Something to Believe In

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Enough!” Violet shouts.

  I step right into Jemma’s space. Then to make her even more uncomfortable, I take two steps closer. “My mom died, okay? My mom died, she’s my only bio parent, and maybe I’m not ready to let her go. I know you don’t care, and you sure as heck don’t understand how it feels, and even if you did, you’d probably deal with it like a cyborg anyway. But I lost a mom, and then I came right back to school because I thought I was okay, but I’m not. And I don’t know how to handle any of this—not the anger, not the grief, and not how to stay afloat with every stupid class and responsibility that I care nothing about. So, back off because I’m not in the mood to hear how I’ve violated your schedule or put my cheese on the wrong side of the fridge.”

  Then I break Roommate Rule Number Eleven and leave my plate on the counter before I angrily climb up my ladder and lie down on my bed, shoes and all.

  I don’t know how long I face that concrete block wall, tracing the cracks with my finger and praying for a giant sinkhole to swallow one of my roommates.

  Then a monotone voice speaks into the heavy silence.

  “I know all about grief.”

  I hear footfalls as Jemma nears and stands beneath my bed.

  “My dad was a corporate airplane pilot.”

  At that, I reluctantly sit up and give her my attention, but I cross my arms over my chest so she doesn’t think I’m all in on paying attention here.

  She licks her lips and addresses the ladder. “He was flying a plane to California three years ago, and it malfunctioned. All six people on board died.” Her eyes get a little glossy as she pauses to gather her next words. “I miss him every single day.”

  Oh.

  Oh, my.

  “Jemma, I’m so sorry,” Violet says.

  My next sentiment sounds cheap and lame. “I didn’t know.”

  “Life is hard without my Dad. I’m constantly thinking of things I wish I could tell him, or catching myself picking up the phone to call.” She sniffs and wipes at her nose. “I still have three of his voicemails on my phone, and sometimes I’ll sit and listen to them over and over. Just to hear his voice again.”

  Since my mom’s death, I haven’t cried. But right now, I’m blinking back something that resembles water. “I’m sorry—for what I said and for your loss.” I pat the spot beside me. “Want to come up?” I hold up some snacks I’ve hidden beneath a corner of my mattress. “I have Oreos.”

  I can tell Jemma is struggling between a desire for cookies and a fear that she will lose her self-respect if she eats in bed.

  “It’s my sheets that will suffer any residual damage, so don’t worry about it.”

  After a beat of hesitation, Jemma climbs up and slowly eases onto the bed, though there’s still a foot of space between us. “My mom remarried this summer, but I’m not ready to move on.”

  “Do you like the guy?” I ask.

  “He’s okay. I can tell I freak him out a little.”

  “It’s good to keep him on his toes.” I offer her a cookie. “Make him earn his place.”

  “He’ll never be my dad.”

  “No,” I say. “He never will.”

  She unscrews the two chocolate wafers. “I remember thinking my world was over. My heart hurt so bad, I actually felt physical pain. Everyone assumed I didn’t want to talk about it, so no one asked.”

  “You can talk about it with us.” Violet ascends the ladder, forcing Jemma to skooch over as she joins us. “My grandma died last year, and I know it’s not anything like losing a parent, but she was my best friend.”

  I pass her the bag of Oreos. “I get that. And it’s still a huge loss. If my grandma passed away, I’d go out of my mind.” I don’t even want to imagine life without my Mad Maxine.

  “My grandma didn’t pressure me to be something I wasn’t,” Violet says. “She didn’t care if I was in a sorority or not. Didn’t care what college I went to. She told me to be whatever I wanted to be.”

  Jemma brushes some crumbs into her hand. “Grief hits in the most unexpected times. A few months after my dad passed away, I was at the bus stop listening to a podcast on the solar system, and something the speaker said about stars set me off. To this day, I still can’t explain it, but I burst into tears. Everyone just stared at me as they climbed on the bus. I couldn’t pull it together enough to get on, so I cried for another fifteen minutes until the next bus arrived.”

