”

  Natalie continued to look at the carpet. “I didn’t just come here for you, Birdie,” she said finally. “I came here for me, too. I needed to get away—to be with someone who understands me.” She sighed and glanced up at me for a second before returning her gaze to the rug. “I needed to get away from Mom’s sickness and Dad’s denial and Edenbridge’s, well, you know what I mean.”

  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.”<
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  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, howev
er, 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.”