The Truth Commission (13 page)

Hole in My Life

If you've experienced moderate to extreme friendlessness, you'd think it would be easy to go back to it after a period of friend-having. Turns out, once you've had friends, there's no going back.

As soon as my heart stopped pounding, which happened about five minutes after Nancy stalled four blocks from our house, the hole in my life made itself apparent.

When you have friends with you, stalls are a time to relax and chat. When you're by yourself, stalls leave you alone with your gloom-laden thoughts and miserable feelings.

As I waited for Nancy's engine to recover, I found my emotions rearranging themselves. I might get a little internally judge-y, a little resentful, but I have never been a yeller or a particularly angry person.

I especially never wanted to be the angry one among my friends. That role had already been taken by Dusk. Neil was the joker and I was the diplomat. I also knew enough about Dusk to know that she's like her family, no matter how much she doesn't want to be. She wouldn't get over our first fight without a clear expression of regret from me in the form of a truth telling by way of apology.

I'd seen how her parents handled her explosions and her smoldering rages. They waited until she calmed down and then made amends in a way she could understand. Her attendance at the Art Farm was their way of apologizing.

I had to find a truth target I could handle. Who, who, who . . . ?

My phone, a shitty flip that might as well puff out smoke signals as texts, burped. A text from Neil.

You okay?

We use proper spelling and punctuation in our texts. Another form of quiet rebellion. Also, I insist on it, and my friends go along because writing is my thing. At least, I'd like it to be.

Slowly, using the non-text-friendly keys, I punched out a reply.

Me too.

It's interesting that neither of us went off on Dusk. She is who she is, and Neil and I have enough experience of tricky people that we know better than to try changing them. Also, we're not gossipy or mean, in spite of how our Commission might make us appear. I felt immediately better just hearing from Neil. At least he was still speaking to me.

Another text appeared.

I turned the key, and Nancy's engine hacked and sputtered to life. I drove slowly home and formulated my plan.
72

xxxxx

At home, I found Keira in the closet. Light leaked around the edges of the door frame.

“Keira?” I said.

“Working!” came her muffled reply.

“Me too,” I muttered, too low for her to hear.

I sat at my small desk. I'll tell you what's difficult: to truly focus on anything other than embroidery when your sister's making magic happen in your closet. Stitching is like drawing mandalas. Meditative and precise. Structured. Writing often doesn't feel that way, but I gave it my best effort.

In the spirit of diplomacy and feather de-ruffling, I wrote my plan on the tiny pages of the prescription pad.
73

TRUTH TO DOs

1. Ask two people the truth in a way that shows fellow Commissioners my commitment

a)

I was going to have to come up with good ones or Dusk wouldn't budge. Truth seeking is simply not my forte. Doesn't “come natural,” as those with bad grammar sometimes like to say.

I started again.

Candidates for a Truthing Performed by Normandy Pale,
Proud
Member of the Truth Commission.

1. Brian Forbes

2. Prema Hardwick

“Norm?” Keira's voice was muffled inside the closet.

“Yes?”

“Want to talk later?”

I would rather die, thanks.
“Sure.”

“That would be good. What are you doing?”

“Homework,” I said.

“You needling?” she asked.

“Pretty soon.”

“You want to come in here?”

“That's okay,” I said, my skin crawling at the thought. Who knows what details would come sliding out of my sister if I got trapped in the closet with her?
74

She said something I couldn't hear.

I used my lousy cell phone to take a picture of the prescription pad. After a deep breath, I messaged it to Dusk and to Neil. Then I sat back in my chair in my bedroom and ignored the sounds of my sister working away inside my closet. I put my stretched canvas under my lighted desk magnifier and started stitching.

A Tall 'Scrip

Neil and I waited for Dusk in the parking lot at Pipers Lagoon Park. The rain was an insistent spittle that would continue off and on all winter until the clouds peeled away in their annual spring migration. Nancy's defrost system, like her heating and cooling systems, barely functioned, so the windows were fogged up. I traced a sad face in the condensation and then wiped it away with my sleeve.

