Losing Faith (4 page)

“Well, no.” Dad runs a hand over his face and stretches out the skin on his jaw. “She was going to youth group. They must have had a special event of some kind up the mountain. She has a close-knit group of friends and they always look out for …”

The room falls silent. We all know we can’t blame Celeste, or any of Faith’s other friends. Accidents happen. I’m glad I’ve heard something that makes sense for the first time tonight though. The youth group went to the mountain. Faith had to drop off her car because my five bucks wasn’t enough to get her up there.

“We spoke with someone at the scene—er, on the mountain,” Pock-face says. “From what we’ve heard so far, Faith went for a walk alone. No one was close by when she fell, but her scream was heard in the nearest subdivision.”

Trying not to visualize this, I grip the coat rack.

“So the youth pastor wasn’t there?” Dad asks.

The cop shakes his head. “Only minors present.”

“Have you ever known Faith to use alcohol or drugs?” Skinny Cop asks.

“No. Never.” Dad shakes his head with a scowl, but in a way the question is a relief. It makes obvious just how routine these questions are. In fact, even the idea of Faith drinking or doing drugs makes the whole situation seem completely ridiculous. Like it isn’t even happening.

Mom’s stooped position hasn’t changed since she sat down. Her shoulders appear rigid, like if she tries to straighten up they might break.

Skinny Cop’s voice sounds abrupt in the stillness. “Is there anything that might lead you to believe that Faith would take her own life?”

Mom lets out a gasp, and the shock of her sound hinders my ability to process the question for a second.

“Suicide?” Dad shakes his head roughly. “No way. Not Faith.”

I can tell by Dad’s tone, he isn’t feeling the same relief at these over-the-top questions as I am. “You’re kidding, right?” I add.

“These are all standard questions.” Pock-face runs a hand
down the arm of the love seat. “As soon as we get through them, we’ll be able to get out of your way.”

“Faith didn’t believe in … she would never have …” Dad is processing aloud.

Skinny Cop clears his throat, standing. “No, no. Again, Mr. Jenkins, we’re not trying to imply anything. We’d like to see her room if you don’t mind, and—”

“No!” Dad shouts. “We will not listen to this … garbage. Why don’t you two
officers
come back when you get your facts straight, and stop putting my family through this cruel charade.” While he speaks, he marches toward the door, obviously expecting them to follow.

They do. “Mr. Jenkins,” Pock-face starts, but Dad doesn’t let him finish.

“I said we’ve had enough for today, gentlemen.”

The two cops look at each other, and a subtle agreement passes between them. “We’re very sorry again for your loss, Mr. Jenkins … Mrs. Jenkins,” the skinny one says as they back out the door.

After the cops leave, we spend a few minutes staring after where their squad car disappeared around the corner. Dad squeezes my shoulder and even though I notice his hand there, I barely feel it. Barely feel anything. Everything is surreal, including my parents, who blend into the wall behind
them like a mural. But then I notice Mom’s intense shivering and she comes to life again in my vision. Dad moves beside her and slides an arm around her shoulder.

“How was she … when you left her?” Dad asks me, not meeting my eye. Mom’s shivering turns into quiet crying spasms.

I swallow. “Fine. Good,” I say, holding my face straight so they won’t see through me. Faith might have been a little stressed, but not suicidal stressed. And my parents don’t need to work themselves up any more right now.

Dad’s eyes flitter between the walls and he looks like he’s trying to find the words to make this better. Words to bring me and Mom comfort. But there are none and I want to let him off the hook, at least as much as I can.

“I’m okay,” I tell him. “We should probably all try to get some sleep.”

With Dad’s arm cradling Mom, they trudge to their bedroom without another word. I stare around our empty house and have flashes of Faith in the living room, by the front door, on the stairs. The visions exhaust me. I know I can’t let my mind go with them, but I can’t seem to stop them either. Instead, I head for the stairs and force myself to think about things I shouldn’t. Things that are selfish and shallow, but that’s all I can deal with right now. I think about Dustin. Is
he still at the party? If only I could be back there where my reeling mind could just have a break.

