State of Grace (18 page)

Laura grinned. “A lot of people from his generation think that—especially Midwesterners with their ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps' frame of mind. My family still thinks I'm crazy for going into the profession.” She studied me for a few moments, as if debating whether or not to say something. “So, who
have
you talked to about it? Friends? Family members?”

“No one,” I said, rather more abruptly than I had intended.

Laura blinked. “No one? At all?”

“No.”

“Okay. What about some other kind of outlet? For example, do you write, maybe in a journal, or do some kind of art? A lot of people who have suffered traumatic childhood events work through it by painting or sculpting.”

I thought back to the day of Grace's murder and how I had lied so I could sneak away to the Nest and draw. Since then, even the thought of drawing anything made my throat tighten. I shook my head. “I'm not artistic. I'm a business major. I don't really like to write.”

“Okay, what about exercise? Do you work out? The university has a nice fitness center that's free to students. You could take an aerobics class. Or maybe weight lifting. It might help with the anxiety.”

I felt myself recoil at the thought of touching the dirty, sweaty gym equipment and shook my head dismissively.

We sat in silence. The clock on her desk loudly ticked off the passing seconds.

“Well, I guess I should go,” I said finally and stood up. “Thank you and I'm sorry this was a waste of your time.”

“I can help you,” Laura blurted out. “I mean, I think I could help you if you wanted. Through therapy. And there are some medications that you could take for your anxiety and depression.”

“I'm not depressed.” The words came out more forcefully than I had intended. “I'm not depressed and I'm not agoraphobic and I'm not—I don't need your help.”

Laura stood up and positioned herself between me and the door.

“I understand this is frightening,” she said. “But you're not Grace. And you're not Adelle. You're Rebecca and you're strong in your own way. We can work together to help you realize that.”

My scalp tingled with Grace's energy. I cleared my throat and tried to nod as if I appreciated her offer.

“Thank you,” I said. “But I tend to agree with my father. I only came because I had no choice.” I paused and Laura waited for me to continue. “Look, I think you're a nice woman, but I don't need your help. I'm fine. I just need a little time to work through what happened to Adelle.”

Laura nodded and stepped aside. “Okay, but if you change your mind, I'm here. You don't have to do this by yourself. And seriously, think about finding some sort of creative outlet for your anxiety. Even if it's just, I don't know, finger painting.”

She laughed and I forced my lips into a thin, polite smile. All I wanted to do was leave. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Laura said. “Take care of yourself and—”

“I know,” I said as I walked toward the door. “I appreciate it. But I really think this is something I can handle on my own.”

Later that night as I lay in bed, I thought about my conversation with Laura. She seemed like a nice person and it was clear she wanted to help. But help with what? Or, perhaps better to ask, help with which issue? My fear of germs? How increasingly uncomfortable I was leaving the house? The fact that a dead girl seemed to be living within me? What would she have done if I had shared that little fact?

Grace laughed softly. I closed my eyes and tried to shut her out. Whereas in the past, her presence had been gentle and benevolent, as she became stronger, she also had become angrier and more cynical. I could tell she didn't trust Roger. I had felt it before, but it was especially obvious when I came out of my appointment with Laura.

To ensure that I actually went, Roger had driven me to the
appointment. As I stepped outside, I scanned the parking lot. His white Ford Escort was still in the ten-minute parking even though I had been inside much longer. I walked over and pulled open the passenger-side door. Roger had reclined the seat back and was listening to NPR. He jerked in surprise.

“So?” He released the seatback to its upright position.

“So?” I mimicked as I climbed in and buckled my seatbelt.

“What did you talk about? How was it?”

I shrugged. “We talked about what's going on and she agreed that I am simply dealing with what happened to Adelle in the best way I can. She didn't seem to think I needed therapy or anything. Just rest.”

Roger studied me suspiciously. “Really. So, you're handling this like anyone would, huh?”

“That's pretty much what she said. She said that if I ever wanted to talk about anything or had a real problem, that I could come back.”

“Hmm.” Roger started the car. “What would you say if I told you that I don't believe you?”

“I would say that I appreciate your concern, but it's none of your business. And, I would tell you that you're wrong. I'm fine and Laura even said so.”

But as I lay awake that night, my chest tight and my heart racing with the familiar anxiety, I considered the possibility that I was going crazy. I knew Grace would reassure me that I wasn't, but if she was a manifestation of the insanity, of course that's what she would say. I thought about my freshman psychology class. Did crazy people even know they were crazy? I ticked off my list of fears. Rape. Murder. Romantic intimacy. Germs. Leaving the apartment.

The thoughts swirled in my head even as I dozed—words superimposed with images. Faceless men stepped from the shadows. I was powerless. And then, as so often happened in my nightmares, I was back on the path that led to the Nest. The woods were eerily silent. The humidity was cloying. I felt as if I were drowning. I walked down the path and stood at the base of the small hill that led to the clearing. I knew what I was going to find. It was always the same.

Her back was to me, a white-blue ice sculpture. She did not yet
have the swells of adulthood, although the angle at which she lay gave her a violin-like shape. It was Grace. I already knew that. The shock of the victim's identity had worn off after years of having the same dream. Still, my heartbeat thundered in my ears. My hands tingled and grew numb. I felt sick. I felt weak, as if my legs were going to give out.

As had happened when I was eleven, I stepped closer. She was on her side, one leg pulled up, one leg extended. Her arms were hugged to her chest. On the foot of the leg that was extended was the only piece of clothing left on her body—that damned sock only partially on her foot.

I circled the body. There was blood everywhere—much more than I remembered. I looked at her face, which was mostly covered by her hair. One eye was visible and it stared glassily at nothing. It was deep green with thick lashes. Its gaze was unwavering. I stared back, reacting only when the ant crawled across her eyeball. I stepped back. And then, unlike in any of my previous nightmares, Grace blinked.

“Oh my god, you're alive,” I said breathlessly, amazed at this new development. “I thought you were dead, but you're . . . you're alive. Oh, Grace!”

In one smooth move, she sat up and brushed the hair from her face.
“I'm not alive, Birdie.”
She picked a leaf from her hair.
“I'm dead. I was murdered when we were eleven. You know that.”

“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.”