  “I still have one of my grandmother’s silly holiday sweatshirts,” Violet says. “I keep it at the top of my closet, and sometimes I pull it down and sniff it. It smells like fabric softener and Estee Lauder. Just like her.”

  I smile at that. If I captured the scent of my mother, all I’d have to do is buy a pack of Marlboros and some cinnamon gum.

  “I guess the hurt means we loved them well,” Violet says.

  Is that true? Had I done all I could for my mom? What if I could’ve been a better daughter?

  “Does it get any easier?” I ask Jemma.

  She thinks about this, then slowly nods. “It does. But it’s never the same. The therapist my mom sent me to called it a new normal.”

  That’s what that lady at the campus chapel said. “It doesn’t feel very normal.”

  “I remember a week after my dad died, the world had gone back to its business, and there I was still reeling. I’d see all these people going on with their lives like nothing had ever happened. But I wasn’t ready to go back to life as usual.”

  I so get that. I’m frozen in this alternate universe of heartache and grief, and the world keeps spinning. People go to class, they hang out in the student center, they deliver lines in a stupid play. Like nothing happened. “How long until you felt better?”

  “Never.”

  I nudge her with my elbow. “You’re brave to keep pushing through. I bet you make your dad so proud.”

  Her head bows, and her nose twitches as she sniffles. “Sometimes, I see a cloud shaped like an airplane, and I wonder if it’s my dad. I wonder if he’s flying by to check on me. Tomorrow’s my third date with Alex, and I wonder what Dad would think of him.”

  It’s probably as fanciful as any thought she’s ever had in her head. “I’m sure your dad likes what he sees. I bet you make him smile.”

  She dashes away tears with the back of her hand and looks away.

  “Katie, are you going to have a funeral?” Violet asks.

  I hesitate, but my answer remains the same. “No. James says it’s not too late, and he’s offered to perform the memorial. But the thought of it makes me ill.”

  “A funeral makes it very final,” Violet says.

  “Visitation is the worst,” Jemma says. “Don’t have one of those.”

  “The absolute worst.” Violet reaches across her for another cookie. “People coming up and hugging you and making you cry more. And all that awkward small talk when it’s the last thing you want to do.”

  “I hid in a closet in the funeral home and read a book.” A small smile lifts Jemma’s lips, giving Violet and me permission to laugh.

  “You girls can talk about your lost loved ones with me anytime.” I wave a room-encompassing hand. “This is a safe place, right?”

  “I’d have to consult Jemma’s latest spreadsheet update,” Violet says, “but I do believe it is.”

  Jemma licks the cream filling from an Oreo. “I’m sorry I was mean about your mom’s ashes. Keep them here a while longer.” She casts a reluctant look in their general direction below. “I mean, it’s still creepy. But I guess I understand.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you had any more ideas for locations?” Violet asks.

  I sadly shake my head. “I still haven’t found an answer.”

  She clicks her cookie to mine in a toast. “Maybe the answer will find you.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Grief is a strange companion. One minute you’re fine, the next you want everyone to go away, and you need nothing else but solitude,
a pint of ice cream, and a really good cry. Except I can’t cry. And believe, me I’ve tried. I want this pressure valve opened and all the sorrowful, angry feelings to spew out like fast-moving steam. I’ve watched sad movies. I’ve skimmed tragic stories online. Last week I reread the last half of Old Yeller. I might’ve achieved a little misty sheen, but nothing beyond that.

  Nothing.

  I’m a vacuous black hole of emotion.

  Two days later, I sit in the third row in the theater next to Jeremy, reviewing my script and wishing I were anywhere but here. It’s very clear on this Friday night that Dr. Maddox is quite in touch with his feelings. As in his feelings of hostility over our production.

  “We have one week left, and you still don’t know your lines?” he yells at Kira. “What is wrong with you?”

  “I’m sorry!” Kira snaps back. “I do know my next line. I just forgot it.”

  “Start from the top.” Maddox shakes his head so hard, it could uncork from his neck. “And then, when you finish the scene, do it again.”

