State of Grace (31 page)

Before I could second-guess myself, I hit Send. Within five minutes, he replied.

                
Hi—

                
I wondered where you had gone. I'm glad you responded.

                
So, you want to know why I said that. I guess because it's true. I think we all have secrets—things we carry around with us. I know I do. In fact, I have several, but the one that seems to weigh most heavily on me is something that happened that summer—the summer that Grace died. I think it's part of what compelled me to contact you—you, the one person who would understand what I want to say. This is beginning to sound creepy, isn't it? I'm sorry for that but I need to tell you something—something awful. I don't know how to say it without just saying it, so, here goes.

                
You weren't the first person to find Grace. I was. I snuck out of my grandparents' house the night she was murdered. I went to the clearing. I had a flashlight. She was the first thing I saw. At first I didn't even know what it was or what was going on. Then, as I got closer . . . well, you know. It was horrible. I didn't know what to do, so I ran away. To this day, I feel like such a coward.

                
Rebecca, I can understand if you don't want anything to do with me. But if you want to talk about what happened, I think I would understand in a way that no one else could. And I think it might be good for both of us. That image—the image of her lying there—haunts me. If your paintings are any indication, I think it haunts you, too. Am I right?

                
Tommy

I sat back in my chair and reread the message in stunned silence. I had no idea how to respond. He had found her before me. He had seen her lying in the clearing, but had run away and left her for me to find. I felt sick and angry. I didn't know what to say. I just had to know why. Why had he run? Why hadn't he told anyone? Without hesitation, I hit Reply.

         
Tommy:

                
Why did you run away? Why didn't you tell anyone?

                
Birdie

His response popped up a couple of minutes later.

         
Birdie:

                
I don't know how to answer your questions. I was scared. I was stupid. I was worried they would think I did it. I was . . . young. I don't know. I have no excuse. Sometimes the guilt weighs so heavily on my chest, it's almost like I can't breathe. Do you know what I mean?

                
I'm sorry for what happened to you. You wouldn't have found her if I hadn't been such a coward. Please believe me. I'm sorry.

                
Tommy

I stared at his words. I did know what he meant and I allowed myself to consider what it must have been like for him that night. I thought about my own reaction to seeing Grace's body. I had been shocked and terrified. I quickly typed out my reply.

         
Dear Tommy:

                
I'm sorry if that last message came off as accusing. I DO know what you mean. But that doesn't excuse the fact that you left her there alone after everything else she endured. I'm not sure how I feel about your confession. I would prefer not to discuss this any more.

I hit Send, logged off AOL, and then pushed the chair away from the computer. I didn't want to see his response, nor was I any longer in the mood to look at the pictures of Adelle's trip to Florida. The notion of sunny beaches and happy-looking people was decidedly unappealing.

My mind reeled with his confession. I felt Grace begin to stir. She sensed my anxiety, no doubt. She was used to my fixation about her death. In fact, sometimes I got the feeling that she enjoyed being
so prominent in my mind. It was a power she never had in life. But tonight, all I wanted was to be alone with my thoughts and to have the chance to digest this new information.

“I'm tired,” I said to Toby as I sank down next to him and reached out to pet his short, glossy coat. He grunted in his sleep and stretched out his legs, exposing his belly to the heat of the fire. I curled up behind him, tucking my bent arm under my head as a pillow. With the other hand, I gently rubbed his chest and belly. As I stared at the fire, I began to relax into the warmth of my dog and, before I knew it, fell asleep.

My dreams that night were thick, textured, and horribly vivid.

They began with a roller coaster that seemed to do nothing but climb slowly, steadily, jerkily up the track to a drop that none of us on the ride would survive. It was too steep and the force of the fall would be too much. But still, we continued to climb.

I looked frantically from side to side, trying to see around the hard foam and metal restraint that had me pinned to my seat. “It's going to rain,” someone said.

I looked upward and a few tiny drops struck my face.

“I hope it doesn't make the track so wet that the wheels disengage.” The voice came from the girl sitting next to me.

My heart thumped and I felt the familiar knot of fear and panic rise in my chest and then into my throat.

“I knew this was a bad idea,”
the girl next to me said.
“But you never listen, Birdie, do you?”

I recognized the querulous tone. “Grace? Is that you?”

“Of course it's me,”
she said and leaned forward to stick her face into my line of vision. She looked exactly the same as she had in our last school pictures.

“Why aren't you restrained?”

“Why would I be, silly? I'm dead.”
She gave an exaggerated frown and then pulled a piece of bubble gum out of her pants pocket.

The roller coaster continued to clank and lurch up the incline, bringing my attention very much back to the situation at hand.

“I hate roller coasters,” I said. I could hear the anxiety in my voice.

“I know you do,”
Grace said.
“But this is your dream. I'm just along for the ride.”
She grinned.
“Get it? Along for the ride?”

“This is a dream?” I tried to look around. “It doesn't feel like a dream. It feels real.”

“It's a real dream,”
Grace said authoritatively and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She moved so she was sitting casually with her arm looped over the seats in front of her.

“Grace, I'm scared.”

“I know,”
she said simply and pushed her tongue through the pink wad of gum and tried to blow a bubble.

She peered over the seat of the car in front of us and then stood up.
“We're nearing the crest,”
she said over her shoulder.
“Anything you want to get off your chest?”

My breath began to come in short pants and I felt as if I were hyperventilating. I shook my head tightly from side to side. “I want off. Don't they have a chicken exit? At the top? For people who change their minds?”

