Grace (17 page)

I had committed my second act of treason of the night.

FRIDAY, DEC.
28

I don't know what time it was when I woke the next morning, but no one was home. I looked over to Joel's bed. It was made. I just lay back in my bed looking at the ceiling, following its cracks with my eyes, trying to distract myself from what I felt. My heart ached in a way I had never felt before. Grace was gone. I had cut off my brother and I had unmasked my parents as the sinners they were. I had never felt so alone in all my life. It was the first time in my life that I truly wanted to die.

What seemed unbelievable to me was that Grace was still out there. Was there a chance that she would be okay? Maybe the police were telling the truth and her parents really wanted to take care of her. Right, and Kennedy and Khrushchev were playing croquet together.

Even if she weren't hurt, I had betrayed her. It was no use trying to believe that everything was okay. It wasn't. And it never would be again.

WEDNESDAY, JAN.
2

Wednesday morning came like the flu. My thoughts about seeing Grace at school couldn't have been more divided. Half of me couldn't wait to see her. The other half was terrified. I wondered what she would do.

I looked for Grace in the halls. At lunch I walked around the lunchroom, then I walked to her locker. I didn't see her. At least, I thought, I would see her in Spanish.

I got to class early, then I waited outside the classroom until the bell rang. As I walked into the room I glanced toward her desk; it was empty. Then I sat down in my seat, glancing every few seconds at the door. Only after the tardy bell rang did I believe that she wasn't coming. It made sense that she wasn't there. After being away from home that long, her parents probably wouldn't let her out of their sight. Then again, they might have discovered that she was pregnant. In those days unwed mothers sometimes just disappeared, whisked off to other cities so as not to shame their family. Part of me was relieved that she hadn't come, but it was equally matched by disappointment. I missed her. Even her hating me wouldn't change that.

I don't remember hearing anything in class but my mental absence seemed to pass unnoticed. The final bell rang and, like everyone else, I began gathering my books when Mrs. Waller tapped a ruler against the blackboard to get our attention.

“Class, please stay in your seats for just a moment. I need your attention.”

The class quieted.

“As you know, one of our classmates, Madeline Webb, had been missing. We heard today that she passed away over the holiday. For those of you who were close to her, I'm very sorry.”

The class rose around me and flowed past my desk. I sat there unable to move. Suddenly the tears started to come. I covered my eyes and put my head down on my desk and began to shake. I don't know how long I sat that way before I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“I'm so sorry, Eric.” Mrs. Waller stood next to my desk.

When I could speak I asked, “What happened?”

She hesitated. “I can't tell you.”

I looked at her, my eyes wet, dark and direct. “It was her stepfather, wasn't it?”

She didn't answer me.

“I'm going to kill him.”

“He's in jail, Eric.”

I began to sob. She stood there with her hand on my back with no idea what to say.

 

I purposely missed the bus. I walked home, glad for the pain and cold. I now understood why Grace had cut herself. I wanted to cut out my heart.

For the first time since I started school in Utah, my mother was home when I got there. From the way she looked at me I knew that she knew about Grace. I walked past her without speaking. I went to my bedroom and slammed the door. I hated her for knowing what had happened.

She followed me and stood outside my door. “Eric.”

I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of needing her sympathy. “What do you want?”

“Did you hear…”

“Did I hear what?”

She paused. “Did you hear about Madeline?”

“What about it?” I said.

“I'm sorry,” she said and walked away.

For the next two days I didn't speak to anyone in the house. I could see the pain my silence caused them and it made me glad. Whether it was misery looking for company or the pursuit of vengeance I don't know. I wasn't really that introspective. It was probably a little of both.

Every time my mother tried to speak to me I walked away from her. Disrespect wasn't tolerated in our home but this time neither of my parents challenged me. Maybe they realized what they'd done and felt the guilt I thought they deserved. Or maybe they instinctively sensed just how close I was to the edge. I
was
close. There was something new inside me. Something that felt strong. It had no heart, no reason, and, most exquisitely, no fear. It was hate. It welcomed a confrontation. It hoped for one.

I had decided to run away. I had already packed what I needed and decided to leave the night of Grace's funeral. I had a pretty good idea of what running away would entail. I had taken care of a runaway. I could take care of myself. Even if I couldn't it didn't matter. If I had learned one thing from all this it was clarity. I knew who the enemy was. And I would do anything to punish them, including hurt myself.

 

Friday night my mother came to my room. I was alone, as Joel had slept with my parents every night since I'd turned on him. The light was off and I was in my bed, though a thousand hours from sleeping. She knocked once, then stepped inside, staying close to the doorway.

“Eric, can we talk?” she asked softly.

I didn't answer but rolled to my side. I could hear her swallow. She just stood there, a shadow, wondering what to do. Finally she said, “Madeline's funeral is tomorrow at noon. We'll all be going. I hope you come with us.”

I didn't answer. She sighed. “Good night.”

She shut the door.

I shouted after her. “Her name isn't Madeline!”

 

The next day I slept in until eleven, showered, and got dressed. I stayed in my room until it was time to go, then I walked out and got in the van before anyone else did. No one spoke to me.

The funeral was held at a small church near her home. Before the service they had an open casket viewing. I climbed out of the van and walked inside, apart from my parents. I followed the signs to a small room.

I wasn't prepared for what I saw, but I don't know how I could have been. There was Grace in a wooden casket. The inside was lined with pink satin. She looked like she was sleeping. My heart felt as if it were being torn apart.

A short, stout woman with black hair stood next to the casket. She looked frail and her eyes were puffy. I knew who she was and I immediately hated her. I hated her for her weakness and her betrayal of her own daughter.
Now
she stood by her side. I wanted to shout at her.
Hypocrite! Why weren't you at her side when she needed you?