  Jeremy leans toward me and whispers in my ear. “Impending show dates makes Dr. Maddox a little moody.”

  “Is it the upcoming show?” I ask. “Or all this acid rain?”

  “Again!” Dr. Maddox bellows when Kira flubs her next line. “We have days remaining, and you should all be bringing me your absolute best. What I’m seeing tonight is the stuff of amateurs.”

  “I need a break.” Kira reaches into her pocket and pulls out an inhaler.

  Maddox stomps toward the stage. “We just took a break.”

  “Give me five minutes.” Kira shakes her inhaler, takes two puffs, then shoves it back in her pocket.

  “For crying out loud.” He flings his script to the floor, then aims his ire directly at Kira. “I’ll give you five minutes. But when you get back, you better be opening-night ready.”

  She scurries off stage, and everyone relaxes. Conversations begin, snacks are passed around.

  “What do you people think you’re doing?” Dr. Maddox throws out his arms as if wanting to grab us all by the scruffs of our necks. “Keep going! I don’t want to be here all night.”

  George, who plays the lead opposite Kira, scratches his head. “Do you want us to skip Kira’s part?”

  “No, I do not,” he says like George is a brainless twit. “Where’s her understudy?” Dr. Maddox does a half rotation until his internal GPS hones in on me. “You. Get up here.”

  Jeremy sucks in a breath. “It’s your divine chance! Show Mr. PMS what you’ve got.”

  My brain completely empties of all thought. I think…I’ve got nothing.

  “Am I talking to myself up here?” Dr. Maddox addresses the ceiling as if appealing to the heavens. “Is anyone listening to a word I say?”

  “I am.” Nearly tripping over Jeremy’s legs, I step over him and into the aisle. “On my way, sir! Here I come.” Every single one of Kira’s lines charges through my mind, layers of them all at once. The words blend and overlap until my head’s just a big vat of alphabet soup, seasoned with dollops of stage directions.

  God, please let me get this right, I pray as I sprint up the steps to stage left. Please let all those hours of memorizing pay off. Let me show Dr. Maddox how good I really am.

  Two minutes later, our esteemed director wishes I’d grab an inhaler and take a break.

  “No, no, no!” He now stands on stage between George and me. “Kira’s character, Lacy, has the chance to put the love of her life on this unexpected rocket to Mars. She knows there’s only one more seat, but he’s hurt her badly. Yet, if he stays, he will not survive. Lacy must let him go but at her own expense. This is her moment of decision. Step into that. How would it feel to set this person free? Focus, Katrina.”

  There’s really no point in correcting him, is there? “Okay.”

  We try again, and I insert so much anguish into my voice, I’m nearly wailing with it.

  “Wrong!” Dr. Maddox walks back onto the stage, and I can feel the sweat multiplying beneath my armpits as he stands so close. A pulse ticks near his temple. “You’re not selling this.”

  I glance out into the auditorium, but can’t see Jeremy for the blinding glare of the lights. Why is Dr. Maddox wasting his time with this? I’m not Kira. “I…I guess I’m not sure how I can be any more realistic.”

  “Dig deep,” he says. “Think of a moment in which you felt like you’d lost something important.”

  My mom flashes before my eyes, and I try to blink her away.

  The rainy day the child care services worker picked me up from school, my last day of fifth grade. I sat in the DHS office until dinner time, watching TV as I listened to the caseworker make phone call after phone call trying to find me a foster home for the night.

  I see the moment that led to the end. I was sixteen, and my mom had been arrested—again. Iola Smartley found me at the gas station, hanging out with a few unsavories and skipping school. She took me to the girls’ home where I slept with one eye open every night, fearing my roommate would smother me with her lumpy pillow.

  “Your character doesn’t know what fate awaits her. Do you understand?” I mutely nod as he continues. “Someone Lacey loves is leaving. Someone who wronged her. She’s been waiting for him to change, to say he’s sorry, something to earn that seat. But it doesn’t come. And finally…she tells him goodbye. And saves his life. But her own life will never be the same.” Dr. Maddox takes one step back, but his regard is just as intense. “Think of your hardest goodbye, the one you shouldn’t have had to offer. Where were you? How did that despair rock your heart?”