Grace turned her body and craned her neck so she could fully look at me.
“Is that what you've done—changed your mind?”

I nodded, though I was unsure if she was talking about the ride or something else.

She seemed to consider and then held up a hand.
“Stop,”
she yelled and immediately, the roller coaster clunked to a standstill. There was silence. The wind caused the suspended track to sway side to side. It felt like being on a boat at sea. I realized suddenly how powerless I was.

“How do I get out?”

“Easy,”
Grace said.
“Just step out onto the scaffolding on your left. There are stairs that will take you straight down.”

I pushed at the harness across my chest that had me pinned into the molded plastic seat.

“Release,”
she yelled. Immediately I heard a muffled click and, with a hydraulic hiss, the restraint disengaged and rose slowly over my head. I waited for several seconds before moving. To my surprise, I found that I missed the security of the harness. Without it, I felt fragile and vulnerable.
“The steps are over there.”
She pointed.

I turned my head. Without the restraint I saw the metal handrail and the stairs that led downward. We were much higher up than I had realized. I struggled to get out of the seat. With the steep angle, my body felt like lead. Finally, I rolled to the side, pulled my feet up under me, and rose into an awkward squat. To get to the stairs, I would have to crawl out of the roller coaster, step across the gap between the track and the stairs—and I would have to stand up.

Shakily, I rose to my feet. My legs trembled and I clutched tightly to the bar that ran across the top of the seat in front of me. I stood, frozen. The wind whistled past and I felt the track sway beneath me. I looked again at the space between the stairs and the roller coaster. My hands shook as I looked past the scaffolding to the sky. It was dark, ominous. I considered the possibility of lightning.

“Go on,”
Grace said.
“Once it starts raining, the steps will be slippery.”

At her words, drops of rain began to fall.

Trembling, I clung to the handrail and stepped shakily out of the car onto the scaffolding steps. Below us the trees and buildings and other amusement park rides looked tiny and far away. The wind whistled, blowing my hair into my eyes and mouth. I wanted to descend, but I couldn't force my body to move. I looked at the roller coaster. The other cars were empty. Grace and I had been the only passengers.

“You need to move!”
Grace yelled to be heard over the wind.

“We were the only ones on the ride,” I yelled back. “Can't they just back down?”

“It's a one-way train, baby.”

Another gust of wind rocked the scaffolding. Still clutching the handrail, I crouched down.

“Grace, I can't,” I yelled. “I can't do it alone. It's too scary. I might fall.”

“There's no other way down.”

“Help me,” I begged. “I know you can. Please.”

Not responding, she continued to stare down at me. The scaffolding began to sway back and forth.

“Please, Grace.”

“Okay,”
she said finally.
“But you have to do what I tell you.”
She came down until she stood on the step directly behind me.
“You're going to have to stand up.”

I nodded, took a deep breath, and, with both hands clutching the handrail, pulled myself into a standing position. Because she was still a girl and I was an adult, we stood eye to eye, facing each other. I was reminded of the last time I had seen her and wondered if the ants still lived inside her.

“You're going to have to turn around,”
she said.
“But whatever you do, don't look down. Just hold onto the guardrails on either side of you and turn your body. When you do that, we'll go down together.”

“Just one step at a time,” I said. “Baby steps.”

“Baby steps,”
she repeated.
“Now, remember, don't look down.”

I nodded and then slowly, painstakingly, turned my body until I had to let go of one of the handrails. Quickly, I jerked around so that both hands were clutching the same rail. I twisted so that I could reach out with my other hand to grasp the handrail. My heart hammered in my chest and my legs threatened to give out, but I was, I realized, now facing away from Grace and in the direction I needed to go.

“Okay,”
Grace yelled from behind me.
“Now, take a step down. Just one at a time. Just look at the step you need to take next.”

I concentrated on the step in front of me, lifted one wobbly leg, and stepped forward. Beneath me, the scaffolding continued to rock and sway. Slowly, I transferred the weight to my other foot and stepped down. I was one step closer to the ground.

“One down, only 9,000 to go,”
Grace said.

We were on our fifteenth step when a gust of wind made me stumble and then fall to the side.

“Grace,” I screamed as I felt my legs slide over the edge of the scaffolding, pulling my upper body with them. I reached frantically for something, anything, to hold onto. “Help me!”

“Can't,”
she said.
“You need to help yourself on this one. Besides, why would I help someone who lies to me—someone who keeps things from me?”

My hands clutched the pole. I felt the metal of the step cut into the skin of my chest and armpits. The rain fell harder.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said. “Help me! Please!”

“You were hiding something from me on the computer, Birdie. I'm not stupid, you know.”

“I know!” My grasp on the pole began to slip. “Grace, pull me up. Please! I'm going to fall!”

She tipped her head to the side and studied me as if I were a bad puppy.
“Why do you always deny me what I want?”

“Grace, I don't know what you mean,” I gasped. “Please, just help me and we can talk about this.” Excruciating pain shot through my shoulders and arms.

“I just don't get it,”
she continued as if I hadn't spoken.
“I ask so little from you.”

My fingers had begun to cramp and I found myself watching with a strange, uninterested fascination as they began their slow, tortured release of the slippery pole. Slowly, slowly, they straightened until only my chewed and fractured fingernails still clung to the pole.

The sensation of falling was not what I expected—not at first. It was silent. And it was gentle. I didn't plummet, but rather, hung suspended in the warm, balmy air.