The Moment Before (6 page)

Duplicity
, Mrs. McConnell writes on the board, underlining the word three times and following it with several dots of punctuation. “Faulkner’s work is full of it. Exploring betrayal from many, many points of view.
As I Lay Dying
, ladies and germs, is awash with the theme.”

Duplicity. The form of that word, the sound of it, is lyrical, beautiful. I loop the letters across my notebook.

“The interface between existence and the next thing—the hereafter, or the cessation of consciousness, these are all the themes our Faulkner explored,” Mrs. McConnell continues. “Heavy stuff.”

It’s after lunch and warmish outside. The classroom windows face south. Heads are on desks. Some students are completely asleep, and the boy next to me has a thin line of drool pooling under his cheek. Mrs. McConnell is known for her death obsession. Her “Classics in Context” lit class will probably be cut next year, because it’s controversial. Last grading period we read De Beauvoir’s
She Came to Stay
, and I couldn’t shake the death of the character, Francois, from my memory:
On the bed there still remained a living form, but it was already no one
.

“Faulkner was a post-structuralist, ladies and germs,” says Mrs. McConnell. “By which I mean he explored matters of religion and religious truth.” Her fingers make invisible quotation marks when she says truth.

“Duplicity, infidelity, God and the question of God, mortality, class and race theory, all classic Faulknerian themes that fuel this story about the death of matriarch Addie Bundren.”

There is a wave of laughter because when Mrs. McConnell says Faulknerian, it sounds like she’s saying
Fuck
narian. A few sleeping heads rise from their desks. A hand goes up. It’s Cathi. Mrs. McConnell points to her with her chalk, “Question, Miss Serge?”

Cathi clears her throat. “I understand Faulkner was a racist, and I’m wondering why we’re reading a racist book that actually uses the N-word.”

“Twain, Faulkner, Welty, yep, they all used the N-word in their books. They were describing the world in which they lived. Faulkner was a diagnostician, not a fixer.”

With the word fixer, again the invisible quotation marks. Cathi is not pleased with the explanation. “I don’t think we should be reading a book written by a racist,” she continues, her hand still half-raised in the posture of permission-seeking.

“
As I Lay Dying
is not a prescriptive on how to live one’s life, Miss Serge,” the teacher retorts, whirling around dramatically so that the knee-length cardigan she’s wearing swirls like an umbrella caught in a gust. “Faulkner boldly unveiled the dark side of humanity, unflinchingly setting his characters in a sort of truth pudding where questions like
what is truth
,
what is life
,
what do we really want
are presented through a narrative that takes the reader to the edges of comfort. That’s art, Miss Serge. Art.”

In my notebook I’m working on a huge, stylized “L” which will start the word
Liar
that will cover the entire eight-by-eleven page.

Cathi says, “Still,” under her breath, and the teacher continues to lecture about integrity and free will. Once it’s clear that Mrs. McConnell did not, indeed, swear, heads return to desks.

In the paper today was the piece on the Greenmeadow Art Fair and Martha’s smiling face above the oversized Cupworth check. Her Mt. Hood rendition, the other photo in the article. Above the fold in the Life & Lifestyles section.
Life
. Right. Cupworth’s rant was also part of the article, where she said,
Art does not come cheaply, ladies and gentlemen. One must nurture the soul in order to grow one’s appreciation for beauty
. The reporter left off the
bosoms on the Internet
part.

Now, the
As I Lay Dying
lesson on integrity and duplicity and truth accompanies a replay in my head of this morning’s newspaper scan. No mention of me—and it made me furious with myself that I had even looked for my name or the image of my charcoaled homeless guy.

The boy next to me is still asleep. His plump brown lips are upturned, like he’s dreaming something really good. Then, because we’ve reached the end of the period, the bell rings and he twitches like an infant, jerking his head up, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. Desk chairs scrape the floor. Backpacks unzip, rezip. Mrs. McConnell says, “Miss Wilson, a word?”

Mrs. McConnell’s hair is a gray bob which she is constantly trying to tuck behind her ears, but now, obviously flummoxed, she runs her fingertips along its part, lifting the strands up, giving her a mad scientist look. “What is going on?” she says after the last student has scurried out the door.

She’s one of my favorite teachers. Like Bowerman, she’s not afraid to take a stand against the administration when necessary. She’s gone to bat for plenty of students for things like truancy and drinking. But she demands engagement. If you’re slacking, she’ll call you out on the carpet and it won’t be pretty. Those kids who fell asleep in class? She’ll nail them on the Faulkner exam.

“Nothing,” I tell her, trying to buy time.

Her eyes lift my eyes with a mad dog laser gaze. She won’t accept my answer and she’ll stare me down until I give her something more. So I throw her a bone. “I’ve been sick.”

