The Moment Before (8 page)

All the way down Vista, past the suicide bridge—where they just this week installed 9-foot screens to deter jumpers—past two Starbucks, and into the neighborhood that will lead to the park and then to Connor and whatever he’s found on Sabine’s phone, Martha’s texts intrudes.

We really need 2 talk.

Can u meet me at Sbux?

I hate that u r mad at me.

I’m mad at myself for even looking at them. Martha’s total OCD behavior when someone’s mad at her is endearing, in a way, but I really want to stay mad. How can she just charge forward with her life the way she has after Sabine’s death? And as for Nick? Was his Versace-slash-Johnny-Cash-Black grief just an act?

The week after my sister died, Nick was glued to our house. We were all zombies, sitting around the kitchen table, writing Sabine’s obituary. Deciding what picture to put in the paper. Where to have the big gathering after the funeral, whether to call it “a celebration of life” or “a memorial service.” It was like putting on some theater production with a week to cast the show, write it, rehearse our lines, decide on a venue and print out the tickets. All the while struggling in the numbness and disbelief that we’d lost Sabine.

We needed Nick for so many things. The Greenmeadow choir sang at her funeral, and Nick arranged that. He got the graphic design department at school to create the programs. And then there were the bread-and-butter details. Stuff like,
In lieu of flowers, please send remembrances to The Humane Society
. Martha came up with that—even though we weren’t exactly known for being one of those
dog
families. Why not cancer? I wondered. Why not the environment? Or even arts education? Naturally, I could see why we didn’t choose the cheerleading squad.

“When a child dies, it’s customary to choose an animal-related charity,” Martha assured us. And Martha would know that sort of stuff, so The Humane Society it was.

Ironically, I’m pretty sure that was the beginning of Nick and Martha’s romance. And it happened under our roof, poring over the details of Sabine’s send-off. Nick helped with errands around town, and Martha coordinated casseroles. They both brainstormed the death announcement with Mom and ran interference when reporters wanted to talk with us. And then Martha color-coded all of my sister’s clothes, tidied up her room—staging it as though it were for sale. She created “the museum of Sabine,” explaining that she wanted to spare us the pain of having to sift through Sabine’s things until we were ready, but when we
were
ready, she explained, it would be easier to deal with an orderly version of her life.

At first, I was grateful for their company. Dad was a mess. Not sleeping, not really awake. He sat in the family room in front of the flat screen for hours in a half-conscious state. A bottle of Jameson’s by his side. Mom, meanwhile, was an animated robot. Like some alien creature had inhabited her body, she was constantly moving from one thing to the next, check-off lists in hand. It was only after the service that she started to sputter and falter—forgetting to turn off burners, leaving her phone at home while slipping the remote to the TV in her purse. Having Nick see all of this, be around it, began to feel weird. His presence—the perfect 18-yr-old boy with everything to live for, everything ahead of him—began to remind me in deep, ugly ways that my sister would never grow any older. Soon, I would be the older sister. I would be a senior, then a high school graduate. College, career, marriage, kids, middle age, on and on I’d continue, and Sabine would always be eighteen. “They were so in love,” Mom exclaimed, wistfully, evening after evening, thumbing through the Spring Fling photos Martha had already glued into an album.

I began to resent that Nick and Martha would just show up at our house. They wouldn’t even knock half the time, just show up, bearing bereavement cards and flowers and poems. Whole classes had created science fair-type triptych boards of scribbled condolences. Our living room was a roadside death remembrance, with stuffed animals and mass candles and the occasional brass crucifix spread out in front of our fireplace. When more sympathy swag came Mom was always, “so touched,” and Dad, well, he’d just nod and grunt. Occasionally lift one of these well-wishings up to his nose and sniff it. As if there was a way to evoke Sabine from the odor of a dried herb garland.

Finally, I realized it was up to me to stop the madness. I asked Martha to back off. Nicely, but firmly. And Nick, well, he got the message too when I asked him to haul all the stuff to our storage unit. “Mom and Dad, they need a break from it,” I told him, and handed him the key to our 10-by-10 foot space at SelfStor along with Mom’s Subaru fob.