  My bottom lip trembles as I see myself with my mom. The summer before the Scotts adopted me. Mom and I were in our trailer, and she was leaving to hang out with a druggie friend. I begged her not to go. We got into a huge argument, and she walked away, leaving me there alone. And though she said she would only be gone for the night, somehow I knew. I just knew she’d never come back.

  And I’m so angry at her. So mad she left me behind.

  I blink back tears and squeeze my eyes shut. “I can’t do this.”

  “Now,” Dr. Maddox says. “Tell George’s character goodbye.”

  My throat thickens, and I lick my lips, willing myself to keep it together.

  I never got to ask my mom why she treated me the way she did. I never got to ask her if she ever truly loved me.

  Two years she sat in that prison, and I didn’t go see her.

  “Say your goodbyes, Katie,” I hear Dr. Maddox say.

  But I can’t.

  I don’t want to do this anymore.

  I hate this play. I hate my part. I definitely hate Kira’s part.

  And I loathe this moment.

  I’m so done with it all.

  “I quit,” I hear someone say.

  Then I realize it’s me.

  The words sound so right, I say them again.

  “I quit.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Tell me again why you quit the play?”

  On Saturday night, Tate leads me through a wall of corn as tall as a giant in this haunted maze. I hear people all around us giggling and doing who knows what. Probably being happy and enjoying themselves. Which offends my crabby mood.

  “I don’t want to talk about this.” I have zero energy to figure out how to get out of this maze, and the first time something scary jumps out at me, I will not be responsible for my swinging fists.

  Tate grabs my hand and pulls me to the left. “Humor me and pretend you do want to talk.”

  “You know, when you said we were going as Wizard of Oz characters, I thought I’d be Dorothy.” I swear Tate picked this outfit to get back at me for something. It’s a giant furry onesie, I keep stumbling over my puppy feet, and I look more like a Sasquatch than a dog.

  “I told you it was gender bender night.”

  I take another look at Tate’s blue gingham dress and admire his glossy brunette wig. “You definitely did not.”r />
  “I thought I did.”

  “I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered any mention of your wearing glittery red flats.”

  “My toes are crowded and unhappy.”

  “My costume smells like cigarettes and wet dog. We couldn’t have gone as Wonder Woman and Super Man or Cinderella and Prince Charming?” Anything that doesn’t involve fur?

  Tate’s voice gets uncharacteristically testy. “You told me to handle the costumes. If you recall, you didn’t want to be bothered with it.” He holds back some leaning corn blocking our path. “Anyway, you were telling me why you quit the show last night.”

  I wasn’t, and we both know it. But we’ve got at least half an hour of this haunted maze, and there’s no escaping this conversation. “Because it’s a toxic environment.”

  “The theater?” Tate slows his pace when I trip over a rock pile. “You love the theater.”

  “Not this one.”

  “If you’d gotten a bigger part, would you be saying the same thing?”

  “I resent that.”

  “You keep griping about your one line.”

  “My one line is very layered and nuanced!” Just then, a tall person in a skeleton costume leaps out, and I scream and run past him. Behind me, Tate laughs. “Not funny! I’m going to have PTSD by the time we get out of here.” It’ll be the cherry on top of my trauma-sundae of a life.

  Two couples speed-walk past us, clearly intent on finding the exit first. Tate calls out a greeting to one of the guys, then returns to his cross-examination. “At least you told me about this development.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Just ahead, someone fires up a chainsaw. “Never mind. Let’s focus on getting out of here alive.”

  We come to a fork in the path, and Tate stops, looking first to the left, then to the right. “No, how about we focus on us?”

  “Now? Here?” I jerk my head toward the stalks in the distance. “Somewhere out there’s a chainsaw-wielding psycho, and you want to assess our relationship?”