Mrs. McConnell points to the chair next to her chair and I sit. She says, “Grief is a strange animal, Brady. It hovers and hovers and then it sees something and dives down.”

That she is describing the pelicans of our Good Friday beach walk is eerie, and the chill of this creeps into my shoulders, making me spasm.

“I just want to make sure that you’re taking care of yourself. Are you in counseling?”

I shrug. “We go. My parents and I. Every week since…” I can’t bring myself to say
memorial service
, or even
service
.

“Family therapy is very important. But so is individual grief counseling. You need to be able to communicate freely, Brady. Do you understand what I mean?”

I nod.

“You weren’t in school Friday. Were you home?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

I nod.

Mrs. McConnell sighs. “I want you to give me your phone number. I know it’s not apposite with the rules and regs, but I’m concerned.” Again, her fingers make quote marks for apposite, which is a word I’ve never heard before. She hands me a slip of paper and pen upon which I scribble the information.

That seems to satisfy her and she tucks the slip of paper into the pocket of her long, unfashionable sweater.

Over dinner, Mom and Dad are doing the homework we’re supposed to do continuously in preparation for therapy tomorrow. It’s “I-statement” city while we pass the platter of turkey meatloaf and the bowl of spinach salad.

Mom: I worry that our Easter trip to the coast didn’t meet with your expectations, John.

Dad: I was disappointed that we weren’t able to come to an agreement about the ashes.

Mom: Brady, do you feel let down by that?

Dad: Do you, Little Bird?

Me:
shrug.

Dad: When you don’t answer us, we feel left out.

Mom: Blah, blah, I feel, blah, blah, blahblahblahblah

Finally, they get around to asking me how I felt about Martha and the Art Fair and the Cupworth Prize I didn’t get. Dad has brought the offending article to the table, and he spreads it out in the space where Sabine would be sitting if she weren’t dead. I’d avoided Martha all day. Didn’t look at her one time during trig, ducked behind other students in the hall as she passed. On the way to art, I saw her and Nick were standing next to his locker, their fingers a feather’s width from touching, so I went down the length of the middle line of the “E” and outside and back through the front door just to avoid them, knowing that now, the RIP and the kissing photo were officially stripped from the gray steel of Nick’s locker. Looking at Martha’s bubbly newsprint smile makes my heart and stomach collide. In a half-answer to their question, and in keeping with our “I-statement” theme, I say, “I wish I’d known. It was a little embarrassing having all of you there.”

Mom says, “It was
humiliating
, and I want you to know that I’ve had words with Vice Principal Field about it.”

“Oh, Mom, really? I don’t think he knew about it. I mean, I was in his office earlier that day…”

“You were?” chimes Dad. “Why?”

“Brady has been getting into a bit of trouble,” Mom offers. “At least that’s what the vice principal told me. He also said that he’s worried about you being in class with that boy.”

“Connor?” I say, too quickly.

“Good Lord,” booms Dad. “She has to sit in a classroom with that, that, jackass?”

“Now, John, no need for the name-calling.”

Dad slams a fist on top of the photo of Martha and her Mt. Hood painting. “I don’t want him anywhere near our family, is that understood?”

“Well, it sounds like you needn’t worry. He’s officially dropped out,” Mom says.

My stomach and heart go another round.
Connor’s dropped out
?

“Anyway, Brady, the point is, you need to let us in. You need to tell us how you feel,” says my mother, mistress of duplicity.

“How I feel? You really want to know, Mom?”

“Yes, Little Bird,” says Dad. “We do.”

“How I feel is, I don’t even know who you are anymore. Dad, you’re drunk most of the time, and Mom, you sneak around like some sort of weasel.” I want to mention the phone call in the beach house bathroom, but I stop myself. Dad’s eyes are as bulged out as one of those pug-type dogs.

“Anger,” Mom says, matter-of-factly. “Good. We can get somewhere with that.”

I close my eyes thinking back on last Friday, the chain of events. The car nearly slipping down the slope. Connor, pulling it out. Getting home just in time, packing my bag for the beach, and then, spending the weekend with my empty-shell parents. Pretending that it’s just another Easter weekend.

“And speaking of sneaking around,” Mom adds. “Where were you Friday, when you were supposed to be in school?”

Beaverton Grief & Family is wedged between a beer-making supply store and a doggy daycare in a strip mall walking distance from Greenmeadow. During our sessions, quiet pauses are often interrupted by yapping pups. On this, our fourth visit, the dogs seem especially agitated. A hound is baying and a few terrier-types are non-stop with their high-pitched barks. Mom’s forehead creases with every yip. Our therapist, Dr. Stern, conducts the session calmly as ever. Leaning forward, the flesh of belly roll obscuring his belt, he invites us to “Speak our hearts.”

