State of Grace

by Sandra Moran

  “You’re wrong. You’re alive because of me. Admit it. You’ve always known it should have been you.”

  “No. There’s no way it was supposed to be me. You’re just saying that to make me feel guilty—to make me do what you want. But it’s not going to work this time. I’m not going to let you take away someone who actually has the potential for understanding me.”

  “I understand you.”

  “But you’re not real,” I said. “Don’t you see? You’re not real. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry, Grace, but . . .” I swallowed. “You are no longer welcome here. I want relationships with real people—people who can give something back to me.” I looked around the room, almost as if I expected her to appear. “I don’t know if you’re a ghost or . . . what. But you’re dead. And I’m alive and I don’t deserve to be punished any longer. I’m not going to give up my life to a ghost, so please, leave me the fuck alone!”

  “Fine!” she screamed and suddenly, I felt her retreat. She didn’t leave but she retreated and it was different than in the past and for the first time since her death, I felt like I had broken her grasp. I took a deep breath, sat up straighter and began to type.

  Tommy—

  I would like to be your friend, too. Please know, this is a big step for me—both to admit it and to act on it. Because of that, there are some things I need to tell you about myself—things I need to write before I lose my nerve.

  When Grace died, a part of me died, too. Or, at least, a part of me changed. Her murder made me begin to fear . . . things. Small things at first. But over time, they’ve become larger. Now, almost everything scares me—which is why I have shut myself off, locked myself away. You have no way of knowing this, but this—you—e-mailing is the first time in a really long time that I’ve gone out on a limb and taken a chance. You’re a stranger to me. You’re an unknown. You’re scary. But there’s something about you that makes me want to try to break free of my fears.

  I think Grace’s death changed your life as irrevocably as it changed mine. And because of that, because of your relationship with her, you’re probably the only person who can understand me and the demons I face every day. You saw it in my art and I see it in your words. We are similarly tortured by guilt, by loss, by shame.

  I’m tired of feeling this way.

  Birdie

  My finger hovered over the mouse. One click was all it would take to send this e-mail. One click and I would be putting myself out there, opening a dialogue with this man. I waited for Grace’s voice. Nothing. I was free to make my own decision. I hesitated, and then clicked the button.

  Chapter 26

  I didn’t hear from Tommy for several days—though it was through no fault of his. The storm I had felt coming while in La Veta, struck with full force. It was by no means a blizzard, but it was enough to knock out the electrical lines and make the gravel road to my cabin impassable.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, buddy,” I said to Toby as I stepped onto the back porch for an armload of firewood. The cabin was constructed for year-round residency, meaning that it was well-insulated and small enough that the fireplace could heat most of the house. The absence of electricity wasn’t that big of an inconvenience. The hot water heater and stove were powered by gas and the water was pumped from a well that had a backup gas engine. All in all, the lack of electricity wasn’t bothersome unless you counted not being able to watch television or read in bed a hardship—which I didn’t. Over the years I had become accustomed to being without power and usually enjoyed the simplicity of lounging by the fire with a good book and looking out the window at the falling snow. This time, however, I was anxious. I had taken a huge step—had gone out on a limb and was feeling very nervous and vulnerable. I wanted to read Tommy’s reply.

  “Wouldn’t it figure.” I sank down next to Toby on the couch. In one hand I held a glass of red wine; in the other, my dog-eared copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. Toby raised his head at the sound of my voice, stared at me for a couple of seconds, and then groaned and curled into a tight ball. I smiled, pulled a blanket over my feet and legs, and opened the book. It was a copy I had purchased in college. I had read it countless times—almost as many as I had read A Separate Peace. I was fascinated by Harper Lee, both because of her story and also because of the parallels in our lives. Like me, she had been a tomboy. Like me, she had grown up in a small town full of colorful characters. And like me, she was a bit of a recluse who seemed to struggle with her identity. Her connection with Truman Capote had inspired me to check out several of his books from the library. But after the first couple of pages of In Cold Blood, I didn’t read any more.

