Losing Faith (17 page)

Dad arrives home early from work, nodding without saying hello. Something’s wrong. He moves dishes around the kitchen as though they’re Frisbees. I cringe with every rattle, but don’t move from my curled-up spot on the living room couch.

“Where’s the cheese grater?” he mumbles. “Huh, mold again.”

Mom walks through the front door a few minutes later. She gives me the same nod without eye contact on her way to the kitchen. Dad’s nattering continues, about nothing being in its place and not being able to find what he needs, but as expected, Mom doesn’t offer any rebuttal.

“Grater’s in the cupboard under the sink,” I say, pushing my way through the swinging door.

Dad stops in mid-sentence, now on to the subject of the church ladies group Mom used to attend, but hasn’t since… well, since before. Dad glances at me for the briefest of seconds. “I found it, honey, thanks.” His tone is so calm toward me. I don’t know what to make of it.

He turns back to Mom. “Brie met with a pastor, and look how well she’s doing.”

Whatever he’s bringing me into, I already know I don’t like it.

“You need some fellowship, Gina.” The way he talks to her—a demanding tone, not the way they used to discuss things—I know it’s only a matter of time before they call it quits. Get a divorce. This is so polar opposite of my parents.

“Yum, looks good.” I pick up a can of green beans off the counter. We’ve never, ever, eaten green beans out of a can.

“I-I can’t.” Mom stares at the beans and starts sobbing.

I shove the can behind my back. “No, Mom, please. I didn’t mean—”

“You know they’re not going to push you to talk about anything,” Dad goes on. “But I’m driving you there tonight. You’re not staying home in front of the TV again.”

I wonder what happened to make Dad freak this way. Did he suddenly just decide that it’s time for Mom to get over her daughter dying, and that’s that? And shouldn’t the solution be for
us
to talk about it? She collapses into a chair and drops her head in her hands.

Dad walks toward her like he doesn’t even notice how she’s shutting down. “It’s almost six and—”

“Can you just shut up?” It’s not until my eyes land on his that I realize what I’ve said to my dad. And how loud I’ve said it. But he only registers shock for a second, and then turns back to Mom and opens his mouth to say more.

“Dad. Stop. Can’t you see what Mom’s going through? She’s not ready for some women’s gossip group.” I stop, not because I think I’m wrong, but because I don’t think we should talk about Mom like she’s not even here. “Shouldn’t she have some say over her own life?”

“Brie, stay out of—”

“I’ll say what I mean, Dad. And somehow I think that’s what God meant for us to do.”

Dad glares at me, probably ready to throw all my ungodliness right back at me. But I can’t quit. All these pent-up emotions are bursting out of me. “Why don’t you read your Bible?” I ask, not even believing it’s coming out of my mouth. “What about love and gentleness and patience. What about mercy, Dad? What about mercy?”

His mouth opens slightly, but he doesn’t say a word.

“You think you’re helping by sending a charity truck around to get all Faith’s stuff when she was barely gone a week?” I throw a hand up in the air. “Stop rushing everybody!”

His glare pulls together and now he looks downright confused. I crack open the can of beans and dump it into the pot on the stove just to be doing something, anything, to get out my frustrated energy.

“I didn’t call any charity,” he says quietly.

I turn and search his face, but don’t see any evidence of a lie. Clearly Mom didn’t call them, and I sure didn’t. Since I don’t know what else to say to that, or why it even matters, I grab a pair of scissors out of the cutlery drawer and spin for the door I’d come in from.

I head up the stairs and straight into Faith’s room. Do charities read the obituaries and send trucks all on their own?

When I open the door, the first thing I see is the pile of boxes just inside. The same pile that made my gut ache the
last time I was in here. But everything else looks the same. Now I eye the pile and wonder: Could Faith have called the thrift store before she died too, not wanting to leave Mom and Dad with any extra burden? That just seems way too planned out.

I reach toward the top box tentatively, and slide one point of the scissors along the line of tape. The flaps fold open, and the first thing I see is a pair of high-waisted jeans I’d told Faith to get rid of ages ago. They made her look so bottom heavy. Digging under those, there’s a dress from her seventh-grade band concert. It takes me only seconds to realize these are all old, unwanted clothes.