So Nick moved on. The most popular girl at school had died tragically, and her lover’s stock soared. Nick was surrounded by groupies and mourners—an entourage of sobbing teenagers following him around. Connor, the killer, meanwhile, went from being a fairly popular kid to the bearer of the plague. And one day, they had it out.

I was AWOL when it happened, so everything I know, I heard from Martha and other gossips, like Cathi Serge. Apparently, Connor just walked up to Nick, right there in the hall, amid the black balloons and the hankies and the plastic flowers and the magnetic RIP, and balled up his meaty fist—the same hand that held and then failed to hold my sister as she flipped and stretched and leapt through the air. Connor shoved that fist into Nick’s perfect jaw.

It was ugly. They went at it like fighting dogs, rolling around on the floor of the spine of Greenmeadow’s “E.” Fists and flesh and then some blood. Girl screams, and teachers trying to break them apart. A big assembly afterwards where grief counselors were called in. What a mess. And now Connor has dropped out, and Nick’s dating Martha.

Martha. More texts bleeping into my phone.

We’re not the bad guys.

Brady? Is this thing on?

So I cave. Text back.

I’m in NW. Dragonfly Coffee House? 4:30?

B thr soon as I can
, she messages.

Connor will have to wait. I text him that I’m running late.
NP
is what I get back. Stoner boy shorthand for
whatever
.

I order a double chai with almond milk and a lemon poppy seed scone, and take a seat on a puffy velvet pillow under one of the café’s jeweled chandeliers. After Cupworth’s porch, the Victorian feel of the Dragonfly is perfect. I conjure some grace and poise, channeling Lilith and her manners and elegance. I cross my legs at the knee and sip the foam off my drink without slurping. I will be gracious to Martha. I will rise above my anger and hurt. I will.

By the time she finally plows through the door, it’s well after 5:00 and I’m finished with my drink, picking the last poppy seeds from the napkin, licking them off my index finger in very un-Cupworth style. Martha comes over and wraps her arms around the side of me, as though my decision to meet and talk means all is forgiven. She says, “Sorry to keep you. The buses, they’re so slow.”

“What about your car?” I ask.

She looks sheepishly down at the floor. “Nick’s borrowing it. You know, he doesn’t have a car, and, well, he has so much going on.”

“Oh.”

“He doesn’t know I’m meeting you. Just, FYI.”

I raise a brow.

“I mean, not that he has anything to say about it? It’s just, you know, complicated with us.”

Martha goes up to the counter for her coffee, and I’m still not sure what I will or won’t tell her. Part of me wants to let her know about Connor, that I’ve asked him to unlock Sabine’s phone, but then I know it’ll get back to Nick, and she’s right, everything now is so complicated. By the time she returns, I’ve decided to keep mum about Connor, but let her know about Cupworth.

Martha reaches into her purse and pulls out a little pill box, then washes her medication down with a swig of coffee. Martha’s always taking a “little something” for nerves.

“It must be strange for you to see the two of us together,” she starts in, with a clearly practiced speech. “So soon after the accident.”

I put a hand up to stop her. “Martha, it’s your life. His life. None of my business.”

“Then, what’s the deal? Is this about the Art Fair? Because if it is…”

“It’s not. I mean, it was. A little. But that’s working itself out.”

Martha, her healthy mahogany hair and her steaming black coffee sit across from me. A round metal table in between us. “How so?”

“Mrs. Cupworth, apparently she likes my drawing. I was just over there. She’s, well, she and Bowerman are planning on going public with the politics behind the prize.”

Martha looks as though she’s just watched someone get stabbed in the street. Her eyes all Anime she says, “What do you mean,
politics
?”

“Why they gave the award to you and not me. Don’t worry. They assured me that they’re not taking your prize back.”

“Well, Brady, student-in-good-standing was a requirement. And, you haven’t really been pulling the grades lately.”

The way she’s arguing with me, her finger practically wagging in my face, like a teacher or a parent, it’s just plain weird. I want to say more about it, but instead, I scan my napkin for more poppy seeds, and stick my seed-speckled finger in my mouth.

“So, what are they planning on doing? On saying?”

I shrug. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. You’re right. I’m a loser, I didn’t deserve to win, end of story.”

