Fade to White

by Tara K Ross

  His shoulders jostle against me. “So says the girl who jumped out of my car to escape all human contact.”

  I join in his pained laughter. “Not my finest moment. But in my defense, I thought it would help. I also pulled out enough strands to make a Woolie-approved hairball.” He pulls himself from my embrace, and I avoid his disapproving look by standing up. I hold out an arm for him and he accepts it. “Nothing worked until I got here.”

  He squeezes my hand with enough tension to keep me from walking any closer to the edge. “So what were you doing then?”

  “Being still.”

  “That’s it?”

  How can I explain it to him without sounding like I’m prepping for some new-age silent meditation retreat? But he needs to know, as crazy as it might sound.

  “A few weeks ago, after you left for school, I had this freaky panic attack at breakfast when Mom and Dad were fighting. The entire kitchen blanked out, and there was this rush of noise like a summer downpour. I thought I was dying. But in that noise, I heard two words. Be still. Almost like a voice was inside my head saying it just to me. But even with the entire world blocked out, I couldn’t do it.” He squeezes my hand and waits for me without any of his usual quips.

  “I was so scared. I couldn’t stop my brain from its idiotic circles of paranoid thinking. Would Mom and Dad ever stop fighting? What if I was dying? Would I be with Grams? Or would I just fall into darkness? Like the girl in the newspaper.”

  He pulls me away from the edge back to the forest path. “So, what was different about today?”

  We travel back into the canopy of branches and needles, past Tom’s flashlight illuminating a forgotten portrait. The answer is so simple. “I wasn’t alone.”

  “Because of me? But you were talking to someone before I saw you.”

  “I wasn’t alone even before you came.” Up on the ridge, my silent conversation—whether a legitimate prayer or a rant for God to fight for me—slowed the swirling knots in my stomach. “I was praying that someone was there. Fighting for me.”

  “That’s funny. Your friend said I should do the same thing.”

  I focus on his face, waiting for him to break into some sarcastic comment. “What friend?”

  He pulls my cell phone from his back pocket. “He had a funky name. Kale maybe? You tried to call him. Must have been around the same time you called me.”

  My mouth drops. I pat down my empty pockets.

  “Your escape wasn’t so stealthy.” He passes me my phone, eyebrows raised. “I told him about your car bail. And when he heard about you tripping out over a flag, he knew exactly why you wanted to be at the ridge. I don’t know what you kids are smoking these days, but share next time.”

  “Yeah, no drugs needed. He’s kind of mesmerizing that way,” I say while scanning through the missed calls and texts that have accumulated. Most of them were from Tom and my mom, but there was one call from Khi that was picked up; the conversation lasted for twenty-three minutes.

  Tom claps a hand on my shoulder. “You’re telling me. That guy could talk anyone off a ledge.” His face reddens. “I mean, he seems to really care about you, and yeah ...” He kicks at the gravel, and I wait, watching his mouth chew through to the right words. “I should have trusted you in the first place. Let you have time to … be still.” He says the last two words in air quotes.

  I smile. How hard was it for him to take advice about his sister from some guy he thinks is named after a leafy green?

  “Somehow he knew you’d be okay, and for whatever reason, I wanted to trust him.” He pulls out his keys and clicks on his car across the parking lot. “Trusted him for half an hour at least. But then I couldn’t keep my big-brother instinct from kicking in.”

  “I’m surprised you lasted that long.” I punch him playfully in the arm.

  And in return I get the bear hug that’s usually reserved for Mom. “I don’t know what I would have done”—his voice cracks—“but you’re safe now. That’s all that matters. You’re safe.”

  I gently extricate myself from his hold. “Thank you.”

  “You should really be thanking What’s-His-Name.”

  “It’s Khi,” I say as though teaching a toddler a new word.

  Tom swings his arm around my neck, directing me toward his car. “Khi. Doesn’t matter to me what you call him. It’s just nice to see your hormones finally arrived.”