Nuisance nudges his nose at my leg and I’m glad. I could use the company. At Faith’s door I grab the knob, ready to pull it shut, but stop, unable to help myself. Instead, I push it open a few inches.

I’ve always felt like an intruder when I step over the threshold into my sister’s room but tonight the feeling is amplified. I turn back to Nuisance and whisper for him to stay.

I take in the clean floor and bed—not made, but for once not covered in books and clothes either. I wonder if Mom slipped in to clean it up. But no, she couldn’t have. Feeling dizzy at the sight of all Faith’s things, I grasp for her bedpost. All the tangible items in her room make it seem all the more unbelievable. She can’t really be gone.

Beside Faith’s bed, I find not one, not two, but three Bibles. I run my hand over the covers, trying to feel the texture, trying to feel anything beyond this disorientation. The top Bible says “Amplified Version.” The next one doesn’t even look like a Bible until I open it up. The third is titled “New American Standard” at the bottom. When I place them on her bed, my eye catches sight of my red sweater underneath the bed skirt. I remember the way Faith looked at me when she borrowed it over a month ago.

I was wearing it out one night, and she told me how good it looked on me at least three times. Finally, I took it off and passed it to her, but she shook her head, saying she didn’t think she could wear red. For the first time ever, I swear I saw something close to jealousy on her face. I forced the sweater at her, begging her to just try it. Even though I had no idea why, the thought of Faith being jealous kicked me in the gut. Maybe it was because I knew she had it so wrong.

She took the sweater but I never saw her wear it. Not once. And now I wonder how much that might have bothered her. If it made her feel somehow inadequate because she didn’t feel comfortable in the bright, attention-grabbing clothes that I wore.

I scoop the sweater up, but hidden underneath it is one more Bible stuffed almost to the back of her bed. This one’s title reads “New International Version.”

My hands fumble to open it. This is the Bible she was so desperate to find. After flipping only a few pages, I can tell it’s well used. Lines upon lines of yellow highlighter catch my eye as I fan through. The lines blur in my vision and I wipe my eyes, surprised that there are no tears. Shouldn’t I be crying? I squint my eyes shut and try to force some moisture. But my face is a desert.

I stand, holding the book closed against my chest. It
surprises me that I want to keep it to remember her by. If anything, I hated her for her religion. For finding her place and being so much better than me at all of it. But I stop that thought before it can fully form. I can’t hate her. Not now. I head back for the door, trying to swallow down my overwhelming guilt.

When I’d come in, I hadn’t noticed the three boxes stacked up just inside her doorway. I run my hand over the long piece of packing tape on the top one, confused. Why are these here? Why near the door, like they’re all ready to go somewhere? Then I stare back over her unusually tidy room. My heart stops.

Did she … pack up? The sick feeling in my gut intensifies and I press my palm against the wall to still the swaying room. I couldn’t imagine it of any other person on earth, but I could believe this of my sister. That she wouldn’t want to be a burden to anyone, even in death.

The words of the police officers ring in my ears.
Is there anything that might lead you to believe that Faith would take her own life?
I jerk my hand away from the box.

No. I can’t handle that thought. I can’t. Searching for shallow thoughts, safe thoughts, I concentrate on the coloring of the carpet and follow it through the doorway and into the hall. I’ve always thought of it as beige but now that I’m driven, I can see the
flecks of gray and brown and follow it like a trail of bread crumbs leading toward my sanity.

I ease Faith’s door shut and race into my own room, not lifting my head. Finally, my chest loosens, and I can breathe again. I call Nuisance in a whisper and drop onto my bed. Folding forward, I rake my hands through my hair. It’s all too much. All I can picture are Faith’s eyes on my red sweater, and I wonder if she really could have been so messed up.

chapter
FOUR

t
he next morning, I’m unsure whether I’m waking up or just living in the midst of a horrible dream. I’m sure I must have slept some, but all I can remember is staring at my digital clock, watching the minutes tick by, tossing and gripping my sheets every time my mind returned to Faith and what happened.

The edges of my room blur in my vision and even when I stare into the bathroom mirror, it seems like I’m looking into a murky pond. At least I can’t see how bad I look.

