by Denise Jaden
That vacation, apparently, would be our last.”
My voice cracks and I stop for a second to catch my breath.
“The paint on the carpet will always remain.”
Just for a moment I visualize moving the ottoman permanently, so we could see the splotch all the time. Remember it.
“Why take the good things and leave us the stains?”
Even with these memories, I’m keeping calm
And wondering why I don’t lose it like Mom.”
I snap my mouth shut. When I wrote it, all I thought about was the fact that I haven’t cried all week. Now it looks like I’m just bringing even more attention to Mom’s outburst. I know I need to push on. And fast.
“Whatever I say doesn’t help with the grief
If only I didn’t feel so much relief.”
As the words leave my mouth, they shock me. I know what I meant when I wrote them: the relief of having the cops out of our house, of Dad and his strength, of every moment I seem able to put one foot in front of the other. But saying it out loud, it sounds all wrong. My face heats up and I start to close my book in embarrassment. But the words ring out in the air, and I can’t just leave them there. With only two lines left, I reconsider and decide to just finish.
“All I can hope is she’s somewhere above
My sister, Faith, who I hated and loved.”
When I finish no one moves, and the buzz of the sound system takes over the silence. The moment is way too uncomfortable and when I peek up, stares come at me from all around the room. The relief line still rings in my head and I swallow hard, wondering just how wrong people could have taken it. Or was it wrong to admit that sometimes I hated Faith, even if it is the truth?
I try to come up with some words, but suddenly Mom leaps out of her chair again, taking everyone’s attention, and before I can open my mouth, she runs for the back of the church.
The echo of her sobbing resonates, even after the doors close behind her.
Oh no.
“Excuse me,” I whisper, and don’t wait for a response. Rushing through the pews, I fly out the back doors into the lobby.
She’s not there, or in the bathroom, so I open the outside doors and scan the parking lot. Nothing. I race up the stairs to check the balcony. With no sign of her, I start to panic.
As I’m about to find a side door leading into the sanctuary and grab Dad, people start filing out of the main exit into the lobby. Somehow, Pastor Scott must have wrapped things up.
When people make their way through the main doors, they all give me concerned looks, like they wonder how I could possibly have said what I did. And now I wonder the same thing myself.
Okay, I’m sorry! I feel like shouting. But give me a break. Someone had to say something and it’s not like anybody else was taking over!
But I guess we all have to deal with grief in our own way. I just deal with mine by, oh, I don’t know, writing bad poetry.
Tessa Lockbaum comes into view. I’ve already assumed my defensive stance, due to the stares coming at me from every direction, so I’m ready to confront her. But when she lifts her head, my scowl stops at the tear on her cheek.
A tear. From Tessa Lockbaum.
How could she have even known Faith? Them hanging out would’ve been like Hitler consorting with Mother Teresa. In fact, I’m almost positive I’ve seen Faith move aside in the hallways right along with everyone else when Tessa tromped by.
Just as she spins away and hides her face, Dad grabs me by the shoulder. “Where’s your mother?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, my words drenched in apology. All I can think of is how I can ever get her to forgive me.
chapter SIX
dad makes a beeline for the van while I tag along behind, rattling off all of the places I’ve searched for Mom.
“Maybe she walked?” Craning my neck in both directions, I see no sign of her in the parking lot. “She must be headed home, right? Where else would she go?” I’m not a babbler, so my incessant muttering makes me want to pinch my lips shut with my fingers. But I don’t. “Do you think she’s angry?”
Dad finally looks at me, but not in the way I expect. He studies me, eyes circling my face, as though I’m a mathematical equation, something he has to figure out. “Angry,” he murmurs. “Angry.” He turns away again and I can’t tell if he’s thinking of how horrible I am or if his mind is somewhere else. We ride the rest of the way in silence.