Marching for her closet, I swing open the door.

It’s just as messy with clothes as it always was and her favorite pair of capris lies balled-up on her shoes at the bottom.

For the first time in months, I breathe all the way into my stomach and don’t sense the slightest bit of bile. The sense of relief I feel is so strong, my eyes fill with tears.

Faith was not planning to die. She just wanted to get rid of some old clothes.

chapter
NINETEEN

Plan T: Ask Tessa for help.

I don’t plan to break my promise to Alis. Not exactly. But the next day at school I enlist Tessa’s expert advice on how to move on from my sister’s death.

“Distraction,” she says. “That’s exactly what you need.”

I eye her skeptically. What could possibly distract me from all my questions?

“It’ll be easy,” she adds.

Everything’s easy for Tessa. Sure seems like a good trait in a friend right now, since my whole life seems about as difficult as extracting gum from my hair.

“After school, meet me here. We’ll get the car,” Tessa says.

That’s where I stop her. “You have your own car? Wow. I don’t even have my license.”

But she just smiles.

Uh-oh. Something tells me she doesn’t either.

I spend my classes trying to divert myself from the possibility of going to jail for stealing a vehicle and driving without a license. I don’t perform this diversion by catching up on assignments. Oh no, not me. Since I can’t concentrate on a single word in my textbook, I doodle instead, writing down my questions.

1. Is Celeste hiding something or is she just upset?

2. Why didn’t Faith ever bring Reena home?

3. Am I ever going to be able to think about anything else?

Tessa waits at our lockers at the end of the day. She’s not the type to hold up for anybody, so I know she’s really into this.

“So if you don’t have your license, obviously you don’t have a car. How are we doing this again?” I follow her onto a school bus and we sit at the back. “Where are we going?”

“To pick up the car, shithead. Wow, you don’t catch on too quick, huh?” She’s having lots of fun with me. Well, good. As long as I can be entertaining, I guess that’s what matters.

“And whose car exactly are we driving without a license?”

“
We
are not driving. You think I’d trust my life with you behind the wheel?” She scoffs as the bus pulls away from the curb. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, Brie.”

We get off the bus outside a row of apartment buildings on Fifth. She walks purposefully and I follow.

“I need to call home,” I say. “You know, the big-time accountability program I told you about?” I haven’t pulled my phone out though, mostly because I don’t know how to talk to Dad after what I said to him in the kitchen last night.

“Yeah, so?” She eyes me.

“I guess I should just call.” I reach into my purse and grab my phone. Just after I dial our home number and hit send, Tessa snatches the phone from my hand and walks on ahead.

“What are you—” I race to catch up, but she’s already talking into it.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins. This is Hilary Lamberton from Sharon High School.”

Tessa doesn’t sound anything like Ms. Lamberton. But she doesn’t sound like herself either, and she’s not using any four-letter words. I keep pace with her as she goes on.

“Brie’s been trying to do some extra credit work to get caught up and I’ll be helping her this afternoon with a project.”

I make a motion of turning a steering wheel with my hands.

“I’ll give her a ride home when we’re done.” Tessa leaves a phone number, which I have no idea if she made up on the spot or what, and hangs up.

“Wow. Thanks.”

She passes back the phone, just as we arrive at the base of one of the buildings. Then she stops and tells me to wait while she heads inside.

The apartment buildings are old and worn, and the one that has been repainted stands out in a Cinderella-and-her-ugly-stepsisters sort of way. Two cute twentysomething guys amble up the front steps of the building Tessa entered. That makes sense. It looks like it could be cheap housing for college students. I wonder if Tessa has an older boyfriend in there somewhere.

Half an hour later, I’m snapping my history book shut with eyes at half-mast when she reappears. I follow her around the corner into an alley. It doesn’t feel safe here, with piles of garbage and cigarette butts every couple of feet and I automatically feel wide-awake again. A guy with long, scraggly hair crouches under a fire escape, picking through a beat-up shopping bag, but Tessa crunches a granola bar and kicks at rocks like she hangs out here every day.