One thing I know is that I need a new plan. A plan for how to face today. Since last night’s plan didn’t work out so well,
I’m calling this one
Plan B: talk to Mom and Dad about everything and we’ll get through it together
.

Hearing Dad’s voice on the phone downstairs, I creep halfway down the steps to listen.

“Yes, I know,” he says, “but I’d really like Scott to handle the service. He was her leader.” His slippered footsteps brush across the tile floor. Dad’s not normally a pacer, but I swear he’s wearing a trench in our kitchen. “I trust his decisions on those things. He can e-mail me the details. Gina isn’t ready to talk about it.”

I’m glad Dad’s taking the reins, though I wouldn’t expect any less from him.

“You can put Brie down for one. Why don’t you start with her.”

Whatever he’s volunteering me for, I already know I don’t like it. I tromp the rest of the way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Dad keeps pacing, not noticing me.

“Sure, okay. Whatever you think,” he says. “Tell Scott I appreciate him doing this. I know this is what”—his voice cracks and he clears his throat—“she would have wanted.”

After Dad hangs up, a big lump lodges its way into the back of my throat. Even though I don’t drink coffee, I head for the coffeepot and pour myself a cup. Dad stares at the phone receiver on the counter. I take a big gulp, then wince at my scalded tongue and throat.

I don’t know if it’s from my burning mouth or the sunlight in the kitchen, but my world morphs from hazy to real. The miniature dents in the edge of our teal countertop magnify in my focus. Dad, with his wrinkles like the Grand Canyon, turns and aims every gold and brown fleck of his irises at me.

“What is it I can do?” I ask.

His brow furrows.

“You told someone on the phone, ‘Brie will start.’”

He takes a moment to shake off his own daze. “I thought maybe you could say something at Faith’s service. But you don’t have to, honey.”

Dad sounds so sad, I don’t know what to say. I’d be completely heartless not to agree to whatever he wants right now. “Oh. Okay.”

His eyes are dry, but red. They dart to the newspaper as though he doesn’t want to look at me. It’s so strange seeing this fragile side of him. It scares me.

I zip over and snatch the paper from the table, before he makes a move for it. For sure they’ll have something in there about Faith, and I feel the need to save him from seeing it, like maybe it would be one more thing than he could handle and then he’d fall apart too.

I head out of the kitchen and up to my room. The write-up about Faith is easy to find on the second page. I snip it out,
crumple up the rest of the clipped page, and throw it in my trash can. The write-up doesn’t say much—seventeen years old, survived by her family—but something about seeing it there in black and white makes it seem truer. I stare at the junior year picture of her with her hair tied back, her honest smile, and think for the first time of how pretty she was. Why had I never noticed that?

A few minutes later, I pick up the journal and pen from beside my bed and head back downstairs. Dad is mumbling the funeral details into the phone again.

I pick up my cell phone and consider calling Amy. Or Dustin. But they’re both probably still sleeping after the party last night, and I’m not sure I can say the words just yet anyway. Instead, I text them.

Faith fell off a cliff.

This can’t be happening.

Funeral Wednesday. 2 PM.

I hit send.

Mom still hasn’t come out of her room and I wonder if she’ll stay there all morning. When the doorbell rings, Dad doesn’t make a move from the kitchen, so I open the door to chubby Mrs. Ramirez, a lady who’s been going to my parents’ church for a million years. She taught Faith and me at Sunday School.

She pushes a large white casserole dish in my direction. “I’m so sorry.” When she says the words, I have a déjà vu feeling. But not the “post” kind. More like the “pre” kind. Where you know this is going to be repeated over and over and over again, exactly the same.

I take the dish and thank her. After stuffing the casserole into the fridge, I burrow into my journal on the couch again.

I’m not really a journaler, or a girl with things to say all the time about everything. But for as long as I can remember I’ve made up little poems. When I’m confused, their rhythm helps me sort things out.

Plan C: Write something meaningful for Faith’s funeral service
.

When I put my mind to it, all I seem to remember about my sister is that she fell off a cliff.

I shake my head, still unable to wrap my head around it. I run my pen around the outside of the page. What does anyone say at a funeral? I miss my sister? First of all: duh. Everyone knows that much. But secondly, is it even true?