My parents stood in line and walked up to the casket. Joel held my mother's hand. He was crying. My parents paid their condolences to Grace's mother, which only made me angrier. They deserved each other. A party of traitors.

I kept my distance, standing at the side of the room torn between my hate and unspeakable sorrow. I wanted to wake her and run away with her, but Grace wasn't there. Grace was life and spirit and there was none of that here. It was just a body in a box. Grace had gone someplace else. I wished I could have gone with her.

Sometime later the minister said they would be closing the casket and if anyone wanted to give the deceased their last regards now was the time. A few people walked to the casket and kissed Grace. Then her mother fell on her, crying, “My baby. My darling baby.”

Everyone in the room watched, moved by the emotional outburst. Many of them started to cry as well. A man in a suit comforted her. I just stood there, watching the drama unfold like bad theater.

I didn't sit by my family for the service. I sat alone staring at the back of a pew while people who didn't really know anything about Grace talked about her as if they suddenly cared.

As we were leaving the funeral I felt a hand touch my shoulder. I turned around. It was Grace's mother.

“Are you Eric?”

I just glared at her.

“You're Eric. I know you are. I just wanted you to know that…” She began to cry. I stared at her, unwilling to offer sympathy. Her voice pitched. “…My baby wanted you. When the ambulance came for her, she asked for you. Your name was the last thing she said.”

I just looked at her as she wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue.

“Thank you for being there for her.”

“If I was there for her we wouldn't be here,” I said. I turned and walked away.

God flooded Noah's world so why couldn't he have cleansed the earth again? I knew enough theology to remember that a baptism by water is followed by a baptism by fire. Fire seemed appropriate. That coward Khrushchev had missed his calling.

My parents, Joel, and I walked into the house without a word. I was done with my family. I had enough money to make it to Denver to see Grace's aunt. And then who knew. The truth is I didn't care where I went. I spent far less time thinking about where I was going than what I was leaving.

My mother followed me to my room. “Eric.” She tried to put her arms around me but I pulled away.

“Stay away from me.”

“Eric. You have to talk about this.”

“I don't talk to murderers.”

“Murderers?”

“You killed her. You and Dad and Joel and her pathetic, worthless mother and those stupid, idiotic policemen who just couldn't wait to be heroes. I told you they would hurt her and you made me tell them. You killed Grace. You all killed Grace. I hate you. I hate all of you. You should have died, not her.”

My mother was stunned, but her gaze was still full of compassion. “No, Eric. We didn't kill her.”

“You and the police and Joel…you all killed her.”

“Eric, her stepfather killed her.”

Then, I fell against the wall, sobbing uncontrollably. “No,” I said. “I killed her. I told you where she was. She'd still be alive if it wasn't for me.”

My mother put her hands on my shoulders and turned me toward her. Tears were running down her face. Her voice was strong but loving. “Eric, listen to me. We didn't kill her. You didn't kill her. A very bad very sick man killed her, not you. You tried to protect her. But you're only fourteen. It was too big for you. You did the best you could. You loved her and she loved you.”

“She'll never forgive me,” I said. “She shouldn't forgive me.” My knees buckled and I fell to the ground.

My mother crouched down, holding me. “Eric, sometimes horrible, unspeakable things happen in life. What happened was wrong. But it's not your fault.”

I looked at my mother, my face twisted in anguish. “I miss her so much, Mom, I want to die. I want to die.”

My mother was crying as hard as I was. She stroked my forehead. “I know you loved her, sweetheart.”

“I can't stand the pain. What do I do?”

She pulled my head in next to her cheek. “You just keep on living, Eric. And you hope.”

“Hope for what?”

“For grace.”

It snowed Saturday night.

Outside my window the winter wind had rippled the snow like sand dunes, piling drifts in crusted peaks.

I put on my tennis shoes and climbed out my window onto the crystalline blanket. The snow slid up my pants and bit my legs.

For the first time since Grace left, I returned to the clubhouse. Our footprints from that night were gone, evidence covered over at a crime scene. Everything was white.

The clubhouse didn't look the same to me. It was the same feeling I had at the funeral service staring across the room at Grace's body. She was gone. The clubhouse was just a corpse.

I kicked at the snow by the door and pried it open.

I crawled in and turned on the light. There was frost on the walls and the Christmas tree was still there, the water in its bucket frozen hard. Grace's things were there, just as she had left them. On top of the sleeping bag was her yellow diary.

I held it for a moment before I opened it and began to read what she'd written. She had recorded all that she'd been through, the horror and the joy. My emotions rose and fell with each page. The happiness she felt that her mother had found someone and her disappointment when she saw the real side of the man. She wrote of the first time Stan had gotten to her. And the day she realized she was pregnant.

I suppose the diary was a prayer of sorts, written only for God's eyes. On nearly every page she wrote of her hopes of finding someone to help her. Someone to love her. That is, up until the day she met me. As I read each page I realized what my role had been in her life and how much I meant to her. The last thing she wrote was this.

I stared at those words. Then I closed the book and held it near my chest and I curled up in a fetal position. I had been there for a long time, when I heard something outside. I looked over to the door. Joel was there, looking at me. He was afraid of me, but he was there, just like he always had been.

“Hi,” I said. I sat up, my back pressed against the wall.

He crawled the rest of the way in and sat down next to me, his knees touching mine. We sat without words, both of us looking down at our feet. “It's cold,” he said.

I took a deep breath. “I'm sorry I got mad at you. I know it wasn't your fault.”

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not. You're my best friend.”

Joel's eyes welled up. “I've missed you.”

I put my arm around him.

“I've missed you too, buddy.”

“I really liked her,” he said.

Then I began to cry. “I know. So did I.”