Soon, she stops in front of a newish Volkswagen and
holds up a set of keys. She hits a button and the locks click, taillights flashing.

“Is this your boyfriend’s?” I ask as I slide into the passenger side.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she says. Nothing else.

No, really, don’t bother telling me anything about what we’re doing here. If the police catch us, I’ll just tell them I hit my head and don’t remember who you are. No worries.
“Is it your mom’s?” I try again.

She shakes her head, and I figure that’s all I’m going to get. Then, just as I turn my attention to the outside window, she says, “Dad’s.”

Score one for Brie. “He doesn’t mind you taking it out?”

Tessa scowls at me. Right. Her dad has no idea. This is not increasing my confidence any.

“Why do you think it took me so long to get out of there?” she says.

I swallow down my misgivings and ask her where we’re going.

“It’s a surprise,” she says, not meeting my eye.

Of course it is.
But I must admit, she’s doing an admirable job of distracting me so far. The silence that follows brings on a new bout of nerves though, and I search for a calming topic, or better yet, something that will give me a
hint of where she’s taking me. “So what do you do in your spare time?” I ask.

“Nothin’.” She turns to shoulder check, as though she’s much too busy for my question.

Good. As long as we can have a lively conversation, that should keep us both awake.

“I’m taking an art class at the Y,” she adds after a long span of silence.

The combination of her sudden voice and her voluntary information make me stutter. “A-a-art? You do art?” It really shouldn’t surprise me, since the only class we share is Art with Mr. Poindexter. Of course she stays at the back of the classroom with her head down, so I rarely notice her there. I never knew she was serious about it.

She laughs. “No, I don’t do a-art. I paint. Dad works from home, and I like to get out as much as possible.”

“What do you paint?” I’m imagining the morbid graffiti on the back of the local movie theater.

“Mostly landscapes. But the class is for portraits. I really suck at those.”

“Yeah, well, I suck at poetry, but I still write it,” I say, trying to show my support. I run my hand along the rim of the window, waiting for her to say something. “It’s good for me, I think. Makes me stronger somehow.”

Tessa nods. “Like the one at the funeral? You’re right about that.”

I wonder what I’m right about. The fact that I suck or the fact that it makes me stronger, but I don’t have a chance to ask because she turns in to a strip mall and the first thing I see is the liquor store, right on the corner.

Great. Looks like we’ll be adding to our underage infractions. But she drives past that, and the pharmacy, over toward the movie theater. Just as I start to let out my breath, a flash of familiarity catches my eye.

“Hey!” I say in an excited whisper. “There’s Reena. Alis’s sister. The one I told you about.”

Reena gets into her Civic across the parking lot and Tessa idles in place watching her.

“Whoa, she’s a quick one,” Tessa says when the white car whizzes past in the opposite direction.

I nod, following Reena’s car with my eyes until it turns a corner, out of sight. I sigh, ready to turn back and make an effort at focusing on the latest movies, but Tessa’s already pulling a U-turn.

“Wait, no,” I tell her. But my voice is quiet, and obviously Tessa can tell I don’t mean it. Seconds later, she burns around the same corner where Reena disappeared.

“Well, just don’t try too hard to keep up.” I grip the sides
of my seat. But I can already see the white Civic and we’re gaining on it.

“Oh, no, you don’t, honey,” Tessa says when Reena’s car moves over into the next lane. I think it’s hilarious that I, her supposed friend, get nicknames like “shithead,” while endearments like “honey” are reserved for total strangers. “You’re not getting away from us that easy.” Tessa swerves across lanes with one car between the Civic and us.

“You’re too close. She’ll see us!”

Tessa shakes her head. “She’s not seeing nothin’. She’s barely seeing the road. Look at that girl wail.”

I lean toward Tessa to get a better view. Reena sways back and forth, and in her rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of her mouth in an opened, almost-pained expression, her eyes practically closed.

“She’s a singer, huh?” I say.

“Well, you’re the one who told me about all that hallelujahing.”

Finally, Reena pulls over at Bertram Nursing Home complex—three low buildings with rows of perfectly trimmed shrubs dividing them. Tessa slows down and heads into the same lot, but takes a right where Reena took a left.