State of Grace (27 page)

“Still, you can't do it alone. And we're not going to let you.”

I looked helplessly at Tara, who shrugged, grinned, and clapped her hands together. “Okay, then. Let's get cracking.”

And, as it turned out, their help proved to be invaluable—both with loading the van in Kansas City and then unloading it when we got to the cabin. When I refused to let them drive the truck, they took turns riding with me while the other followed in my sister's Toyota.

“So . . . are you excited?” Tara asked as we crossed over the Kansas state line into eastern Colorado. “It's going to be a whole new life—a fresh start.”

I nodded without taking my eyes off the highway. “I am. It will be nice to just settle in and do my own thing.”

“Mom's worried.”

“Why now?” I glanced sideways at Tara.

“She thinks you're going to become a hermit or become so isolated in the mountains that you're going to go crazy. Of course, she's got no room to talk. She's as crazy as you are.” She gasped as soon as the words came out of her mouth. “Oh, Birdie, I didn't mean that like it sounded.”

“No, I know what you meant.”

“That came out wrong,” she insisted. “I just meant that she has her quirks, too. Just like we all do.”

“It's okay,” I said. “I know that my behavior seems strange to other people.” I shrugged. “It's just how I am.”

Neither of us spoke for several minutes and the only sound in the cab of the truck was the growl of the diesel engine and the rhythmic thunk-thunk of the tires as they passed over the highway expansion joints.

“When did you change?” Tara asked suddenly. “You weren't like this when we were kids.”

I jerked my head to look at her. I had been lost in my own thoughts of how I was going to decorate the cabin once I had unpacked everything. Her face was concerned and serious. Her eyes were wide and I noticed again just how effortlessly pretty she was. When I didn't answer, she raised her eyebrows as if to say,
Well?

I shrugged and returned my gaze to the highway. “We all change as we grow up. It's part of life.”

“Hmm,” she said, making it clear she wasn't satisfied with the answer.

We drove again in silence.

“Mom said it was when Grace was murdered.” Tara's tone was gentle but persistent. “I sort of remember it, but not really. Mostly what I remember is being scared. And your nightmares.”

I glanced at her and then returned my attention to the road.

“I asked Mom about it.”

“Oh?” I tried to appear casual.

“She said it was like one of her own kids had died. And, she said she wished she had done something for Grace.” She leaned forward and reached into a shopping bag between her feet for the chips she'd bought at our last gas stop. “I think that's when she changed, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“She used to be so, I don't know. It's like her Mustang. She got that car after Dad—”

“Traded her convertible for that damned pickup.” We had both heard the story so often it was a familiar refrain. We both laughed, united for a moment in our shared history.

“But you know what I mean,” Tara continued. “She loved that car and then suddenly she traded it in for something ‘safer.' Everything was all about safety.”

Tara pulled open the chips, took one, and held the bag out to me. I shook my head. “I think we become more cautious as we get older,” I said. “When we're young, we don't really know what's out there to be scared of.”

“But it was more than that,” Tara said. “I mean, don't get me wrong. She was still
way
cooler than any of the other mothers. She just seemed to become a lot more extreme and overprotective.”

I laughed softly. “Extreme personalities seem to run in the family. Look at Granny—she was wide open.”

“Yeah.” She reached into the bag, pulled out a handful of chips, and popped one into her mouth. “You know you can always talk to me if you want to.” She shoved the rest of the chips in her mouth and then wiped her fingers on her jeans. I couldn't help but imagine the grease and crumbs it left on the denim and tried not to cringe. She was trying to appear casual, but I could hear the underlying concern. My mother's approach was significantly less subtle.

She and Tara had just swapped places riding with me in the truck and we had barely gotten on the highway when she turned to me and said, “So, you're sure this is the best decision?”

I glanced at her. She was unwrapping her Arby's roast beef sandwich.

“Well, it's too late to change my mind now.”

She laughed, placed the sandwich on her lap, and began to root around in the bag for the packets of Horsey Sauce she liked to dip her sandwich into. “I know it seems like I haven't been supportive about all of this, I just worry about you. It's a big step and you're moving farther away instead of closer.”

“I know,” I said. “But you can come visit.”

“I know I can.” She tore open the packet of sauce and squeezed it onto the paper. “But that's not the point. You're going to be all alone up there. You're moving into a cabin in the mountains by yourself. You don't even have a pet for company.”

“I've already adopted a dog,” I said quickly. “Mom, this is a good thing. It's what I need.”

“But it's so far away,” she said. “How am I supposed to take care of you?”