“So, Easter marked the first family holiday without Sabine,” he says, his voice slightly up-speak at the end.

“It was very difficult,” says Dad. “I thought we could, you know, spread some of her ashes, have some closure, but clearly, that was premature.”

Dr. Stern nods and scribbles something down in his leather diary.

Mom, fingers massaging her temples, adds, “I’ve heard that sometimes it takes years—a decade even—to find the right time to distribute cremains. When a child is involved.”

I know part of Mom’s reluctance is the Catholic thing. Nona and Nono were upset that Sabine was burned up in the first place—they had offered to pay for a burial plot. Dad refused, end of discussion. Dad says, “A decade?”

Dr. Stern directs his gaze across the room to the farthest chair, at me. “How did it feel, Brady, at the beach without your sister?”

No hesitation, I offer, “She was there.”

Dr. Stern’s eyebrows go up and a series of deep growls punctuate the room. “You felt Sabine’s presence then?”

“She was with us in every way.”

Dad clears his throat.

“Brady has been having the hardest time letting go,” Mom says. “She wore Sabine’s prom dress to a school function last Thursday.”

Again, eyebrows up, Dr. Stern says, “Tell us about that, Brady.”

“It wasn’t her
prom
dress.”

Dr. Stern says, “Did you feel closer to Sabine, wearing her clothes?” I don’t offer that I hear her voice. “Sort of.”

“Our daughter had a traumatic experience last week,” Dad says.

“Oh?”

“I wouldn’t call it traumatic. Just, well, annoying, I guess.”

“Oh, come on Brady,” Mom chimes, “it was horrible. She’s supposed to get an award for a painting she did, and then her best friend comes in and steals her thunder. You may have seen it in yesterday’s paper?”

“First of all,” I say, through gritted teeth, “I wouldn’t call it
horrible
. And secondly, it was a charcoal
sketch
, not a painting. And—your threatened lawsuit is the reason they gave it to Martha.”

Dr. Stern says, “That must have been very difficult, Br—.”

Mom interrupts, her sharp voice accompanied by a cacophony of pooches, “Lawsuit? No, it’s your grades, Brady. Your truancy and insubordination. That’s why they pulled the scholarship.”

“Sonia,” Dad says. “Please.”

The ever-calm Dr. Stern raises his hands like a preacher. “One at a time, thank you. Brady, you must have felt betrayed. Tell us about that.”

The word
duplicity
slithers around on my tongue like a snake. I open my mouth to let it out, the whole of it. Martha and Nick. Bowerman’s spiel about the lawsuit and impropriety. Mom’s secret phone call to … who? And Connor, knowing more about Sabine than any of us. But words won’t form. I just sit there dorkishly, my mouth open like a forgotten door.

Mom fills the void. “John has been drinking too much.”

Dr. Stern says, “Have you had a hard time managing alcohol in the past, Mr. Wilson?”

Dad says, “For goshsakes, my daughter was just killed. A little whiskey to blunt the pain…”

“We’re here, folks, as an antidote to blunting the pain. The only way out is through.”

The dogs next door offer a hearty consensus.

We’d come to therapy separately, and after therapy, we trickle away from one another, three little streams branching out from the river of Grief & Family. I’m taking the bus to the library to study, I tell them. Mom gets in her Subaru, and Dad climbs into his Fusion. We agree to meet back at the house at seven.

Where I’m really going is the AT&T store, where I hope they can give me Sabine’s password. It’s been four days of hearing the computer voice instead of
Give me a “G”
and
Have a great day.
I want my sister’s greeting back.

On the bus, bouncing down the various boulevards, passing the lingerie shops and the adult video stores with images of a bitten apple or a silhouette of a girl wearing devil horns and tail, the signs outside of these places promising to help patrons
Escape to Your Fantasy
, I remember the Johnsaffair summer—a piece of it—that I’d blocked from my mind. Sabine and I were at the beach house that July, after Mom had insisted that Dad take us out there so she could decide whether or not to divorce him. Sabine and I on the futon, Dad and Natalie in the master bedroom downstairs, Sabine said, “You know this is all Mom’s fault, don’t you?”

I wasn’t sure what “this” referred to. We were hunkered down in a quilt, each of us reading a
Cosmo
. Sabine was glancing through an article claiming to teach women how to drive men to the brink. There was a photo of a young woman in a red bra holding a man’s head just a bit away from her breasts like a bowl of steaming soup. “This” Sabine said, her index finger puncturing the pretty manicured hand of the model in the article. Then she pointed to the floor below, where our father and his mistress lay together on the waterbed Mom would ultimately replace. “That.”