  I instinctively set up to sucker punch him but instead, shrug out of his shoulder hug. “It’s not like that.”

  “Sensitive much? He sounded like a nice guy. When I could understand him.”

  “He’s from Iceland. and he’s only here for the year, so nothing’s going to happen anyway.”

  “A lot can happen in a year. He’s got my approval, assuming he isn’t planning to take you back to Greenland with him.”

  We reach the car and I roll my eyes at him. “No, Thomas, not to Iceland.” Though the idea of leaving this town is appealing. Could that even be a possibility? Going home to Mom without Dad and confronting Gavin and now Dr. Kowalski all seem too daunting. Even with this new sense of protection and guidance in the journey.

  Tom whistles and yanks me back to reality. He stands next to me now, holding the door open, a smug look on his face. “That’s good to know, because he may be waiting for you at home.”

  I climb in, and he closes the door behind me, a big goofy smile already back on his face.

  And just like that, going home becomes a whole lot less daunting.

  ***

  Tom opens the double doors to the living room, and both Mom and Khi rise from the couch. When Tom said Khi was at the house, I somehow managed to block the fact that Mom would also be there. This is not how I pictured them meeting. Before I can process her movements, she enfolds me within her lavender scent and a smattering of kisses and apologetic phrases. I want to melt into her embrace, to be her baby once more, where nothing more than tantrums over lost toys comes between us. But my body will not release for her. I stiffen instead with each of her false reassurances. Tom places a hand on her shoulder and, after a private exchange of expressions, she strokes through my matted hair, then follows him out.

  I stand alone in the same spot as when the doors opened, but now only Khi waits. A slight tilt of his head invites me to join him on the couch. The same space that last night held so many images I wish I could forever erase from my memory. But Dad is still gone. Mom is still pretending everything will be all right. Nothing has changed. This is still my new messed-up reality. And in this moment, I have already failed. I can’t do perfect love. I can’t do compassion when each thud of my heart feels constrained.

  The glass doors click shut behind me, and I shake my head. There is a silence like yesterday. There is a stillness like when Grams died. There is a fireplace that never held real wood, and there is a mantel of pictures from a life that no longer exists.

  And then there is Khi. Why is he so good to me? How does he give so much of himself without expecting anything in return? “You are too ...” I fight against the tinge of emotions wanting to release. The frustration of failing him. Of failing Him, a God I feel so distant from. “I can’t be like you.”

  Khi looks down to his hands. “If for any moment you thought that is what I wanted, then I am so sorry. I am not a model. If anything, your brokenness, your willingness to admit you can’t do it alone, is more honoring than anything I have done for you.” He looks up and tucks a curl behind my ear. “If only I could be more like you.”

  What part of me is worth replicating? My brokenness? My dependence? How can admitting I’m a failure in a faith I’m just coming to understand be anything but a defect?

  He opens his arms low as though offering his own faults for judgment. I am drawn into his embrace, and he holds me in perfect tension while I battle the bitterness, grief, and disbelief writhing through every muscle of my body.

  I pull back from his now tear-soaked sweater and whisper, “When I first jumped
from Tom’s car, I thought I needed to be alone. To work through all the screwed-up thoughts in my head.” I reach for the clearing within my hair, separate the knots, and twist my head for him to see. “I couldn’t help but pull.”

  He turns me back around and waits for me to meet his gaze again. “It’s okay.”

  How is that okay? I’ve read the Google prognosis for self-harm. “But it’s not.” My voice rises to a shrill. “Pulling doesn’t do anything. I don’t know if it ever did. But I can’t help doing it, and I’m going to do something stupid again. I know it.”

  “But you are not alone anymore.”

  I may not be alone, but it still doesn’t make sense. “Why would God want me? He should be chasing after someone who can actually appreciate His gift. Who can do something useful with it like you do.”

  “Like you do too.”

  “Buying an extra tea for the occasional glowing misfit doesn’t count.”