“She didn't want a ride?” asked Neil.

I shook my head as I checked the cars around us. Some belonged to people who'd gone for an afternoon walk around the narrow spit with the ocean on one side and a saltwater lagoon with houses crowding the other. The spit terminated in a high rocky hump covered in grasses and arbutus trees and Garry oaks, which was home to a profusion of short-lived and rare native flowers in the early spring. Pipers is small but magnificent, and I find it fascinating how many people come here only to score drugs and meet the people with whom they are having affairs. I know this because Nancy has stalled in the lot many a time, giving me a ringside view of various illicit activities.

Dusk wasn't ready to ride in Nancy or to completely forgive me, so she was going to ride her bike to meet us. It wouldn't take long. Her house is a big, handsome place sided in red cedar with charcoal and light gray wood accents, and is the nicest one on the lagoon. It has attractive, environmentally appropriate landscaping, and four kayaks poised to launch when the water in the lagoon is high enough. Everything about the house and property screamed:
Two doctors plus high-achieving offspring live here!
The only offbeat detail was the coracle that perched like an ungainly plaything beside the kayak rack.

The crude little half-shell of a boat, which Dusk built and named
The Big Girl Pants,
is adorable and has a jaunty nautical optimism no kayak could ever match. One of my favorite photos of Dusk is her paddling
The Big Girl
furiously after her parents and brothers, who are gliding off in their kayaks.

“You nervous?” asked Neil.

“I guess.”

“Dusk will be okay. She's just really into this.”

“I know.”

“I decided to start doing a podcast,” he said. “You want to be on it?”

“What's your podcast about?” I asked.

“Making stuff,” he said.

“That's cool.”

“I hope so. Artists can be pretty boring to talk to. Some of us are nearly nonverbal. Also, we take ourselves too seriously.”

“We do?”

Suddenly, Neil himself went serious, a rare enough event that I paid close attention. “Of course. And I think that we should sometimes. Especially you, Norm. Just because you're—”

Dusk thumped on the passenger window, and Neil lost his train of thought.

Dusk had on a red tam. Worn with oatmeal sweater, leggings, flats, and a navy raincoat. If some European filmmaker who had a thing for much-too-young girls saw her, he'd immediately offer her a lead role in a film about a crippled bureaucrat who collected kites in his spare time. Or maybe Wes Anderson would put her in his next movie about peculiar institutions such as boarding schools, summer camps, or families.
75

“You texted?” she said, looking unsmilingly at me.

“I did. I'm sorry. I apologize. I repent. I atone,” I said.

“You use a lot of words, Grasshopper. Words are not enough.”

“I know. Only the truth is enough.”

Dusk inclined her tam-topped head. “You've written yourself a tall prescription,” she said.

I resisted the natural urge to use a lot of words to explain myself.

“Have you seen this?” she asked Neil.

“Norm's list? I think it's awesome.”

“Me too. But I've seen too much hesitation to really trust.”

“I'm about this,” I told her. “I'm part of this Commission.” I had this overpowering urge to say something incredibly lame, like “I am a committed Commissioner!” but my fear of Dusk and my innate good sense prevailed.

“When will you start?” she asked.

“I'll start with Brian Forbes. As soon as possible.”

“Excellent choice. Truth telling has the power to do a lot of good, I think. My guess is that after he comes clean, he'll go to rehab. Meet a girl who may or may not be a celebrity. He'll give talks at schools. Make a name for himself,” said Dusk.

“Come clean,” I said. “Good one.” I saw her expression and wiped the smile from my face.

“It's no laughing matter.”