“I don't need anyone to take care of me.” I scowled at the road. “When is everyone going to stop treating me like I'm this fragile thing? You, Tara, Natalie. Jesus!”

“Him, too, huh?” my mother said wryly.

It was so unexpected, I had to laugh. My mother laughed, too. And suddenly, we were friends again.

“Birdie, I don't want you to say anything,” she said quietly after the moment had passed. “I just want you to listen. And then, I'll drop it. Okay?” She waited for my nod and then continued. “You're my daughter and I love you. I worry about you and that's never going to stop. You don't stop being a mother just because your children grow up.” She hesitated and when I glanced at her, I saw that she was looking at her sandwich. “I don't worry as much about Tara,” she continued. “She, I don't know, I just don't worry as much. But you went through such a horrible thing with Grace's death. We should have gotten you help.”

“Mom, I don't understand where this is going.”

She shrugged. “I don't know where it's going either. I just want you to know that I love you regardless of how you are.”

“How I am,” I said slowly.

“You know what I mean.”

“Mom—” I began.

“I just want you to know that if I was the cause of that . . . because I was so overprotective, I'm sorry. I was just trying to keep you safe.”

I again tried to speak but she held up her hand.

“I'm not done. I'm only saying this because of where you're going and what you're going to do. You're going to be by yourself a lot and I just worry that you're going to—”

“Become a maladjusted hermit?” I asked angrily. “Tara's already beat you to having this conversation.”

“It's not just that,” she said. “You're going to be up there all alone. What happens if someone breaks in? Or you get snowed in?”

“Or aliens land on the roof and beam me into their space ship and implant transmitters in my head.”

“Birdie, be serious.”

“I am, Mom,” I said. “I appreciate your concern, but I really don't want to go into it again. I am the way I am and it was nothing you or anyone else did. I'm not going to become a hermit. I don't want to ‘see somebody' and I don't want to talk about this anymore. Please?”

She sighed and finally nodded.

“Thank you. So, let's talk about something else.”

“Okay,” she said.

Neither of us spoke. After several minutes, I looked at her. She was staring out the bug-splattered windshield.

“Radio?” I asked.

She nodded, pushed the Power button, and began to fiddle with the knobs until Elvis Presley came on the radio. We drove without talking the rest of the way to La Veta.

Chapter 23

With the exception of one other visit from my mother and sister, and one from Natalie, who said she just needed to get away from being a mother, I had no company at the cabin. Roger, of course, came occasionally to choose which paintings he thought he could use or sell. But other than that, I spent most of my time alone. And frankly, I was relieved. Alone, I had to make no excuses for my schedule or my behavior. I didn't have to explain why I did the things I did or the paintings I created.

Guests were emotionally exhausting—especially my mother and Tara. They wanted to be close to me, to understand me, to spend time with me. I knew that, and on some level I appreciated it. But I also knew that if they saw who I really was and how I lived, they would be much more worried than they already were. And then there were the preparations. Each time I had a guest, with the exception of Roger, I would carefully hide away my canvases and replace them with Jackson Pollack knock-offs I had done as cover. They would never see my real art, I figured, so why give them more cause for concern? I tried to enjoy these visits, but in all honestly, preferred to be alone with Toby. I got all the interaction I needed during my monthly trips into town for supplies and whatever else I needed to get by.

I was, apparently, the only one who was content with the situation. Most vocal was Roger.

“How do you do it?” he asked one night as we sat in front of the fireplace sipping wine. He was visiting to collect canvases. “Don't you get lonely? I mean, seriously, this whole mysterious recluse thing is good for business, but I'm not so sure it's good for you. I'd
go crazy spending this much time alone.”

“I'm happy this way,” I said as I put another log on the fire and pulled the screen closed. “I have my privacy, plenty of work to keep me occupied, and Toby. He keeps me company.”

Upon hearing his name, Toby raised his head and thumped his tail against the couch.

“But don't you get lonely?” Roger persisted. “What do you do for . . . um . . . companionship?”

I grimaced.

“Rebecca, you know that's not healthy don't you? Even Adelle is in a stable, healthy relationship.” He had a point and I knew it. But because I had no idea what to say in response, I said nothing.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

I turned to look at him. He was watching me over the rim of his wine glass.

“Can I stop you?”

“No.” He grinned and then sobered. “Have you ever even really dated? I mean . . . ever?”

“There were a couple of guys in Kansas City that I was interested in,” I lied. “But ultimately I wasn't what they were looking for or vice versa.”

“Which means you didn't give them a chance.” Roger raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. “What
are
you looking for?”

“I'm not looking.”

“I know, but if you
were
looking.”