  “You’re designed to love others, Thea. I barely know you, but I can see it.” He grabs hold of my wrists and lifts them to eye level. Within his grasp, a warmth grows. “Think about what has been happening to you. You see the light in others for a reason. It’s okay that you mess up. He forgives you. No matter how badly you screw up. Imagine what you could do if you embraced your imperfection and moved forward from there.”

  I shake my head. “But how? I can’t even deal with my parents breaking up.”

  He scans our fireplace mantel, pausing on my parents’ wedding portrait. Their hands are interlaced in front of them. Two rings marking a lifelong commitment to one another. “God models forgiveness for a reason.”

  He shifts his gaze to the French doors at the other side of the room. Mom’s silhouette shadows the frosted glass. Have I asked how she’s doing? Whether she too feels alone and lost? I’ve treated her like a fast-food drive-thru employee. Only exchanging basic needs without a chance for emotional connection. That’s not love at all.

  She deserves to be heard. She deserves an explanation. And maybe even an attempt at forgiveness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “Five minutes until curtain.” Ms. Vosper’s voice squeals as she ducks behind the heavy velvet material separating the cast from the humming auditorium. “We have a full house this year.”

  Nervous laughter and whispered encouragements fill the stage as everyone exits to prepare for the opening scene. I race through my first few lines for the hundredth time as I readjust my white lily crown. I step toward the curtain, peer into the full auditorium, and search for familiar faces. The house lights have already dimmed, and only the first few rows are visible. Rows I declared off-limits to my family and friends.

  The pianist and stand-up bass player from the jazz ensemble strike their first few notes in perfect unison, and the crowd hushes. With one last deep exhale that matches the slide of the bass’s mellow tone, I exit toward stage right.

  Gavin’s dark, penetrating eyes meet mine as I pass into the low light backstage. He stands with Romeo’s perfect posture, his crisp, black dress shirt drawing out the boldness of his angled features in the dim light. He will likely always be handsome, even when he is old and gray. But he no longer pummels my heart like he did a month ago.

  After only a moment of hesitation, I stride to him and whisper, “You’ve got this.” I fix the white kerchief tucked into his front pocket and meet his eyes with what I hope comes across as warmth and friendship.

  His lip turns upward ever so slightly as he mouths back thanks, then heads toward the wing I’ve just exited. He shakes out his arms, and his lips move through the lines that will both start and carry this performance. He smiles once more at me before taking his opening mark on stage. He will be incredible—I know this without a doubt.

  I tiptoe back to the edge of stage right and take a seat next to Declan. He shifts his stool over so I can see the stage as well. The set is simple, as are our all-black costumes to go with the contemporary take on the Shakespearean tragedy. Except now, it will no longer be a tragedy, but a tempered romance that ends with hope. A way to share what Malin loved with a new outlook. Each of us wears one white addition to our black ensembles to symbolize a way out of the darkness. Declan chose a white kerchief around his neck which he has already retied at least four times this evening.

  We both stare at Gavin as he carries himself with confidence and poise through the opening scene.

  “He really has a gift, doesn’t he?” Declan whispers, without looking away from the stage.

  I nod, though a surge of jealousy builds in the heat behind my ears.

  Declan’s lanky build shifts to face me. “I mean, you’re also really great—”

  “It’s okay.” I lean forward, amazed at Gavin’s portrayal. Every girl in the audience must be swooning. “He has a knack for completely transforming into a character.” Something I tried to do but didn’t practice with the same daily devotion.

  Gavin Miura is still a mystery to me. And that’s my fault. I never took the time to learn who he was. I was too infatuated with what I wanted him to be—a modern-day Romeo who needed a Juliet to be complete. He’s not Romeo, and I’m most definitely not his Juliet. And that’s okay.

  Declan’s shoulder gently nudges mine, drawing me from my thoughts. He signals with his head. It’s almost time for my entry. He grabs my hand gently before I stand, and whispers, “Light up the house, Thea.”

