State of Grace (25 page)

As was always the case, I was my own worst enemy.

Chapter 21

I wasn't prepared for what would happen after college. I had the vague impression that I would get an unexciting but secure job with a large corporation, where I would work my way up the corporate ladder. While there, I would meet a decent man, and we would marry and buy a house in a safe suburb. We would have two, maybe three, children and everything would be better. Normal. And, as my life fell into place, I hoped that my phobias would fade and I would be . . . normal. I would be like everyone else.

Like most things in my life, it turned out not to be quite that easy. Despite graduating and moving to Kansas City, not much changed. I hadn't anticipated the impact that my somewhat strange lifestyle would have on life in the real world. Unlike college classes, you can't simply skip work. And although I was able to conquer my fears and put on a front long enough to get a job, keeping it proved to be much more difficult.

I had managed to get an entry-level job as an accounts manager for Associated Wholesale Grocers, a distributor in Kansas City. Given that the city was shared by both Kansas and Missouri, I opted for an apartment in Overland Park, a suburb on the Kansas side. The one-bedroom apartment was in a quiet, recently developed part of town, where everything from the houses to the apartment complexes seemed to have been designed by the same architect.

Roger liked neither my choice of apartments nor my job.

“What are you thinking? Sales? You couldn't even leave the house to go to class. You're scared to shake people's hands for fear you'll get something. Do you really think driving around the city and interacting with people is what you need to be doing?”

“No,” I said. “But that's the point. This job will force me to face my fears. It will put me in a position where I have to get out and interact with people. Yes, it involves driving around, but just around Kansas City. And, it's not sales. I am servicing accounts.”

“Honey,” Roger said, “Trust me when I tell you it's sales.”

Roger was partially right. The job did turn out to be somewhat more sales-oriented than I had envisioned, but it also entailed customer service and helping people with their accounts. I didn't like it, but I didn't hate it. It was just part of a carefully constructed life through which I moved cautiously. Each day I would force myself to get up, leave my apartment, and interact with people. Each night I would watch television or read until it was time to go to bed.

I had come to dread bedtime. Sleep continued to be elusive and when it did come, often it brought with it unwelcome dreams that were sometimes so vivid and real, that I awoke breathless. Other times they were supernatural and warped, like lingering manifestations of my experience with LSD. I never knew what to expect. So I lay in bed, waiting and worrying and imagining worst-case scenarios. It was during these dark, lonely hours that I missed my friends the most.

That's not to say they weren't attentive—they were. As was my family. But they also had their own lives. My father continued to remain distant, but Tara and my mother called once a week. Tara was dating a guy she had met in one of her community college classes and my mother was happily working as an “intake specialist” for a women's clinic in Winston. There she helped women with everything from pregnancies to counseling about domestic abuse.

“You wouldn't believe the bumper stickers she has on her car,” Tara said one night as we talked on the telephone. “Equality-this, domestic abuse-that. I'm almost embarrassed to ride with her. She's as bad as Granny. I'm beginning to think that insanity runs in our family. Granny was loony as a fruitcake and now Mom's over the top with all of this. You know she's talking about becoming a pagan, don't you?”

“A pagan,” I said. “What's that?”

“It's kind of like being a witch, but they're not evil. They're all about nature and flowers and energies. They dress up in black and have—I don't know what you call them—meetings, maybe? They're outside and they dance and chant and honor the passing of seasons or something.”

“Wow,” I said, unsure as to how to respond.

“It's like this all-woman thing,” Tara said and then continued in a stage whisper. “I'm worried she's going to become a lesbian.”

I scoffed.

“Mom?” I asked. “No way.”

“Well, she didn't much like Dad,” Tara said. “And lots of the women in her coven, or whatever it's called, are gay.”

“Yeah, well,” I said and then paused. “Have you talked to him lately?”

“I called the other day,” she said. “I talked to Judy long enough to find out he wasn't there.”

Judy was our father's new live-in girlfriend. She had a daughter named Liza and managed a Red Lobster. According to Tara, that's where they met. My father had gone in for the all-you-can-eat shrimp and came out with a girlfriend. Aside from that, we knew very little about her.

“Oh,” I said. “How's Andy?”

“Great,” she said, the smile evident in her voice. “We're talking about moving in together.”

“Wow,” I said. “That's great. But aren't you concerned about how messy he is? And the hair in the shower and stuff?”

Tara laughed. It had a pure, tinkling quality to it that made me smile.

“No,” she said. “That's part of being in a relationship. Besides, he's not that messy.” She hesitated. “You should come and visit. I'd like you to meet him.”

“Yeah,” I said vaguely. “Maybe when things calm down here. Right now—”

“I know,” she said in a tired monotone. “Work is busy.”

The conversation lagged.

“Well . . .” Tara finally said. “I guess I should let you go.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We'll talk soon?”

“Sure,” she said. “Bye Bird.”

I thought often about that conversation—about what had been said and what hadn't. There was as much communication in silence as there was in words.

There is a difference between being alone and being lonely. When you're alone, there's no one around. I'm comfortable with that—and in many ways, actually prefer it. But after college, I became lonely. Not surprisingly, my friends moved on with their lives. Adelle, after about a year of struggling with the aftermath of the rape, pulled her life together with renewed purpose. She finished her degree in public administration and then took the LSAT. Her score, combined with her grades and community service, allowed her to take her pick of law schools. She briefly considered the Ivy League schools, but ultimately decided that being close to family and the issues of women's poverty, urban blight, and crimes against women as a result of these circumstances, were more important than a highbrow education.

Roger, too, moved on in search of his dream.