“Well, if I
was
looking,” I said with a smile, “He would have to be smart and sensitive and have a sense of who I am and what I'm about. He would have to . . . understand the things that have happened to me and how that shaped who I am today.”

“Uh huh.” Roger nodded encouragingly.

“And he would have to be respectful of my space and need for privacy.” I shrugged. “Essentially, you, but not gay.”

“It's true.” He snapped the fingers of his free hand. “I'm fabulous. But in all seriousness, I meet lots of guys who are smart and sensitive. And hopelessly straight. Maybe I should introduce you.”

“Or,” I said as I reached for the wine bottle and poured more
into first his glass and then my own, “you could resist playing matchmaker and let me just be Rebecca.”

Later that night as we were preparing for bed, he pulled me into a hug. In a rare moment of weakness, I hugged him back.

“I just want you to be happy,” he said into my hair as he kissed the top of my head.

“I am,” I replied, my tone unconvincing.

We stood that way for a minute before I broke off the embrace.

“Mind if I check my e-mail before I go to bed?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Nope.” I gestured at the desktop computer. “It's all set up. It's a little slow, though. I need to get a new modem.”

As I undressed, I could hear the telltale sound of static and beeps as the computer dialed out and accessed the internet. I could also hear Roger drumming his fingers as he waited for the connection to be made.

“You've got mail,” I heard him say in unison with the America Online voice. His imitation was so accurate, I had to laugh.

The next afternoon, as he stood in the extra bedroom I had converted into a studio, making a final decision which canvases he was taking, I asked if he had heard from Gus.

“I did last night,” he said distractedly as he studied the canvases. “He's in New York right now, so we e-mail rather than talk. He's looking at spaces for a couple of new clubs.”

“Wow,” I said. “Things
are
going well.”

“Girl, don't you know it,” he said as his eyes skipped back and forth between two paintings that were vague renderings of ants. He pointed to the one where the ant was crawling off the page. “This one will be perfect for this new décor we're doing down in Boystown. It's going to be very edgy and very dark.”

He looked around the room and noticed several paintings propped up against the wall. Each was turned so that only the back of the canvas was visible. He pointed to the stack.

“What are those?” I followed his gaze.

“Just some things I'm working on. They're not for sale.”

“Which makes me want to see them all the more.” Roger strode quickly toward the stack. “If they're off limits, I need to see them.”

“Wait,” I keened. “Please don't! Please just . . . don't.”

Roger stopped, turned, and looked at me. Something in my tone or my expression must have resonated because for once, he nodded and stepped back.

“I don't want to go into it right now,” I began. “It's just something I've been working through that I really don't want anyone to see. It's—I don't even know how to begin to explain it. I don't want to talk about it.”

What I didn't want to tell Roger was that the images on those canvases were more disturbing than anything I had painted in the past. Whereas before I had painted images that were in shades of whites, grays, and ice blues, these images were much more vivid and much more violent. Reds and yellows and blacks were mixed with the cooler colors to create nightmarish visions that were angry and hellish.

“Sure,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “That's fine. I can respect your privacy.”

I shot him a look of disbelief and he grinned, caught out in his lie.

“Okay,” he admitted and spread his hands. “Maybe not all the time, but some of the time.” He glanced around the room a last time before pointing to the nine canvases he had chosen. “So, I guess that will do it. This seems to get easier for you every time we do it.”

“It is,” I said. “At first, it was like losing a part of myself—showing everybody what a screwed-up mess I am. But I don't have to see them once they're gone. And it's not like I am doing them for any kind of artistic satisfaction. It's just a means of getting some of this stuff out of my head. And, to be able to live up here—”

Toby's frantic barking from downstairs prevented me from completing the sentence. It was his “someone's here/this is my property, dammit/pay attention to me” bark. I raised my eyebrows
at Roger and then walked over to the window. In front of the house was a shiny black BMW.

Roger joined me at the window. “Oh, yeah,” he said, his voice cautious. “I may have invited Adelle to come visit.”

“Really?” I asked. It had been too long since I had last seen her. The three of us hadn't gotten together since college.

He grinned, obviously relieved at my reaction. “I thought it would be fun.”

Outside, Adelle was pulling a suitcase out of her trunk. I tapped on the window and she looked up, saw us, and waved.

“I should go get Toby before he has a fit,” I said and turned to leave. Roger opened the window and shouted down to Adelle. “Hey stranger! Rebecca's on her way down to prevent Toby from gnawing off your arm.”

As I tromped down the stairs, I could hear Adelle's laugh and an indecipherable reply. It made me smile and I realized just how much I missed seeing her in person—and how excited I was at having the three of us together again. Toby bounded out the door and immediately reared up on Adelle, who greeted him with affection. She looked up as I came onto the porch and smiled broadly.