Inside our front door, Mom’s coat lies across a chair. I let out a breath, but snatch up the coat and hang it in the closet. Mom’s the one who always nags at the rest of us to do this, and I try not to think about the oddity of cleaning up after her.
After seeing the coat, Dad heads back out the front door. “I’ll put the van in the garage.”
The house is quiet, which means Mom’s already gone up to their room. Good. I don’t have a clue what to say to her yet.
As I unzip my boots, a shadow appears behind me from the living room and I almost come out of my skin.
“What? Oh, Mom. It’s you.” Still with my other boot on, I stand there, lopsided. “You’re home. I mean, I’m glad you’re home. I didn’t mean what I … I’m so sorry about what I … said. Mom, are you … okay?”
She stands as still as the empty room behind her with her head down, listening, or not, to my rambling. If we were normal right now, she’d be pondering my apology, wondering whether or not she should let me off the hook. But if we were normal, I guess I’d have nothing to apologize for.
“Mom?”
Her clammy hand reaches to the back of my neck and pulls me in. She kisses me on the forehead, something she never does, backs away, and turns for the stairs. In her right hand, she grips the Jesus statue from the mantel.
The way her hand wraps over his face makes me think she’s not taking it upstairs to pray.
During the burial the next day, the three of us are zombies. Thankfully, none of us have to speak or actually do anything. We’re all just there for show. I keep my eyes on the ground as the pallbearers lower the casket, as Pastor Scott reads from his Bible, as the small group of extended family and my parents’ friends say good-bye. Still no Celeste. Faith’s humming in my head is the constant that’s keeping me distant from it all. Keeping me in an alternate reality.
I try to focus on the least emotional people of the crowd. Men are the safest bet and I count how many are wearing dark suits. Back by the trees there’s a guy in jeans, which is a bit out of place, but if Dustin had come I’m sure he would have worn jeans too. This guy’s so far away from everyone else that he doesn’t even look like part of the service, but I can tell by the way he stares toward the closed casket that he must be here for this. For Faith.
I inch back from my parents and they don’t seem to notice. I’m lost in my thoughts and in Faith’s humming, when I notice the guy in jeans glancing around. His features are chiseled, even from a distance. I’ve always loved longer hair on guys, and when he pushes his dark bangs away from his face, my heart skips a beat.
I know this is not the time to think about cute guys, but still, I take another step toward him. How did he know Faith? How come I don’t recognize him? He doesn’t look like the clean-cut guys from church youth group. I take another step, edging out of the circle of mourners this time. They’re all so captured by Pastor Scott’s speech, none of them seem to notice.
Mystery guy wears a red and black checkered jacket and now that I’m closer I can see the crease down the front of his blue jeans. He holds a bundle of carnations down at his side. I try to ignore the clothes and concentrate on his etched expression, intent and contemplative. Something about him seems different and I’m drawn toward him.
Maybe he senses this, because he turns in my direction. I’m not sure what I’m doing exactly. I have a boyfriend. I guess I just want to say hi, maybe ask where he knows Faith from. But suddenly he jolts like he’s been woken up from a dead sleep, drops the flowers, which scatter around
him, and backs quickly behind an adjacent tree.
I dazedly look behind me, wondering what spooked him. Nothing. No one in the service seems to have moved a muscle.
Staring in the direction of the tree where he disappeared, I drop my bag, check over my shoulder to make sure my parents are still occupied, and inch into the woods. But he’s not there, behind that tree. In fact, I don’t see him anywhere. Did he just vanish into thin air? I focus on a path through the trees, and when I’m out of sight of the burial group, I take off in a run.
Soon the path fades into bushes and stumps, and I’m not sure which direction to head in. When I look around, I think I catch movement straight ahead. I pick up my pace again. I don’t even know what I’ll say if I find him, but now I need to. It feels like my sanity depends on it.
Well into the forest, I take in my surroundings. Everything looks like it’s moving now. The rustling of leaves envelops me like surround sound. I make a false start, but then realize it’s only another gust of wind.