But I agreed with her. I figured she'd outlined the usual trajectory for people who got honest about substance abuse issues and, unless everyone at school was wrong, Brian Forbes had developed himself a little drug problem over the summer. Actually, his slide started earlier than that. Last spring, he started skipping wrestling practice and losing weight and hanging around with iffies. His style changed. It was like seeing one of those advisory notices unfolding in real life. This fall, about two weeks after school started, Dusk elbowed me in English. Brian had finally showed up.

“Look at that,” she said. “There is something way wrong with Brian.”

That much was indisputable. His hair was long and stringy, and his muscles had turned into tendons. Normally, he was one of those slightly overblown guys, all popping energy and biceps, bouncing in and out of the welding shop. Over the summer, he'd turned into shadows.

He made me sad.

“He's looking pretty ragged. A little tense,” Dusk added. We'd just started
As I Lay Dying
to kick us off on a yearlong list of what Mr. Wells called “dark readings.” Most of the books were dystopians, but he'd thrown in a few realistic and experimental bummers as well.

“
As I Lay Dying
is enough to make anyone tense. Did you see this?” I held up the book, opened to the “My mother is a fish” chapter. “Imagine writing something like that and saying, ‘Perfect. Let's end it there.' Who does that?”

“Somebody who doesn't want to spend all day writing long chapters,” said Neil.

“Mr. Wells said Faulkner wrote it fast,” said Dusk. “And he didn't revise.”

“Shocker,” I said.

Mr. Wells told us to please be quiet so he could finish telling us how Faulkner used to work in a post office, and his theory of how sorting mail affected Faulkner's handling of point of view. My theory was that working in a post office made Faulkner so bitter and depressed that he took it out on his readers by writing books that made no sense unless you had a teacher there to explain it to you.
76
Still, it was an interesting, if depressing, novel.
77

“Are you sure you're up for this? What about Lisette?” Dusk's question pulled me out of my recollections of Faulkner and Brian and September, which seemed months past, rather than just a few weeks.

“I did ask Lisette. Sort of. But then I chickened out. I'll take a run at her later. She just doesn't feel right.”

“I'm glad you're joining us,” said Dusk.

“Truce?” said Neil.

“And reconciliation,” said Dusk.

Like the funny thing she is, she leaned her bike against the passenger side of the truck, walked around the front, and stuck her hand out at me.

We shook.

My best friend.

“To Brian Forbes,” she said.

“To Brian Forbes,” added Neil.

BTW

I'm aware that I have not mentioned my sister and her confession for several chapters. In the spirit of Mr. Faulkner, who, as noted in the previous chapter, didn't have to change so much as
one word
of his book (hint, hint), I offer you another really short chapter, because I'm just not ready to say more about her right now. I'll get to her story eventually. In the meantime:

My sister is a fish.

I'm becoming afraid of fish.

My Life Is an Issue in My Life

Because Monday was Thanksgiving, I couldn't set my truth seeking into motion until Tuesday. Nervous as I was about approaching Brian, I was still happy to be back in school. Anything was better than our painfully quiet house during a holiday. Of course, Keira didn't join us for turkey, and our small talk was all done in whispers and featured lots of long, awkward silences.

In class on Tuesday morning, I watched the door in English class and waited for Brian to show up. When he finally slid in, Mr. Wells was halfway through his opening remarks about M. T. Anderson's
Feed
, which was a welcome change from
As I Lay Dying
, even though it was also depressing. I think
Feed
may have the best opening line of any book ever written. “We went to the moon to have fun, but the moon turned out to completely suck.” Sigh. Now that's an opener! I was distracted from fully appreciating Mr. Wells's commentary by my fervent wish that I hadn't volunteered to speak to Brian.
78
It was a task for a trained counseling professional. I should not have volunteered.

Brian looked like he was in the grips of bad, bad cold. Eyes nearly blackened with fatigue, hollowed-out cheeks. His jeans hung on him the way they do when a person loses a lot of weight and doesn't have time to get new pants.