“Hi! Surprised?”

“Absolutely,” I said and hurried down the stairs to hug her. Displaced as the center of attention, Toby circled us, tail wagging, barking happily. Behind me, I heard Roger's voice.

“Don't I get a hug?”

“In a minute,” Adelle said over my shoulder. “
You
, I can see anytime. But this one . . .” She squeezed me tightly and rocked me from side to side before breaking the embrace. She held me at arm's length and studied me. “Girl, you need to eat. You're skin and bones. But I like the hair.”

I shrugged. “Just thought it would be nice to have a change. Toby likes it.”

She smiled and then shifted her attention to Roger.

“Roger,” she said formally.

“Adelle,” he said with equal levelness and then grinned. “Come here.”

The two hugged and for some reason, I found myself remembering the day Adelle had been raped and how she had not wanted to see Roger at the hospital. I remembered how broken she had seemed—how isolated she had made herself while she healed. And now, watching her smile and move, I could see that she was whole. It made me feel . . . something. Hope? Jealousy?

I stooped, picked up her bag, and started toward the cabin. “Who wants something to drink?”

“Me,” said Adelle. “After that drive, holy hell. Girl, could you live any more in the boondocks?”

Once inside and settled, Roger built a fire in the fireplace and I opened a couple of bottles of wine—a red and a white. Adelle sat on the couch with Toby, rubbing his ears and smiling into his adoring eyes.

“Traitor,” I said as I set the bottles on the coffee table and started toward the kitchen for glasses.

“Never underestimate the power of a good ear rub,” Adelle said and then laughed loudly at something Roger said.

“What did I miss?” I asked as I came back into the room.

“We were just talking about the value of ear and . . . uh . . . other appendage rubbing,” Roger said.

“Because Roger is a cheap tramp with a trashy mind,” Adelle said.

“Cheap, but not easy,” Roger said flirtatiously. “Certainly not easy.”

Adelle laughed and poured wine into each of the glasses. “A toast.” She picked up one of the glasses. Roger and I followed suit. “To us.”

“To us,” we echoed.

“
Very
different than the stuff we were drinking in college,” Roger observed after we had all taken a sip and settled into our seats. I lounged on cushions on the floor.

“Well, I would hope so,” Adelle said. “If we were still drinking Boone's Farm, I'd be a little worried.”

I laughed. “Remember the time Roger had too much and we called the Tipsy Taxi to take him home and he opened the car door onto his head and knocked himself unconscious?”

Adelle laughed and picked up the story. “And we had to have the driver help drag him back inside because he was too heavy,” she said.

“And I woke up the next morning with my face all bloody,” Roger said. “Do you know I still have a scar from where the door cut my face?” He leaned forward and pointed to a small scar near the corner of his eye.

Adelle waved a dismissive hand. “You can barely see it. You should see some of my scars.”

We were suddenly quiet.

“Who wants snacks?” I asked quickly and jumped up. “I've got cheese and some hard salami.” I hurried into the kitchen. As I prepared the snacks, I could hear Roger and Adelle talking, their voices indistinguishable soft murmurs.

“—weird,” I heard Roger say as I came back into the room. He saw me and abruptly stopped talking.

“What are you two talking about?” I asked and set the plates of cheese and crackers on the table.

“Nothing,” Roger said. “Just—”

“Roger was telling me about your secret canvases,” Adelle said.

I whirled to face Roger. “I told you those were off limits. You had no right to look at them.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “But—” he looked at Adelle, who nodded encouragingly “—Rebecca, we're worried about you. We think you need . . .” He looked helplessly at Adelle.

“Sweetheart,” she said, taking over the conversation. “We love you and we want to help.”

“Is that why you're here?” I glared at each of them. “Is this some sort of intervention?”

Roger and Adelle looked at each other. Neither spoke for several seconds. Finally, Roger sighed. “It's not an intervention. It's just a ‘We care about you.'”

“You would do the same thing if we needed you,” Adelle said.
“We just . . . you live up here all alone. You never leave. We're just worried, that's all.”

“I'm fine,” I said and then looked pointedly at Roger. “Fine!”

“
Calm down
.” It was Grace. “
Don't act crazy, or you'll just be playing into their hands. Take a deep breath
.”

“Becca,” Roger was saying, “those canvases were disturbing. I . . .” He looked at Adelle. “We,” he amended, “just want to help. You have some issues.”

“You didn't seem to mind my issues when they were helping your career,” I spat. “Or do I need to remind you about the conversation where you begged me to let you use my paintings?”