“Hello,” I call out. “I just want to talk to you.”
But there’s no response. It takes me several minutes to admit he’s gone, whoever he is. And if I don’t return soon, I’ll have no idea how to find my way back to the cemetery.
My lungs ache after the jog back to Faith’s grave and I’ve questioned my muddled brain the whole way. Did I really see him? Maybe my mind was so desperate for distraction that I created a mirage of a hot guy. That makes more sense than anything.
When I near the clearing, I slow down and peer around a tree until I’m sure no one will notice my reappearance. People are consoling my parents and the service must be finished.
The sky has clouded over and I wish I’d brought a heavier sweater, but when my parents glance over and give me the look that it’s time to go, suddenly I’m not ready. I wasn’t here for the service and didn’t get a chance to think about what just happened. They’re burying my sister.
People clear quickly, either from the cold or from the realization that my parents want this to be over. I get Dad alone and ask if he minds if I hang around a few minutes and catch a bus home. “I’ll be home before dark,” I add.
I half expect him to say no, but he must be too emotionally exhausted. He nods, then leads Mom back toward their car.
When the last car pulls away and I walk over to collect my backpack, I spot the carnations. They’re blowing around the perimeter of the cemetery. The boy was here. But he couldn’t have known Faith well if he brought full-bloom carnations. Flower buds were her favorite—didn’t matter what kind, as long as they were young flowers. The promise of new blossoms, she always said.
I pick up each carnation and bring them over to Faith’s plot. Even in full bloom, Faith would want them. It’s tempting to keep thinking about the boy, keep wondering about him, but I don’t let myself.
Faith’s gravestone isn’t up yet, but there’s a plaque propped up that emblazons the dates of her birth and death. They look like the expiration dates on a can of soup. Seventeen years doesn’t appear like nearly enough time for the life of a person. The rest of the flowers surrounding the plaque and atop the casket are barely buds. I keep my eyes from the lowered casket and distract myself by wondering if people will come down here to change the buds so they don’t bloom.
Under the date and her name reads a simple Bible verse and I have to ask myself, Can’t anyone be a little bit original and come up with something other than Scripture to say something about her?
I shake my head, suddenly realizing maybe this is what she would have wanted. Still, a part of me knows there was more to her than youth groups and Bible verses.
Gnawing my lower lip, I read the verse. “He said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.’”—Mark 5:34.
I know this is meant to bring some kind of comfort, but when I read the word healed, all I can picture is Faith’s mangled body at the bottom of Blackham Mountain.
I try again to focus on anything but the casket and I’m done looking at her plaque, but my knees feel glued to the ground. I can’t leave yet. I fiddle with the handle on my backpack.
“There’s this thing,” I say quietly. As if she can hear me anyway. “I guess I should read you this thing.”
Digging through the front pocket of my pack I find the folded piece of paper. “I’ve been kind of confused these last few days. And angry.” My eyes drift over the first couple lines. “Yeah, it’s not Shakespeare or anything.” After the complete mess I made at the funeral yesterday, I can’t believe I’m even thinking of this. But I glance around and the cemetery’s empty. Just her and me.
Even though I know this is stupid, I can’t stop staring at the words. “Well, I’m going to read it to you. Because you’re the only one I can read it to. But take it with a grain of salt, okay?”
I smooth out the paper and clear my throat. “It’s a poem just for you.”
“Everyone knew you much better than me.
Our empty house mutters instead of sings
Your voice annoys me wherever I go.”
I choke a little on this line, but don’t let myself stop.
“You went before me, taught me to grow.”
I glance at her grave. “Way too sappy, huh?” I brush a tear from my cheek and press on.
“They wanted me to be more like you
I hate that this is probably true.
But most of all, I’m mad that you left
I hate you for that. Your greatest theft.”
