State of Grace (28 page)

Roger reddened. “You're right.” He held up his hands in a defenseless gesture. “You're absolutely right. I took advantage of the situation. I did. But I'm also your friend and I think you need professional help.”

“Rebecca, look at it from our point of view,” Adelle interjected. “These past few years, we've seen your behavior become more and more . . . strange. It's not your fault. You suffered a horrific event as a child. You weren't equipped to handle it and now it's affecting you as an adult. We're just suggesting that maybe you need help dealing with it. We just want you to be happy and have a normal life, not holed up in some remote cabin in the mountains, doing tortured paintings.”

I whirled on Roger. “You told her about Grace? Jesus, Roger.”

“Don't blame him,” Adelle said quickly. “I asked him why you never talked about your childhood, why you never dated. I thought maybe you had been sexually abused or raped. I wanted to help. We
both
want to help. We love you.”

I looked angrily at both of them. During this last exchange, Roger had moved to sit next to Adelle on the couch. Compassion and worry were written on their faces and as this registered, I felt my anger fade slightly.

“We love you,” Roger echoed. “We've just seen you change over the years and it's reached a point where we think it's negatively impacting your life. You don't have to deal with this on your own. You have friends and family who love you—who want to help you.”

I took a deep breath and turned to look into the fire.

“Tell them what they want to hear,”
Grace said in my ear.
“Tell them that you'll look into therapy.”
I stiffened.
“You don't have to do it,”
she said.
“Just tell them that you will.”

I turned back to face them. They looked like two owls on a branch, their eyes large and round.

“You're right,” I said finally. “I don't sleep. I drink too much and I spend too much time by myself. You're not telling me anything I don't already know. I have been thinking about going to see a therapist. Maybe this is the nudge I need to do that.”

Both Adelle and Roger exhaled in relief, and Adelle stood and came over to pull me into a hug.

“Sweetheart, we love you,” she said. “I
know
how hard it is to be a survivor. And that's what you are. But you don't have to keep all that in your head. They have medications you can take. Antidepressants. Antianxiety pills. You can get therapy and work through this. I mean, look at me. I know what it's like to feel vulnerable and victimized. I know what rape can do. But I worked through it and now I'm healthy. I'm
strong
. I'm with a man who appreciates who I am and what I've been through. My experience made me stronger.”

Roger stood and joined us.

“This isn't a bad thing,” he said, wrapping his arms around both of us. “Unless it makes you stop painting and then we'll have to talk.”

I arched back to see if he was joking, and he laughed at my expression.

“Asshole,” Adelle said.

“But seriously,” he continued. “You
promise
you'll look into seeing a doctor and a therapist?”

I nodded and then extricated myself from the group hug.

“So, can we talk about something else?” I asked.

Roger and Adelle glanced at each other, seeming to exchange a silent message, though what it was, I couldn't tell.

“Yes,” Roger said and moved back to the couch, where he picked up his wine glass, leaned back expansively and crossed his legs. “Let's talk about me.”

The rest of the visit was uneventful. We laughed and ate and discussed everything but the obvious, although Adelle tried twice to talk about Grace's death. Each time I politely avoided the conversation by saying I didn't want to talk about it until after I had worked through some of it with a therapist. Both times I said this, Grace's laugh echoed hollowly in my head.

After Roger and Adelle left, things settled back into their regular routine—working around the property during the day, watching television at night, and painting when I was unable to sleep. Roger typically came twice a year to collect paintings—in the spring and the fall—and so I was used to having the house filled with his energy and then quiet when he left. But having Adelle visit, too, though wonderful, had also been more difficult because it made the usual recalibration that much harder. For the first time in a long time, I felt not just alone but lonely.

I made more of an effort to reach out to Mom, Tara, and Natalie. They always seemed happy to talk or e-mail, but the exchanges were different. They had lives that didn't really include me. I realized it most when talking to Natalie. After having two more children, she had become increasingly busy and so our conversations were constantly interrupted by questions from the kids, catastrophes in another part of the house, and Pete. Also, there was a palpable unhappiness about her that always left me feeling impotent because I knew of no way to help her. It had started from the moment she told me about her decision to marry Pete and have Meg. But over the years, her unhappiness had become almost a physical burden that she carried with a visible weariness. I didn't realize how much until the one time she came for a visit.

She had asked if she could come visit—that she needed to get away from Pete and the kids. We hadn't seen each other since I had moved to La Veta. I almost didn't recognize the woman who climbed out of her station wagon and walked up the pea gravel walkway to the house. Toby rushed out to greet her, his stiff tail swinging excitedly back and forth.

“Hey,” I said as I came down the porch steps. “How was the drive?”

She grinned tiredly and bent down to cradle Toby's head in her palms. “Longer than I thought, but good. I got to listen to something other than Barney. In fact, I brought along some of our old cassette tapes. Journey. Boston. It was fun.”

She straightened and opened her arms for a hug. It was only when we embraced that I realized just how thin she had become. As we pulled apart I looked into her face. The shadows under her eyes were still evident and her hair, which was pulled back into a ponytail, was peppered with gray.

“You've lost weight,” I said.

“I've taken up jogging. It's a good way to blow off some steam and I can do it around the neighborhood or at the track so I can keep an eye on the kids.”

I pointed to the back of her car. “Are your bags back there?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I'll get them.” She turned to walk to the car. I followed and as she lifted the hatch she glanced around the front yard and then up at the second floor windows of the cabin. “This is really nice, Birdie.”

“Thanks,” I said as I held out a hand for one of the bags. “I like it. My mom and Tara think it's a little too remote, but it's really perfect.”

She handed me a battered brown leather suitcase, and slung a red and black tote bag over her shoulder. She pulled a blue duffle bag out and set it on the ground, closed the back of the station wagon, and followed me inside.

