State of Grace

by Sandra Moran

  I sighed. “Roger, I’m tired. I’ve been up all night.”

  He nodded. “I see that. Again, tell me what I think happened, didn’t.” He glared. “Rebecca, what the fuck? Are you crazy?”

  “Shut up. It’s none of your business.”

  “The hell it’s not. Do you realize how dangerous that was? You’re just lucky it was a weak dose.” I raised my eyebrows. “Douglas got them off a guy he didn’t know. We had to take two hits to really get anything.” I returned my head to the pillow and closed my eyes.

  “So?” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “How was it?”

  I opened my eyes. His expression was worried. “It was horrible and weird and . . . not all bad, but not much good. I felt very out of control.”

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  “That’s the weird thing,” I said slowly. “I do. I remember every single detail of it.”

  Roger waited for me to continue. When I didn’t, he said, “Care to elaborate?”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s private.”

  Roger stared. “Tell me.”

  “No,” I said again. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why not?”

  When I didn’t answer, he frowned and turned away from me. His anger was palpable. When he finally met my gaze, his eyes were hard. “You make it really hard to be your friend. Do you know that?”

  I looked down at my hands. After several seconds, I heard him grunt softly and begin to walk around the room. I raised my gaze to see him standing in front of the painting of the spindly eye. I looked at it as well. When I had painted it, it had seemed necessary and insightful. In the light of day, however, it was disturbing.

  “It must have been something,” he said finally. “I’m surprised you did something artistic, though.”

  “It was intentional,” I said. “I was looking for an . . . outlet.”

  Roger nodded, still studying the paintings. I could tell he was angry—angry and hurt. His stance was rigid. After several long minutes, he sighed. “Are you hungry?”

  It was a peace offering.

  “Yeah. You?”

  He turned, finally. His face was unreadable.

  “Pizza? We could go to that place down the street where they make it in front of you.”

  It was one of the few places I would eat for the sole reason that all the cooks wore plastic gloves and the bank of glass windows made it possible to see them preparing the food. I wasn’t so sure, though, about having it delivered.

  “Or I could make spaghetti.”

  Roger groaned. “Not spaghetti again. You know, it won’t kill you to eat food other people have prepared. Let’s get pizza and have it delivered.”

  I could tell he wasn’t going to back down, so I shrugged in resignation. I didn’t have to eat any of it, I reasoned.

  “Okay, but you’re buying.”

  He grinned. “Fine. Go order it.”

  When I returned from the kitchen several minutes later, I found Roger was again standing in front of the paintings. “You know,” he said thoughtfully. “This is some really unique stuff.”

  “Roger—”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to invade your precious emotional sanctuary or anything. I’m just . . . intrigued.”

  I stood next to him, my gaze skipping from each piece in the order it had been created. Studying them this way, as a set, I could see the progression of my trip—an embarrassing reminder of each stage of the evening.

  “So, what are you going to do with your collection, Picasso?”

  I had forgotten Roger was there and the sound of his voice startled me. “Throw them away,” I said shortly. “They’re not something I want around.”

  He waited to see if I was going to say anything else. When I didn’t, he said, “Want me to get rid of them for you? We have a dumpster at the apartment complex. I can stick them in there when I go home.”

  I looked at him, surprised that he would offer and absurdly grateful that despite everything, he still wanted to help. I nodded and he began to stack the papers carefully on top of each other. When he was finished, he stood, pulled a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to me.

  “I had to park down the block, but if the pizza guy gets here before I get back, this should cover it.” He opened the back door and stepped onto the narrow porch. I followed, suddenly filled with gratitude.

  “Thanks, Roger. For everything.”

  He looked surprised at the emotion and winked dramatically. “Anything for you, sugar. Anything.”

  Chapter 19

  “I’m surprised to see you,” Laura said as I slid into the chair across from her. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

  I nodded but said nothing, avoiding her eyes. I knew how I must look. It had been five days since I had taken the LSD and in that time, I had barely slept or eaten. Food looked repulsive and greasy and the thought of putting it into my mouth made me nauseous. And sleep, which at the best of times had been somewhat elusive, was now impossible. Each time I closed my eyes, I was bombarded with images from my acid trip—most specifically those of Grace. It was as if she were speaking to me inside my brain. Nothing seemed real and I felt, for the first time, that I really was losing my grip on reality. In desperation, I called and asked for an immediate appointment with Laura.

  We sat in silence for several seconds until Laura leaned forward and said softly, “Rebecca, what’s happened? Why are you here?”

  I was staring into my lap and blinked several times before raising my eyes to meet her sympathetic gaze.

  “What we talk about . . .” I began slowly. “It’s confidential, right? I mean, it goes nowhere but here?”

  Laura nodded.

  “And, if I told you about something illegal that I’d done, that stays here, too?”

  “Well, that depends. If it was murder or rape or something like that, I’d be obliged to report it.” She paused. “But that’s not what you’re talking about is it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Drugs?”

  I looked up, startled by her perception.

  “It’s okay. You can talk to me about it. But you have to tell me the truth. I can’t help if I don’t know the extent of what we’re dealing with.”