  Even as I began to read, my mind wandered. My eyes took in the familiar words, but my brain didn’t process them. I wondered about Tommy, about his reply and what he could misconstrue about my lack of response to his almost certain immediate reply. I considered his words and what he would say, all the while waiting for Grace’s chiding voice to break in. Still, nothing. It was a welcome relief, this silence. But it also seemed weird. After so many years of living with her voice, of sensing her invisible hand guiding my life, I felt oddly untethered. I thought again about my argument with Grace.

  “She’s just jealous,” I said aloud. “She’s jealous that I’m still alive, and that I am becoming friends with the one person, the secret person no one knew about, that she thought was hers—Tommy. She was in love with him.”

  Suddenly it was all so clear. I stared at the fire as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Jealousy was the reason she tried to get me to avoid him just after her death. Jealousy was the reason why she didn’t want me communicating with him now. The realization softened my anger.

  “I’m sorry, Grace,” I murmured as I looked away from the fire and down at my book. I felt triumphant at having worked it out, but also very sad. My sadness or Grace’s, I wondered before realizing that it didn’t really matter. After so many years, they were one and the same.

  The next four days passed slowly—not because we were snowed in, but because I was eager to read Tommy’s response. I had taken a huge risk, admitting what I did, and I wanted to hear from him, wanted to read his reply. But I couldn’t and so instead, I paced the cabin, stared out the windows, and busied myself outside by hauling firewood from the woodpile and stacking it on the back porch. Toby watched with a bored expression.

  I was dozing when the electricity came on. It was a dark Wednesday afternoon and I had curled up on the floor in front of the fireplace with my book and a cup of hot tea. The combination of the fire, tea, and Toby snoring softly beside me made me uncharacteristically drowsy and relaxed. I put the book aside and closed my eyes. I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep until I was jarred awake by the artificial glare of the lights and the loud British voices of the BBC newscast on the radio. Toby leapt up and growled in all directions, startled as well.

  “Looks like the electricity is back on,” I said, as much to myself as to Toby. I stood up and turned off the lights and radio. I had grown accustomed to the more natural light provided by the candles and the fireplace and wasn’t ready to give it up. I considered lying back down and seeing if I could go back to sleep when I realized with a jolt that I could access my e-mail. I hurried to the computer and pressed the power button. While waiting for it to boot up, I retrieved my cup of tea, which had grown cold as I napped, and put it in the microwave.

  “I have to admit,” I said to Toby, who had followed me into the kitchen. “Being able to use the microwave is a lot faster than boiling water.”

  By the time I had reheated the tea and returned to the living room, the computer was glowing warmly. I sat down, clicked the AOL icon, and waited as it connected and my inbox appeared. I had two messages from Roger, one from Adelle, and four from Tommy. I resisted the impulse to read them first and instead, clicked on the first of Roger’s e-mails.

  Hello Sunshine,

  No response to my last message, so I thought I’d just check
in and see if I had worn you down, yet. As added incentive, because I know you hate to fly, I’ve decided to fly out, make the trip to and from Denver with you and then fly back on my own. Good plan, no? If I don’t hear from you within the next week, I’m going to make the reservations without your input. Best say “yes” now, missy.

  Rog

  Before answering, I decided to see what his second e-mail had to say.

  Me again,

  Just wanted to let you know that we’re using several of the pieces I got when I was there last in the new restaurant. Also, Gus has convinced one of his business acquaintances to purchase the red on black spiral series. I only got two of them, so could you ship the other one in the set? Or, better yet, I’ll just get it when I’m there for our trip to Chicago—save on the shipping costs. You’ve got three more days to decide when you’re coming to visit.

  Rog

  I didn’t want to go to Chicago. Roger knew that, but he also thought if he could just continue to force me out of the house, it would keep me from becoming a full-fledged recluse. I debated the options and finally decided to bite the bullet.