“Mr. Forbes,” said Mr. Wells, pausing for effect. “I'm glad you decided to join us.”
79

Brian, who used to have a goofy, good-natured remark for everyone, just ducked his head as though trying to avoid blows and slipped into his seat in front of us.

Dusk caught my eye and nodded. I nodded back, because it seemed like the right thing to do.

On the other side of me, Neil also nodded. Again, I returned the favor.
80

Then I tried to focus on Mr. Wells's lecture.
81

When the bell rang for lunch, it was time for me to become a full member of the Commission. I got to my feet at the same time as Brian Forbes, and I was right behind him when he slipped out of the door. I could feel Dusk and Neil behind me.

As I followed, close but not right on his heels, I noticed people noticing us. Recognition dawned on their faces as they saw Brian, then me, then Dusk and Neil. A few nodded. One or two saluted. A boy in an engineer's cap gave me the “Live Long and Prosper” sign. A girl wearing a tutu and ballet slippers with a hockey jersey threw up a gang sign and thumped her chest. We passed Zinnia McFarland, who was slumped in a chair outside the guidance office, and we passed Aimee Danes who was surreptitiously feeling up her nose for a change of pace.

Brian Forbes walked through the crowds, head down, feet shuffling. Clouds of self-hatred seemed to trail behind him like a bus leaking exhaust.

I followed him outside. He walked past the Photoshoot Tree, skirted the parking lot, and headed for the playing fields. When I looked back, I saw that Dusk and Neil had been joined by three or four other people. I muttered a swear under my breath. Bad enough I was going to get all up in this guy's business. We didn't need an audience.

I caught Dusk's eye and gave my head a small shake. She and Neil slowed and Dusk held out a hand to stop the truth voyeurs.

Brian Forbes walked through the ball field and into the dugout. I hesitated. Did I really want to follow him in there? What drugs was he doing? Was he safe? I had never even spoken to the guy, and now I was going to do a one-woman intervention on him?

Deep breath. Stand tall. Switch into the present tense.
82

The dugout is dark and colder than the day outside. Brian Forbes sits in the middle of the bench. He's lighting a cigarette. At least, I hope it's a cigarette. I'm not very druggy and I haven't gotten around to watching
Breaking Bad.

“Hi, Brian,” I say.

His head snaps up and I get the contradictory impression that I've surprised him and also that he's been waiting for me for a while now.

He doesn't speak. Instead, he takes a deep drag on his smoke.

“Good smoke?” I say, and wonder what someone like Brian Forbes thinks about when he sees me and Dusk and Neil and our candy cigarettes.

Brian narrows his eyes and gives me a half smile.

“Yeah. Sure. Like inhaling angel's sighs.”

That stops me. Brian Forbes is quick.

I recover. “Sounds refreshing,” I say. “Might have to try it.”

“I wouldn't,” he says.

Our intimacy feels weirdly immediate. Like I'm in Brian's head and he's in mine.

“You doing okay?” I ask.

“What's your name?” he says. “It's odd, right? Like Charles or something?”

“Normandy. Norm.”

“It's cool when girls have dudes' names. Or when they're named after provinces. State names can sound a little porny.”

I consider my response. Brian seems to like banter, so I need to come up with something witty. Witty-ish, anyway. “Alberta: sexy. Alabama: porny. I get it.”

Brian leans farther back on the bench seat. My eyes adjust so I can see him better.

“I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

The low roof of the dugout presses in on us. I wonder if he knows there are people outside. Waiting to hear his truth.

“You don't have to answer.”

Brian Forbes closes his eyes, which I have just realized are quite lovely and feathered with long lashes.

He doesn't respond, so I forge ahead. “Are you on drugs?” That sounds too harsh. I feel like one of those overly blunt people or like a drunk. Someone who has no filter. I'm embarrassed. I'm exhilarated. “I guess I'm asking whether substance abuse is an issue in your life.”

Brian Forbes takes another drag on his smoke.