  I smirk at him and raise an eyebrow. We both know I’m not the star of this show. He winks back at me—not in a dodgy or patronizing way. He’s not speaking about my acting. A glow surrounds me that is separate from the twenty-five-watt bulb near the backstage exit. I look down at my hands at a light and warmth growing from within. It didn’t happen right away. To arrive at the root of my disbelief meant letting go of more than rational thoughts and physical senses. It meant moving past my imperfection.

  I hear my entry cue and, still staring at my hands, walk on to become Juliet for the next thirty-four minutes. I allow myself no reprieve from the rehearsed lines, beats, blocking, and emotional headspace needed to support my performance. Because this performance is more than just a drama festival entry. This is healing. This is moving past fear. This is hope for everyone still fighting.

  At Gavin’s final line and an eruption of applause, I switch back into Thea Fenton. Still broken, but filled with light. We take our bow as a cast, no member set apart—even though we all know the accolades are mostly directed toward Gavin. He stands with a confidence that is true and honest. I squeeze his hand with each rise and fall of our torsos, my own silent applause for him. With his final bow, he lifts up his kerchief for all to see. The white material sails through the air like it did in the final scene. He thanks me again with the mouthing of his words and the most genuine expression he’s ever allowed me to see. The stage fades to white, and we exit, within the light, to the wings.

  The still-dark audience begins to murmur. They gather their jackets and bags to exit. A roar of voices from the elated cast swirls around me, but a soft whisper prompts me to look back. This time, pockets of light glow throughout the exiting crowd. I draw my attention to each swell of light and notice one that is stationary near the front. Khi stands like a beacon, waving as I latch on to his glow. He is not alone, though. Next to him is a softer ember that seems to flicker on and off like a cloud drifting past a star in the night. It’s Tom. He still applauds even though most people around him have stopped. He leans over in the darkness and, as the house lights begin to rise, I see Mom and Dad, their own lights flickering, goofily applauding right alongside him. Dad drapes his arm around her, and she leans into him. My entire body warms. Turns out my suspicions were all wrong about Dr. K. He’s been counseling Dad since Grams died. He even convinced him and Mom to see a marriage counselor together. I laugh at my misjudgment, then race for the changeroom. At this moment, I want nothing more than to be a part of their embrace.

  Along the side of a still-buzzing hallway, I exit the stage door to the scat
tered applause of strangers and a chorus of whoops from my entire family. I throw myself into each of their waiting arms, not caring how mushy and sentimental I must look. After a minute-long hugfest, Dad hands me a bouquet of white peonies and kisses my cheek. “You were inspiring.”

  Mom links her arm around mine, and we stroll toward the front foyer. “So, will we get to meet Gavin sometime?”

  My old nervous habit takes hold and I begin to scratch at my hair. How am I supposed to answer a loaded question like that? “Uh … I don’t think that’s going to—”

  Tom jumps to my rescue. “I don’t think Thea is in need of another—”

  “Another friend.” I cut him off.

  “Right. Speaking of … friends, I see some of your fan club over there.” He signals to Ashley, Jade, and Khi on the other side of the foyer, next to the awards cabinets. Tom ushers me away from Mom and Dad with such ease they don’t even seem to catch on to the diversion. He squeezes my shoulder. There’s no need for me to offer thanks.

  “I think they’re going to sort it out,” he offers.

  “Apparently.” I glance over my shoulders at the private conversation already started between my parents.

  “You helped them.” Tom’s voice lowers as we work our way through the crowd. The twinkle I saw through the darkness of the audience sparks again. “You know that, right?”

  “By admitting to my delusional assumptions about a nonexistent affair and Dad’s unfounded apathy toward their marriage?”

  “That probably helped. But not many people can forgive and move past the hurt like you did.”

  “I ...” Did I do that? “Maybe.”

  In the crowd ahead, I spot others whose lights flicker within the mound of voices and movement, just like Tom’s. I slowly assign faces to each gentle ray. Within each flicker, there is still a struggle. My heart quickens with unknown fears. My shoulders weigh a little with loneliness and doubts. I’m learning those feelings may never disappear. Not in this lifetime.