  Roger,

  I know you think you know what’s best for me, but I just don’t want to come to Chicago—especially in the winter. Please, please, please can’t we put this on hold and revisit it in the spring? I would feel better about it that way. As for the third in the red on black series, I will ship it as soon as I’m no longer snowed in. It probably will be a couple of days from now. The electricity has been off and might go off again, so if you don’t hear from me, don’t worry.

  I promise we’ll revisit this in the spring, okay?

  Rebecca

  Next I clicked on Adelle’s message, which was written in her typical, abbreviated style.

  The pictures were taken by my friend, Lana. Parasailing was fun, but SCARY. Working on a big case, so I might not call this weekend, but we’ll catch up soon. Promise.

  I had no response, really—not that a response was necessary. Adelle and I were close, but in a distant sort of way. We would go for long periods without talking and then pick back up as if no time at all had passed. It was, we agreed, the perfect friendship in that regard. I smiled, closed out of the message, and then took a deep breath. It was time to read Tommy’s e-mails. I took a big gulp of tea and clicked on the most recent.

  Okay, now I’m worried. Please respond just to let me know what’s going on.

  Tommy

  Second most recent:

  Birdie,

  Are you okay? I didn’t mean to offend you.

  Tommy

  Third most recent:

  Birdie,

  Hi there. Just checking in to make sure my earlier e-mail didn’t upset you. Your silence is making me a little uneasy. I know some of the things I may have said were surprising, but they weren’t meant to offend. Let me know where your head is, okay?

  Tommy

  And finally:

  Dear Birdie,

  If I were to tell you how often Grace pops into my head, you would think I was either crazy or obsessed. I know this isn’t going to make sense, but I hear her in my head sometimes, guiding me as if she were my guardian angel. She helped me turn my life around.

  I’m glad you want to be friends. I agree with you that we have a lot in common and no one but the other can understand what we experienced that summer. It feels good to talk about these things. It makes me realize that there always has been a part of me that has been closed off. But since we’ve been writing back and forth, I don’t feel that way. I don’t feel so alone.

  Thank you.

  T.

  I smiled, relieved at his response, and strangely excited to reply to his note. Eagerly, I hit the reply button and began to type.

  Tommy—

  Not to worry. You didn’t offend me at all. I just hadn’t received your e-mails. I live in the mountains in Colorado. My cabin is fairly remote and when winter storms hit, I’m often snowed in without power. It’s not a huge deal and usually I like being alone with just Toby, a fire in the fireplace, and a glass of wine. But, when that happens, I’m cut off from the rest of the world—no phone or internet. That’s why I hadn’t responded, not because of anything you said.

  I know what you mean about Grace being in your head. She’s in mine as well. I feel like sometimes it’s her life rather than mine (talk about sounding crazy . . .)

  I hesitated. Should I write that? It sounded a little crazy. It was divulging too much. I tried to imagine how it would sound to him and, for a moment, almost missed Grace’s counsel. Better to make my own decisions, I thought. I reread what I had written. Tommy had shared, hadn’t he? Perhaps he was as nervous and careful with his replies as I was with mine. But still, he was a stranger and Grace had been correct in her observations that he was too open, too assertive. And it had been his knife, hadn’t it? I sighed. There were just so many unknowns. Better to play it safe, I thought and deleted the last line.

  I have to admit, it is nice to feel like I’m not the only person who has had this experience. My friends and family are great and they want to understand. But they didn’t see her. They didn’t/don’t feel the same responsibility that I did/do. You said she told you about her family—about what was going on. She never told me—never told any of us what was going on. And we didn’t ask—or at least I didn’t. I didn’t want to know. I know that sounds silly—I mean, what could an 11-year-old have done? Nothing. But I could have asked. That’s probably what I regret most.

  As I hit Send I waited for Grace’s presence to make itself known—to make me fearful. But nothing happened. No condemnation. No dark thoughts. No recrimination. Just silence . . . and a warm tingle of . . . what? Excitement? Anticipation? Happiness? For the first time in a long time, I felt . . . free.