“So, this is it,” I said as we stepped into the living room. “It's small, I know, but it's cozy. Your room is upstairs. It's the one on the left.” I pointed to the doorway visible on the balcony that overlooked the living room. “The bathroom is in-between the bedrooms. I put some towels on your bed.”

“It's perfect, Birdie,” she said as she slung the tote bag off her shoulder and handed it to me. The contents inside the bag clinked, glass upon glass. I peered inside at the bottles of wine. “Compliments of Pete. How about you open one while I take these upstairs? The room on the left, right?”

I protested as she picked up her bags and headed for the stairs.

“I've got it,” she said. “If you want to help me, pour me a drink, and keep them coming. I'll be down in a second.”

Natalie did drink a lot that weekend. I, however, did not. I knew from experience that when I began to drink, I often didn't stop, and it was during those times when my guard was down that Grace was at her most vocal. I already could feel her interest in Natalie and was very careful to keep her under control. Natalie, for her part, didn't seem to notice that I wasn't matching her drink for drink—that, or she didn't seem to care.

She had come to spend time with me, but most of our time together that weekend was actually spent apart or doing solitary activities in each other's presence. Natalie went on long runs and when we were in the cabin together, we often sat on opposite ends of the couch and read. When we talked, the conversation was light and pointedly absent of references to Grace's murder, my work, or Natalie's life with Pete. It was as if we had silently agreed not to discuss the things that troubled each of us the most. But that last night, after we had finished dinner and put away the dishes, we sat next to the fire and finished the last bottle of wine.

“I'm going to leave Pete,” Natalie blurted out.

I had been struggling with the fire tongs to turn a large log over on the grate when she spoke. I turned, caught off guard, and the log rolled back to its original position.

“You're what?”

“I'm going to leave Pete,” she repeated and swirled the wine in her glass. I watched for several seconds, mesmerized. “I can't do it anymore, Birdie. I wake up every day and I look at him and I think, ‘you stole my life.'” She snorted and shook her head almost violently. “I know he didn't. I know that. But for some reason, when I look at him, all I can see is my wasted life.”

I turned back to the log, gave it a final shove, and pulled closed the mesh spark screen. I wanted to say something—
anything
—that would make her feel better. But nothing came to mind—nothing except Grace's obvious interest.

“Could you really do it?” I picked up my own glass and settled back onto my end of the couch. “Leave him?”

Natalie pursed her lips and shrugged. “I don't know,” she said with a sigh. “All I know is that I can't stay with him.” She took a large swallow of wine and then turned to face me. When she spoke again, her voice was earnest. “Part of the reason for coming here was to get some time away from Pete and the kids to think about this. To see how it feels to be on my own—like you are.”

I shook my head slowly back and forth. “Natalie, it's not as easy as you think. My life is lonely.”

“Birdie, please listen,” she said and reached clumsily forward to clasp my free hand. “I've been thinking a lot about this and this is what I want to do—what I
need
to do. Birdie, this is my last chance.” Her grip on my hand tightened. “If I don't leave now, I never will. Do you understand?”

I blinked several times and looked at our joined hands. Her thin fingers were clamped so tightly around my hand that the knuckles were white. She was breathing heavily. “I know it's wrong, but I don't want to be a wife and mother.” She took a deep breath. “I'm going to leave Pete and the kids.”

“Wait. The kids? What do you mean, leave the kids, too? Nat, you're their mother.”

Natalie wrenched her hand away. “You don't have to say it like that. You don't have kids. You don't understand.”

“But you're their mother.”

“I know,” she said miserably. “Don't you think I know what it means, my saying this? Don't you think I know what people will think—how they'll see me?” She turned and leaned forward, feet on the floor, elbows resting on her knees. “What kind of monster doesn't want her children?”

“Natalie,” I said softly. “You're unhappy. You're just—”

“I know what I am,” she said ruefully and drained the wine in her glass. “I know.” She turned her head to look miserably at me. “I just can't do it anymore. I've thought about this a lot and I'm going to go back, talk to Pete, and try to explain to the kids. Men do it all the time.”

“And then what?”

Natalie shrugged. “I'll pack what I need to get by, come back
here, and figure out what to do next.”

I felt my stomach contract. “Here? With me?”

“Just a few months, until I get my head straight. That's okay, right?”

“I . . . Natalie,” I stammered.

“She can't live here,” Grace said urgently in my head. “She'll ruin everything. You won't be able to work. She'll make messes you'll have to clean up. Think about the hair you saw yesterday in the shower drain. Do you want to wake up to that every day?”

“I need your help, Birdie,” Natalie said. “I can't stay there. I don't have any place else to go.”

I felt my resolve begin to waver. Grace felt it, too. I felt her shift in my head, pacing back and forth. She was anxious.
“If she is around here all the time, she'll figure out you're crazy,”
Grace said. Her voice was anxious.
“I can take care of you when it's just us, but if you let her come here, I can't protect you. She will ruin everything.”

“Nat—”

“Birdie, I can't do this anymore.” She reached out for my hand and began to squeeze again. She shook her head. “I won't.”

I felt a pressure build in my chest and squeezed her hand tightly. “What are you saying?” I asked hollowly. When she didn't answer, I tried again. “Natalie, what do you mean?”

She blinked several times but still didn't reply. Her eyes were dull in her gaunt face and I had a flash of her laid out in a coffin, ready to go into the ground. I fought down the terror of having another person in my home for such a long time and opened my mouth to say that she could stay—that we would figure it out. But something in me just couldn't say the words.

Instead, I sighed and said, “Let's talk about this in the morning.” Natalie stared at me for several more seconds before nodding. The gesture was one of resignation.

“Sure,” she said and smiled sadly. “Sure.”