“My life is an issue in my life,” he says. Because that's a sort of a Zen koan, I don't know how to respond. Luckily, he continues. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because my friends and I have this theory that the truth can heal. So we're asking people truths about things that other people already suspect.”

“Oh, right. I heard about this.”

“Yeah. It's . . . a thing.”

“How's that going?” he says. “Asking people the truth?”

“It's good,” I say, feeling that the interview has gotten offtrack. “I mean, some parts of it are.”

“And some parts of it aren't,” he finishes.

“My friends seem to enjoy it more than I do.”

“How does it make you feel? Asking people the truth.”

I consider. “Well, this is my first time. So, it's good. I mean, it's like unleashing something. Opening things up.”

“Freeing?” he says.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Doing drugs is like that.”

“Oh?” I remember from creative nonfiction class that, when interviewing, it's important not to interrupt. Silence can get people talking.

“You try it once. There's a rush, and all the barriers between you and other people, you and yourself, they're all gone. Everything is possible. You aren't alone anymore.”

The description was exhilarating. Why
hadn't
I done much in the way of drugs?

“And then?”

“And then you want to have that feeling again. But it turns out there's like a half-life to getting high. The aftereffects follow you around. Make the original situation, loneliness or whatever, worse. And it's never quite as good as that first time. Taking drugs turns out to be a shitload of work, once you get right down to it. I think the correct term is ‘diminishing returns.'”

“I see.”

“My guess is that the truth's like that. You ask somebody the truth. Feel like you've moved into a different dimension. But it doesn't end there. There are consequences to every action. Shadows.”

Brian Forbes is freakishly articulate. He should be asking the questions. I've been standing like an intruder just inside the entrance for what feels like hours. I'm not sure where to put my hands, arms. I'm too aware of the cold concrete under my feet. I take a seat on the long bench, staying as close to the doorway as possible.

“That sounds right,” I say. “In my limited experience.”

Brian Forbes is sitting about five feet away from me. He turns his face and he is the oldest seventeen-year-old I've ever seen.

“What's supposed to happen now? I tell you I've got this problem that everybody already knows about. I sure as hell already know about it. What then?”

“I guess things change. At least, that's the idea.”

“Yeah?”

“If you want them to.”

“Therein lies the rub,” he says, and somehow I know he's had this conversation before. “You going to tell me my options?” he says. “Treatment? Twelve Steps? Like that?”

“No. We don't give advice. We only ask and listen.”

“Smart,” says Brian. He drops his cigarette to the damp concrete floor and scuffs it out with his running shoe, which is falling apart and not in an ironic, experimental way. “It's after the truth comes out that the going gets tough.”

Again, I have no response.

“Everyone at school knows,” he muses. “Everyone at home. And it's up to me to make some changes. God, that is such a tiring thought.”

“You can talk to me,” I say. “Anytime. I want to help.”

Brian Forbes levels his gaze at me. “You're Keira Pale's sister, right?”

The abrupt change in subject causes an obstruction in my airway.

“Yeah.”

I wait for a comment about the sister in the Diana books. A comment about how I'm nothing like that pale starer or the hapless doughball, or how I'm just like her.

“If you want to ask someone the truth, you might want to start a little closer to home,” he says.

“What?” I say. “What do you mean?”

But Brian doesn't answer. He's getting slowly to his feet, like some decrepit old-young man.

“I appreciate your interest in my situation,” he says. He stands in front of where I sit like a block of cement on the wooden bench. He reaches out a hand to shake mine. I look at it. The moons of his nails are black.

I take his hand and it's cold, but his grip is gentle.

“You want my cell number?” I ask. Like I'm trying to pick him up.

“Maybe later,” he says, and gives me a sideways smile. I suddenly understand how people fall in love with drug addicts.

And then he's shuffling out of the dugout and I'm left with more questions than I had before I asked Brian Forbes the truth. I sit in the dugout for a long time until Neil comes in to get me.