“I want to do big, bold, edgy interior designs,” he said one Sunday exactly a month after graduation. And so, immediately after graduation, he moved to Chicago. For the first month, while he looked for work, he lived out of his car, washing in convenience store restrooms and showering at the apartments of men he met at bars, who either took him home or simply took pity on him. One of these was Duane Coston, a struggling interior designer who worked out of his apartment.

“Guess what?” Roger had a habit of calling at two or three in the morning after he returned from the bars, and this night was no exception. “I have an apprenticeship! With Duane Coston! Can you believe it?”

“No. Congratulations! Who is Duane Coston?”

“Duane Coston,” Roger said exaggeratedly, “is only one of the brightest young talents in design. Granted, he's just starting out and his work is still becoming known, but the minute we met, I knew there was a connection. And after we started to talk, it became clear
we had to work together.” He paused to take a hit off of a cigarette or a joint. “The pay isn't great.” The words sounded pinched, and then he exhaled. “But the experience will more than make up for it. And, it includes a place to live.”

It was only years later that I learned that the “apprenticeship” was, in fact, unpaid and the “place to live” was either on the floor of Duane's workshop or in his bed, depending on whether or not he and Roger were getting along. Still, the experience was a stepping-stone and he used it to his full advantage. Working together, they began to make names for themselves. Periodically, Roger would send write-ups from local publications featuring their work. Their look was sharp, metallic, and industrial. Cement, found industrial parts, and cables were the backbone of their designs and quickly, they became known for not only how they designed rooms, but also their eclectic incorporation of unknown artists and sculptors.

I was much less successful. While everyone else moved forward with their lives, I seemed to remain perpetually stuck in the same place. I forced myself to go to work and to interact, but every day was torture. I always locked my car doors, always carried Handi Wipes for use after I shook hands with strangers, and always made sure to be home before it was dark. There, I would watch television or read until it was time to try unsuccessfully to go to sleep.

Nighttime was the worst for me and that, more than any other reason, was why I revisited painting. Without the influence of hallucinogenic drugs, it was less intense and much more cathartic. Though the experience was different, the end result was the same. To say my work was abstract was being generous. Often, the images that grew out of the paper had no particular shape or discernable features. They were spirals or mazes, shapes and curves. Sometimes they were just black lines or slashes of color. Other times, they were cool, foggy grays and blues.

Often, as they dried, I would stare at the images, scrutinizing them for clues as to what demons I was exorcising. Rarely did I come to any conclusions. Rather, each new work would end up in the closet along with my previous failures.

I was standing in front of my easel the night that Roger called
with the news that would change everything. I was in a pair of paint-smeared sweat bottoms and a threadbare Edenbridge T-shirt, brush in hand, scrutinizing a painting of a broken violin-like figure when the phone rang. Knowing it could only be bad news or Roger, I picked up the receiver.

“Hi, doll!” It was Roger. I glanced at the digital clock and saw it was 2:30 a.m. The bars must have just closed. Hopefully he wasn't too drunk this time to carry on a coherent conversation.

“Hey Rog. What are you doing?”

“We just got back from the bars and lemme tell ya—” he laughed and I could imagine him flipping his hand in an exaggerated gesture. I sighed; he was well over his limit.

“Had a good time, did you?” I stepped back to study the lines I had just put on the paper.

“The best!” His words were slightly slurred. “We were celebrating.”

“Oh, yeah? Celebrating what?”

Roger feigned nonchalance. “Oh, just our tremendous coup.”

“What coup?” I asked, suddenly paying attention.

“Just redesigning the loft of an extremely wealthy Chicago icon who could very well make our careers.” He paused. “There's just one hitch. I need a teensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy favor from you.”

“Okay,” I said cautiously.

“Do you remember the night you got that acid from that guy at the club?”

I put down my brush and reached for the paint-smeared Solo cup from which I drank red wine while I painted. “As I recall, ‘that guy's' name was Douglas and he was supposed to be the great love of your life.”

Roger snorted. “Anyway, do you remember the paintings that you did? The ones while you were, um, indisposed?”

I looked at the painting I was currently working on. It wasn't that much of an improvement from my initial attempts.

“Uh huh . . .”

“Well,” he continued. “You remember how you said I could have them—the ones that I didn't throw away.”

I thought back to the day after I had taken the LSD. I remembered
that we had ordered pizza and that he had offered to throw the paintings away in his dumpster so no one would know they were mine, but I didn't remember giving him permission to take them.

“Actually, I think I would have remembered saying that. I thought you said you would throw them away for me.”

“I did say that,” he said quickly. “But then I asked if I could take some of them and you said ‘yes.'”

“I don't think—”

“Well,” he interrupted, “I kept them. All of them. And I have been using them in some of my more funky designs. You know, when I do stagings.”

“You've done what?” I backed away from the easel and sank into the wicker chair I used to sit in and study my paintings as they dried.

“I, uh, have used several of them in my designs and they're, well, they're a hit,” he said and rushed on enthusiastically. “Isn't that great? Everyone says you have a natural gift for the surreal. Especially the one with the eye. I've used it several times.”

Immediately, my mind returned to that night and again I saw the eye, Grace's eye, jumping off the paper and scurrying under the bed.

“Please tell me you're joking.”

“Becca.” His tone was placating. “It wasn't like I intended to sell you out. I just . . . I needed something creepy and different and I knew that was it. And then I used another one of them and then people started, I don't know, paying attention. And then one thing led to another and pretty soon people were asking to buy them and wanting to meet the artist.”

I stared at the wall in stunned disbelief.

“Becca.”

“Don't call me Becca,” I snapped.

“Rebecca,” he said quickly. “I'm sorry. I know it was wrong. I know it's a violation. I know that you hate me right now and I'm sorry that I called you ‘Becca.' But you need to listen to me. I need your help.”

My laugh was short and brittle. “You have got to be kidding
me. There is no way in hell I would help you. In fact, I'm hanging up now.”