  “I took acid,” I admitted softly. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I did. I was trying to paint—to get insight into . . .” I shrugged helplessly. “I wanted to make certain things stop. But they didn’t stop. They got worse. I think it changed something in my head. My nightmares became real.”

  “What do you mean?” Laura took off her glasses and put them on the table next to her.

  An image of Grace, lying on her side, dead, popped into my brain. I gritted my teeth and struggled to focus on Laura’s face.

  “Rebecca, what happened when you took the acid?”

  I sighed and shook my head. Even though she still hadn’t spoken to me, I could feel Grace watching.

  “It was horrible,” I said finally. I felt a surge of panic. I wanted to run from the room. My breath and pulse came in ragged bursts, as if I had sprinted across a football field.

  “Deep breaths, Rebecca. Focus on my face. Tell me what happened.”

  I struggled to control my breathing. “Grace came alive. And there were ants and vines. I thought I was going to die.”

  “Grace was your friend who was murdered, right?”

  I nodded miserably.

  “You said you felt like it changed something in your head. Can you tell me what you mean by that?”

  I shrugged and searched for words. “I haven’t been able to sleep since it happened. Or if I do sleep, I have nightmares. I see it all over again in my head.” My throat began to constrict.

  “Rebecca, do you need some water?”

  I shook my head, closed my eyes. Grace’s tortured face appeared again in my consciousness.

  Go away, I thought. Go away.

  “Rebecca, it’s okay.” Laura’s voice became cleare
r and Grace faded somewhat.

  “I feel like it’s all happening again.” I opened my eyes and tried to focus on Laura. “I dream about finding her body . . . about not helping her . . . of her dying out there alone.” I shook my head almost violently from side to side. “I can’t stop thinking about her,” I said helplessly. “And I can’t stop worrying that it’s going to happen to me—that I’m going to end up the same way.”

  Laura reached for her pad of paper and then stopped. “Do you mind if I take some notes?”

  I shook my head. “No notes.”

  “Okay.” She sat back in her chair. “So, let’s talk about Grace.”

  In my head, I could feel Grace’s agitation. It was if she were pacing back and forth in my brain.

  “You found her body?”

  I nodded miserably.

  “And you never received therapy for what happened, right?”

  I shook my head.

  Laura was thoughtful for several seconds.

  “Rebecca, have you ever heard of survivor’s guilt? It’s when a person blames themselves for surviving a traumatic event when others didn’t. They see it as their fault that they survived. I think you blame yourself because Grace died and you lived.”

  Grace laughed in my head and I flinched.

  “It’s okay,” Laura said, not realizing my reaction was to Grace and not to her. “Your parents didn’t know how this would affect you. But you don’t have to continue to live with it—at least not to this extreme. I can help you.”

  I laughed bitterly and Laura’s brow creased into a tiny frown. “Did that strike you as funny?”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s just . . .” I hesitated. “It’s hard to think about.”

  “I know,” Laura said. “But I think cognitive therapy can help.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, trying not to give into the glimmer of hope I suddenly felt.

  “Well, talking about what happened and then trying to change how you think about it. Probably once a week at first. And then, outside assignments—maybe having you volunteer at a rape crisis center or a women’s center. Many women find it empowering to take on their fears by helping others with the same or similar problems.”

  The thought of being around women experiencing rape and abuse made me want to vomit. “But I wasn’t raped.”

  “No, but you fear it. And as trite as it sounds, the best way to overcome your fears is to face them. And I would also recommend medication.”

  I pressed my lips together but said nothing.

  “Depression goes hand in hand with survivor’s guilt. We have a psychologist here on staff who would write the prescription. Have you ever heard of Prozac? I think it would help.”

  “No!” Grace was back. “No drugs.”

  “No,” I said aloud. “No medications.”

  “Okay.” Laura leaned back and crossed her legs. “We can revisit that. What about therapy?”

  “You don’t need therapy,” Grace said.

  I shook my head to try to clear her from my thoughts.

  “Maybe,” I said aloud.

  Laura smiled wanly.

  “You don’t seem too sure,” she said.

  “I’m not,” I admitted. “Can I think about it? And then call you back to set up an appointment?”

  Laura nodded slowly. “Or, we could set up an appointment now and talk about it more next time.” I opened my mouth to protest but she held up her hand. “My concern is that you won’t make the appointment. And that would be a shame because I think I can help you. Depression doesn’t carry the stigma it used to. And survivor’s guilt, although powerful, can be overcome.”

  I closed my mouth and nodded slowly.

  “Same time next week?” Laura asked and reached for her spiral appointment book. She looked up expectantly, challenging me to say “no.”

  “Sure.”

  “Good.” Laura scribbled my name in the two o’clock time slot and then closed the book. “I’m proud of you, Rebecca. I know this is scary, but I have no doubt that you’re doing the right thing.”

  I, of course, cancelled the appointment the next day. And though Laura called several times to try to reschedule, I didn’t call her back.