“Mom’s fault?”

“She stopped sleeping with Dad. I know because I heard them argue about it. She complained about how much he wanted it all the time.”

“Sabine, gross.” I pulled the quilt up to my neck.

“Don’t be a baby, Brady. You should know that men can’t help themselves. It’s a primordial thing. A biologic imperative. See, it says it right here in the article, ‘Men will do anything for it.’”

“But we’re talking about Dad, Sabine, not some dude.”

“He’s a boy, Brady, just like the rest of them. And now he’s found himself a young girlfriend because Mom stopped putting out.”

Sabine’s self-assuredness, the way she slapped the
Cosmopolitan
closed and clicked off the light, leaving me with those horrific images, was so like her. I’m jerked back to the present as the bus lurches to a stop in front of BabyDoll Espresso & Girls, and the door hisses open. This is my stop.

There is a line at AT&T, so it takes me a while to get a chance to plead my case, and by the time it’s my turn, I can tell the customer service representatives are exhausted. They’ve been screamed at all shift, putting the smiley face on for disgruntled customer after disgruntled customer. I stretch my mouth into a Sabine-sized cheering grin, and proceed to the counter, holding Sabine’s cell phone out in front of me when they call, “Fifty-six.”

“Account number?” the clerk named Ivan asks.

“Well, I don’t know it exactly. It’s my parents’ account.”

“But they know you’re here?”

“Well, it’s an odd situation. My sister and I, we’re on the account but…” I trail off. It’s always difficult to figure out a non-shocking way to reveal Sabine’s demise. The horror-struck faces, the oh-I’m-so-sorry gestures when you tell strangers that your sister was indeed the one they read about.

Ivan’s face registers impatience as I stammer Dad’s phone number, and finally blurt out, “She died, and I need to reset her password.”

Ivan pulls out a form and hands it to me, all poker-faced. Both of our iPhones are out on the counter, Sabine’s and mine. Irish twin phones like two fallen dominoes there in front of me. Ivan slaps the triplicate layers of document on the counter next to the phones. “This will need to be filled out by the account-holder. We’ll need a death certificate in order to cancel the number without penalty.”

“No,” I say. “That’s not why I’m here. We don’t…at least not now…we don’t want to cancel the number. I just want access to the voicemail.”

Ivan sighs. “You’re not authorized, is the problem. We have a non-authorized minor sitch here. You’ll need your parents to call in.”

I want to jump over the counter and bash Ivan’s head against the computer monitor he’s staring into, his smug, cold eyes reviewing the facts and digits and codes that make up the Wilson account. I want to shake some humanness into his geeky, lifeless expression.
She’s dead.
I want to shout.
Dead. And you’re talking about procedure?

Instead, I take the form and fold it up and put it in the pocket of my windbreaker, and cram the phones in with it. “Thanks, anyway,” I manage, before pivoting away so the next disgruntled customer can have it out with Ivan.

Outside, as I walk by BabyDoll Espresso & Girls, I try really hard to hold back the tears that are stinging the gooey parts of my eyes. Ever since the accident, it seems that there’s been nothing but big boulders in my way. Boulders the size of the ones in front of Jesus’ tomb, where he went before he “rose again according to the scripture.” I think some more about the resurrection story. The part of the creed that goes “He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead.”

Sabine and I, when we attended mass with Nona, we’d mumble right along, all the words glued together in one long mush: We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of Life blahblahblahblah until, We look for the resurrection of the dead and life of the world to come. Amen.

Back on the bus, I find myself mouthing the last part, my words barely a whisper.
We look for the resurrection of the dead and life of the world to come
. My sister in limbo and her greeting in limbo with her. I know what I have to do. I have to free her greeting. I have to hear her voice again. I can’t allow her to die, to truly die, this way.

On my own phone, I bring up Facebook. The
Beenick
Page and its cartoon lilies and sad emoticons are gone. Just like that. Sabine’s Facebook is still there though. Her timeline cover photo, taken a week before she died, her squad lined up. And in the middle, there’s Connor, holding her one foot, like the prince in Cinderella, as she performs her infamous single-leg scorpion, one leg bent impossibly behind her, reaching the spot between her shoulders. Her back is curved like a Grecian urn. Her bare stomach arched. The way his hands are wrapped around her base instep, those muscled wrestling arms, his eyes glued to her leg, like it’s a precious jewel—there’s no way he would have harmed her. I know right then, there’s just no way.

I don’t think it through too hard when I do it. I just run my fingers over the touchpad of my iPhone and press send. And by the time the bus pulls up to the stop near my house, my phone responds. YES says the message. I CAN DO THAT. NOW? WHERE?