The last words are barely recognizable because I sob through them. I fold up the paper and her humming trickles back into my head, softly at first, like the flutter of butterfly wings, then louder so I can almost make out her words. Even though I don’t know when her humming stopped, now, hearing it, I feel like I can breathe again.
“You always wanted to hear my poetry. I told you it was bad. And this is one of the better ones.” I choke out a laugh. “You know, the one thing I should scratch out is the part about your voice. I can’t say anything bad about it. I just can’t.”
I rub at my throat, as if I suspect her voice might erupt out of me. But no such luck. I push myself up from my knees and lean down to pick up my backpack. “It sucks, you know?”
When I turn to leave, my legs don’t let me. Looking back at her grave, the buds of newness, I wipe away my tears one more time.
“I miss you, Faith,” I whisper.
And then I’m done. I know I am.
chapter SEVEN
the next day is Friday and I spend the whole day and most of the weekend in bed like I haven’t slept in weeks. The truth is, I feel as though I’ve been sleeping more than ever, since my whole life is like one big hazy dream. But my body is exhausted and each time I wake up, it seems just as easy to shut my eyes again and let Faith’s hum lull me right back to sleep.
Sunday afternoon I get around to checking my cell phone and e-mail and find several “How R U?” messages from Amy and a couple from our friend Steph. I double-check to make sure I didn’t miss anything from Dustin, but there’s nothing.
It’s not personal, I know that. Just discomfort. It’s better if I see him at school, where we have our history of how we act together.
I hit reply and tell both Amy and Steph that I’ll be back in class tomorrow. Even though I haven’t discussed this with my parents, it seems obvious to me. Get on with things so I can find some part of my life that feels normal again.
When I head downstairs for something to eat, Dad sits on the living room couch staring at the wall.
“Hey,” I say, trying to make my voice as even as possible.
He blinks and looks both directions before dropping his eyes to a pile of papers on the coffee table in front of him. “Oh, hi, sweetie.”
“Hungry?” I ask, heading for the kitchen. I’m not even sure I’m hungry, but I’ve barely eaten lately and I’ve been getting more and more dizzy since the burial. At first I assumed it was
an emotional reaction, or a consequence of too much sleep, but now I’m wondering if it could just be lack of sustenance.
“I’m busy,” he says, which doesn’t answer my question.
I look in the fridge and the most obvious thing is a pizza box on the middle shelf. It’s not until I open it up and see the pineapple piled up on half of the remaining pieces that I realize how old it is. Faith was the only one in the family who liked pineapple. The thought of eating it, even if it isn’t filled with salmonella, makes me want to hurl. I dump the whole thing in the garbage and cut up some cheese to go with a box of crackers from the cupboard. After making a plate up for Dad and one for myself, I push through the door into the living room.
This time Dad’s not zoned out, but rather looks like he’s had too much caffeine. He picks up papers, places them down again. Grabs the phone and starts dialing, only to shut it off and drop it back onto the table. I watch from just inside the room as his behavior becomes more and more frantic.
“Where’s Mom?” I finally walk over and place the plate of cheese and crackers beside his papers. Just as I do, he decides he needs that space to spread out his work and holds the plate up, darting his eyes around in frustration. Doesn’t seem like a hard problem, but it shocks me that Dad, of all people, can’t find the simple solution. “Here.” I take it and put it on a side table instead.
Since he doesn’t seem able to answer my question about Mom—it’s pretty obvious she’s up in their room again anyway and besides, I was only trying to make conversation—I head back for the stairs.
Being alone is just so much easier.
Plan E: Somehow we all need to get back to normal.
Monday the Jenkins Family of Three returns to real life. Dad looks like he’s been doing hard labor through the night when he drags himself to the coffeemaker first thing in the morning. He spent the last five days taking care of all the remaining incidentals surrounding Faith’s death. It would probably have taken me a year to get around to contacting everyone affected, but Dad’s already called her optometrist, dentist, and schoolteachers, old and new. Taking care of all the details is obviously helping him get through it.