  “You made the right decision,” Grace said one afternoon two weeks later as I walked back from class. Winter had finally arrived and brought with it several inches of snow. It crunched beneath my feet as I picked my way along the sidewalk. “You don’t need other people meddling in your life. You can fix yourself.”

  “This coming from the dead girl who is haunting me,” I murmured.

  I felt her gentle laugh.

  Despite my insulated duck boots, heavy coat, and gloves, my hands and feet felt like blocks of ice by the time I made it back to the apartment. I stomped my feet on the front porch to knock off the snow, stepped into the entryway, and clumsily unlaced them. My fingers were pink with cold.

  Adelle came out of the kitchen as I closed the front door behind me and set the boots on a rubber mat just inside the door. “I can’t believe how cold it is.” I turned to hang my coat and wool cap on the wooden coatrack. “If I hadn’t skipped so much class, I wouldn’t have to go every day now.”

  “Once finals are over, you can start next semester with a clean slate.” She held up a ceramic coffee cup. “I just made some hot tea. There’s still water in the kettle if you want some.” She started toward her room and then stopped. “Oh, Natalie called. She wants you to call her back.”

  I waited until she had closed the door to her room before picking up the phone and carrying it with me into the kitchen. I knew the number by heart, but I just stared at the receiver. She probably wanted to talk about Christmas break. Though I had managed to avoid going home since moving to Lincoln, this time there was no alternative. I had exhausted every special academic session/holiday at a friend’s house/volunteer activity excuse I could fabricate. Three years had passed and I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I had to go home.

  “I don’t know why I’m so scared,” I thought. “It’s not like Grace didn’t follow me here anyway.”

  But it would be different. Here, I was safe. Here I had my routine. Here I was Rebecca. But there, I was Birdie. Birdie who would have to answer questions and be responsible to others. I set the receiver down on the counter and turned to the kettle. The call to Natalie could wait. I would be in Edenbridge soon enough.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry about calling Natalie back; she called me. It was almost midnight the same day. I was awake, trying to cram a semester’s worth of political science class into my short-term memory, when the phone rang. The number on the caller ID was Natalie’s. Though I considered not answering, I knew that if I didn’t, Adelle would. I pressed the Talk button.

  “Hey,” I said. “Sorry I didn’t call you back. I was studying and lost track of time.”

  She cleared her throat. “It’s okay. And I usually wouldn’t call so late, I just—” She cleared her throat again and this time, it was followed by the sound of a wet sniff.

  “Nat? Are you crying?”

  She sniffed again and then said, “Yeah.”

  “What’s wrong? Is it your mom? Or—”

  “Birdie, I’m pregnant.”

  “What? But how?”

  “How do you think, Birdie?” She struggled to swallow back the tears. “I’ve just been lonely and felt so alone. And then a few months ago, I was at the IGA in Winston and ran into Pete Wade. He was back in town because he hurt his back and lost his scholarship. We got to talking and one thing led to another and we started to . . . well, you know.”

  “You never told me.”

  Natalie was silent for several seconds and I realized that she had called several times, but I hadn’t picked up or returned the call. I lifted the ring finger on my free hand to my mouth and began to gnaw on the ragged cuticle, trying to remember what I knew about Pete Wade. He had been in the class ahead of us. He was good-looking and had been on the football and
basketball teams.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be anything serious,” she said finally, as if that were an answer. “He wants to have it. He wants to get married.” Her voice was tired and suddenly, she seemed very young. “Oh, Birdie, I don’t want a baby. Not now. I mean, I know I can’t afford to go to school full time, but I was thinking about taking some writing courses at the junior college.”

  “Writing,” I echoed and studied the finger I had just been chewing on. A deep bead of blood had risen to the surface. I stuck it quickly into my mouth. The blood was thick and metallic. I ran the tip of my tongue over the ragged flesh.

  “Have you thought about . . .?” I didn’t want to say the word.

  “An abortion?” she supplied. “Yeah. But, I don’t know if I could do that. I think about Grace and . . .”

  I stiffened as she said the name. In my head, I felt Grace’s agitation.

  “She can’t give it up,” Grace whispered. “Tell her she can’t give it up.”

  “I’ve gone over and over it in my head.” Natalie began to cry. “All the options suck.”

  “Do you love him?” I could hear the strangeness of my tone and realized that my heart was beating faster than normal. My stomach was tight, but not from anxiety. Jealousy?

  “No,” Natalie said miserably. “I care about him. He’s a good guy. And I think he loves me. I just—” She began to cry harder, her words coming in gasps. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was just having some fun. It was nice to have someone looking after me for a change.”

  I felt my chest tighten, wishing there was something I could do or say to help. “I’m sorry, Natalie,” I said for lack of anything better.

  Grace stirred. “Tell her not to get rid of it. Tell her to marry him.”

  I blinked hard twice, three times, trying to push her away. I was feeling her emotions when all I wanted was to feel my own.

  “My life will be over before it’s even started,” Natalie said softly. “I’ll go from taking care of mom to taking care of kids. What about me, Birdie? When is it my turn?” She began to cry again. “I just feel so trapped.”

  “It might not be so bad,” I said finally “Getting married, having a family. It might not be so bad.”