Martha reaches her olive branch hand out close to my gooey finger, but I don’t grasp it. “Oh Brady, I’m sorry. Clearly, I’m being insensitive. Here’s the thing. I’m up for Rose Festival, you know? And, being a junior and all, it’s unlikely they’ll choose me, but it would look so good on my transcripts. I was able to add the thing about winning the Cupworth, and it’s quite a coup. It would just be sort of embarrassing if something came out that I won it by default.”

When Martha says default, she emphasizes the
de
instead of the
fault
, and the word is as wrong to my ear as it is to my heart. She really thinks her Mt. Hood was best-in-show? “I’m sure it won’t factor in. Princess Martha.”

“
Queen
Martha,” she counters, putting an invisible tiara on her glossy Covergirl head. She’d be perfect as Rose Festival Queen. I can see her waving to the masses from the seat of the big fat float, a white-gloved Rosarian at the wheel, shepherding her through the streets of her Fair City.

My phone makes the text-message noise and ever-attentive Martha chimes, “Your parents wondering when you’re coming home? Want to ride the bus back with me?”

It’s Connor with a,
wassup?

“Uh, yeah, well, I have a couple more errands to run. Library and whatnot. Maybe we can get together over the weekend or something.”

“That would be fantastic. But Brady, you’re sure we’re good? Solid?”

I nod my affirmation. We’re as solid as we ever were I guess. Which has always seemed a little more on Martha’s terms than mine.

Connor’s waiting for me at the Witch’s House—the unofficial party spot a mile or so up the trail coming out of Lower Macleay Park. It’s where Nick and Sabine first “did it,” Sabine told me. Nick had a backpack full of supplies: a blanket, some pills to “relax” her. “I was super nervous,” she’d told me the next day. “The pills—they helped loosen me up.”

I’d wanted to hear everything. What it felt like, what Nick said to her during their love-making, but Sabine just waved me off with a, “I’m glad I got that out of the way.”

When I finally get to the stone ruin Connor’s behind a jagged pillar, leaned up against a tree, a bear scratching its hide. His usual hoodie hugs his broad shoulders; his legs are bare from the knees, muscled legs half-covered with cargo shorts. A Portland Timbers cap sits backwards on his head, and Sabine’s earring dangles and sparkles, dancing in the waning afternoon rays.

“Let’s bounce,” he says, his chin pointing up-trail to a uniformed somebody in a Day-Glo pinnie who seems to be eyeing us.

We walk up toward the upper parking lot, and I’m already regretting my choice of footwear—a sort of rubber soled bedroom slipper with no arch support. Hill-walking seems to be the theme today. I can tell Connor’s a little annoyed that I’m not keeping pace.

“So, what was the hold up?” he asks after we’re out of earshot of the pinnie police.

I’m not sure how to answer that, exactly, so I just say. “School stuff.”

Connor’s not buying it. “Anyone know about, um, that you’re here? With me?”

“You sound really creepy now. Like, are you planning on slashing my throat and throwing me in the ivy with all the dead prostitutes?” I’m kidding, of course, but Connor gives me a
really?
look.

We keep walking, and the suspense is beginning to kill me. But, I figure, let him spill it in his own time, whatever he found out jailbreaking Sabine’s phone, it’s got to be big, the way he keeps walking without talking. We’re winding up the hairpins, and Connor won’t stop checking over his shoulder. We’re close to the Audubon crossing, it’s not getting any earlier, and my feet are beginning to sting. Finally, I can’t hold it in anymore. “C’mon, Connor, what the hell?”

He stops and points to a small clearing where the oaks haven’t leafed out yet, and I follow him off the trail. The hair on Connor’s calves is dark blond, and there’s a lot of it. His green eyes and their flecks of amber. Those lips. He says, “I figured out her password.”

“Seriously?”

“Wasn’t that hard, Brady.”

“Well, I tried her birthday and Nick’s birthday …”

“Yeah, well you forgot one.”

“Huh?”

Connor dots the middle of my forehead with his index finger.

“No way.”

“Way.”

“How do you know
my
birthday?”

“Um, Facebook? You’re pretty dumb for a smart chick.”

“Did you save the messages? Were there a lot of them?” I’m shocked at how happy I am, just anticipating hearing the sound of my sister’s voice again.

“You’ll have to delete a few of them. She’s at the capacity.”

I hold out my palm, expecting Connor to fork it over, but he just crams his hands into the pockets of his shorts.