  It was several hours later by the time Tommy responded. While I waited, I picked up the cabin and changed the sheets on my bed. Every hour or so, I took a break from cleaning to log onto my e-mail to see if Tommy had responded. Each time my heart beat a little faster in anticipation and each time my stomach dropped in disappointment when I saw that my inbox was empty. I had about given up hope and was about to start dinner, when I checked and found a message waiting. Eagerly, I clicked on it.

  Birdie,

  Thank goodness you’re not angry! I was worried. I read and then reread my e-mail to you looking for clues as to what I might have said that would have upset you. I thought maybe I had shared too much or scared you off. Please know that if I share too much or ask too many personal questions, you can always tell me. I hope you know that. I never want you to feel uncomfortable.

  So, your remote little cabin in the mountains sounds lovely. I love the image of you and your dog sitting by the fire, sipping red wine, and watching the snow fall outside. It sounds cozy. It also sounds like you have the privacy and the serenity that you need and want and the freedom to work when you need and want. I’m not so lucky. My job forces me to interact with people all the time. Make no mistake—I love what I do, but it’s exhausting. I’m in the import/export business. My company imports indigenous handicrafts from craftspeople and artists from all over the world and then sells them in the United States for fair prices. In addition to the initial payment they receive, I return a portion of the profits to the artisans and their communities. It really is a win-win situation for everyone involved. I make a nice profit from the sale of their goods, they get a fair price for their work, and the customer gets quality crafts in addition to feeling good about themselves for paying fair-trade prices.

  It’s a great job, but it makes for a lonely life, too. It’s hard to maintain a relationship when you’re traveling and working all the time. I spend a lot of time in the office. In fact, that’s where I am now. And across from me is one of the two paintings of yours that I purchased. Your use of flat, gray, dull colors lends such starkness to the work. Your style is so evocative. It’s simple with a dreamlike quality.

  So, how remote is your cabin? A
re you near any towns? I have this image of that town in Northern Exposure—you know, all sorts of quirky characters.

  Anyway, I’m glad you’re not upset with me and I hope you write back soon. Or you could call. My number is attached.

  Tommy

  As I finished reading his e-mail, I felt the familiar knot of fear in my stomach. He wanted to know more about my life. Grace’s warning crept into my head, but I pushed it aside. He had shared details with me, hadn’t he? It was only natural, only polite, to ask about my life. But still, why did he want to know? Did he have an ulterior motive?

  “Stop it,” I said aloud. “He’s just being friendly. That’s what friends do. Think about when you first got to know Roger. Same thing.”

  But was it, I wondered? Roger was gay. He wasn’t a threat. I sighed. This was new to me and I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer. But, at the same time, I did want to answer. It felt good to be able to share. Tommy wanted to be my friend. I hit Reply.

  Tommy—

  Hi. You’re in your office and I’m in the living room of my cabin. As I type, a fire snaps and crackles in the fireplace and I’m sipping a glass of wine—yes, as you correctly guessed, red. I tend to prefer cabernets and zinfandels. I don’t much like merlots—too soft. I take it you’re a wine drinker as well?

  I have to admit, I looked forward to your reply all day. As I cleaned up the cabin and took care of odd jobs around the house, I took breaks to see if you had replied. It’s funny, but that sense of anticipation was kind of exciting. It’s not something I’m used to. I like having something to look forward to.

  My privacy is wonderful, but like your work, it can also be lonely. There is a difference between being alone and being lonely and lately, I’ve been more in the second camp. It’s by my own choice, I know, but that doesn’t change the fact that sometimes I miss having friends and family close by.

  Your business sounds interesting. I like the fact that you’re looking out for the interests of the people who make the art and do the work. I wondered when I saw the name of your company, Conscientious Imports, what it meant. Now I know. I’m not surprised. You seem to be very aware and sensitive to others.