State of Grace (34 page)

                
I don't know where to begin. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, so I'll tell you everything and then let you make the decision about where to go from here. I don't know how much you remember about me, so I'll start from the beginning.

                
I was at my grandparents' that summer because my parents thought my friends were bad influences. What they didn't know was that I (and I'm ashamed to admit it) was the ringleader. It was serious stuff—robbing and beating up gay men in parks, running errands for drug dealers. We never got caught, but still . . . Please understand, I'm not proud of what I did back then. It was stupid and wrong—not to mention dangerous—which is why my parents sent me to Edenbridge to stay with my grandparents. I think they were trying to figure out what to do with me and figured that Edenbridge was as safe a place as any.

                
When you met me, I was angry. I hated Edenbridge. And then one day, I wandered into that little store. I saw the knives and I thought . . . why not? So, I stole one. I thought it would make me cool—that I could go back home and impress my friends. But I couldn't let my grandparents see it, so I hid it in the clearing, at the base of a big tree that was right near your tree house.

                
I wanted to throw it, kind of like they did it in the movies. So I went to the clearing to practice. There was never anybody there. At least, I thought I was alone. But one day, while I was practicing, I heard someone sneeze. It was Grace, up in the tree house watching. Turns out she had been watching me practically every day.

                
I have to admit, my initial reaction was anger . . . and embarrassment. She didn't laugh, though. Or make fun. She simply said that I was getting pretty good and asked if I could teach her how to throw it. When I asked her why, she said she needed protection. As we got to be friends, I realized who she needed protecting from and why.

                
I know this is going to sound strange, but the time I spent with her made more of an impact on me than any amount of punishment my parents could have doled out. She seemed so smart and mature. A lot of the time I forgot that she was only 11. I told her about the things I had done and she was cool. She didn't judge. And she told me about her mom and Reggie. She was scared to be at home with him there.

                
Before you ask, I don't know who killed her or why. If you ask me, I think it was Reggie. But that's just my opinion. All I know is that when I found her, she was already dead. She had been stabbed and I assumed, from how she was left, raped. I didn't know what to do, Birdie. I saw the knife and knew it was mine. Maybe she had pulled it out for protection. I don't know. All I do know is that I realized that my fingerprints probably were all over it. And, because no one knew we were spending time together, I figured people would think the worst. So, I ran. I ran back to my grandparents' house and I stayed there.

                
When you saw me that first time, I was there because I missed Grace. I just wanted to be in the place we used to spend time together. I know I probably scared you when I climbed up in your tree house. I'm sorry. After we spoke (you and me) I realized we were struggling with similar issues. When I talked to you, I didn't feel so alone.

                
I know that's a long answer to your question, but I wanted you to know everything. Grace changed my life. Her death . . . when I went back to Chicago, my perspective had changed. I understood the value of life and the devastation that comes with the taking of life. Grace made me see that.

                
I know you're a private person and you have boundaries, Birdie. But for good reason. Just know that at some point, I'd like to become friends.

                
Tommy

I stared at the screen, dumbfounded. I thought back to that
summer and I remembered our meetings and our conversations. I knew what he meant about not feeling so alone. And then it hit me—our correspondence, our discussions, weren't chance. They were part of a larger plan. Someone or something continued to throw us together. Before, we were there for each other when Grace died. Now, as I struggled with Natalie's death, he was here again.

“Bullshit,”
Grace said.
“You're seeing what you want to see.”

“You don't know anything.”

“I know more than you.”
I could feel her pacing.
“I know that you can't trust this guy. Ask him about the other rape.”

“What do you mean? What other rape?”

“You'll see,”
she crowed.
“Natalie thinks he's trouble, too.”

I blinked. “What do you mean? “Natalie's there?”

“Oh, didn't I tell you?”
Grace said slyly. “
She's here. Not in your head, of course. But in the great nebulousness of death.”

“Can I talk to her?” I asked. “There are some things I want—”

“She doesn't want to talk to you,” Grace said. “She has no time for someone who didn't take her in and then couldn't be bothered with going to her funeral.”

“There were circumstances beyond my control,” I stammered. “I can explain.”

“She doesn't want to hear it,”
Grace said.
“You let her down just like you let me down. You weren't there for her and you weren't there for me.”

“Shut up,” I said. “Just . . . shut up. You have no idea what I've been through.”

“Are you kidding?”
Grace said sarcastically.
“I'm in your head. I know everything that's going on.”
She was silent for several seconds.
“Natalie hates you, you know.”

“That's not true.”

“Oh, it is. All you have left is that fag friend of yours.”

“Tommy wants to be my friend.”

I turned back to the computer and pulled up the e-mail. I pointed to the last line. “See? And, you know what?” I clicked on the reply button. “I want to be his, too.”

“What are you doing?”
asked Grace incredulously as the message box opened.
“You don't know—”

“Shut up,” I said aloud.

“Birdie, listen to me.”
Grace's voice dropped to a pained whisper.
“Tommy can't be trusted.”
She paused.
“He's the one who murdered me.”

“Funny how it just comes up now when you're feeling threatened.”

“You never needed to know before. And I wasn't ready to tell you. But you need to listen to me now. It was Tommy. He pretended to be my friend, he lured me to the Nest, and then he killed me.”

“You're just saying that because you're jealous!” My voice echoed through the open room. “You've always been jealous, Grace. Jealous of the fact that I had parents who loved me. That
I
was Natalie's best friend. That you died and I didn't. You're jealous and you've been punishing and controlling me ever since.”

“That's ridiculous,”
Grace said quickly.
“All I've ever wanted to do is protect you from suffering the same fate as me. Think about it, Birdie. Who has kept you safe? Who was there when you did LSD? Who takes care of you every night now when you're drunk? Me! You really have no one but me.”

“And that's the way you like it, isn't it?” I hissed. “You've alienated me from friends and family. You've made me scared of my own shadow. Of germs. Of life. I've given up everything to you out of guilt. I've so insulated myself that I have nothing.”

“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.