“Mmhmm,” Beth replied, reaching for a plastic fork.
“You think we’ll be best friends forever?” I asked, shoving a too-big piece of cake in my mouth.
“Why not?” Beth replied.
I laughed somehow, with my mouth full. “Exactly. Why not?”
“As long as you don’t turn mean like Courtney,” Beth said.
“I would never act like her!” I replied.
“I know, Brooke.”
She plopped her left arm over my shoulder in a casual way.
“Happy birthday, Brooke,” she said, and leaned over to kiss my cheek. The cake crumbs on her lips stuck to my face.
And I didn’t care.
I awoke sobbing. I clutched my stomach and rocked back and forth, back and forth, feeling the threat of a panic attack and powerless to stop it. I heard Beth’s voice repeating the question over and over: “You promise not to take it off?”
I couldn’t breathe when the next wave of sobs washed over me. I clapped my hand over my mouth, but it stifled nothing. I was accustomed to feeling constant guilt, but this was different. This was heavier, scarier. And I feared I would be trapped forever, never able to move on because of the way I treated her.
“I promise!” I screamed before I realized I said it out loud.
Dad flew into the room.
“Brooke, what’s wrong?” he asked, sitting beside me and taking me into his arms.
I cried harder, burying my face in his shoulder, liquid pouring out of my eyes and nose all over him.
“I was a bad friend,” I cried.
Dad stroked my hair. “That’s impossible.”
But Dad didn’t know what I did. He didn’t know the sins I had to repent for, the sickness in my mind that made me hear Beth all the time. Talking to me. Pleading with me. Cursing me. Crying for me.
I pulled away and wiped my nose. “Yes, Dad, I was.”
“What do you mean, Brooke?”
“You’ll think me so horrible if I tell you,” I said. My voice shook uncontrollably.
“I would never think such a thing,” Dad replied.
I drew in my breath. “I sneaked around with Beth’s boyfriend before she died.”
Dad was quiet.
“She found out about it,” I said. “I don’t think that’s why she . . . did it, but I feel so guilty. I never got the chance to make things right.” Fresh tears rolled down my cheeks, plopping one by one on my arms and chest.
“Are you still with her boyfriend?” Dad asked.
“No!” I replied. “My God, no!”
“Then you’ve made things right,” Dad said. He put his arm around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder.
“I don’t think that’s enough,” I whispered.
“Did you apologize to her before she died?” Dad asked.
“Yes. I mean, she wouldn’t talk to me face to face, so I had to leave messages on her cell phone, but yes. I tried. For months I tried. All summer.”
“Then honey? That’s all you can do,” Dad said. He kissed the top of my head.
But I knew that wasn’t all I could do. There was a way I could atone. I had to or else Beth would haunt me forever. I imagined my brain deteriorating, growing black with disease because of guilt. I couldn’t stand the thought, and begged my father to stay up with me. I was too afraid to go back to sleep, to see Beth’s face, so we went downstairs. He made me tea, and we sat side-by-side chatting into the early morning hours while the television hummed in the background.
***
I stood considering the blank canvas—stark white and full of promise. I had my paints ready and an idea in my head. I was outside on the back patio. I never painted inside, even with acceptable lighting. No. I had to have sunshine if I were to create anything good.
The sun felt warm and delicious on the top of my head, weaker than the summer sun but not altogether ineffectual like the winter one. The seasons were changing, and I observed the first turning of leaves in my back yard. That was my idea: to do a painting of leaves.
I dipped my paintbrush in a glob of oil paints I had mixed. I never painted with acrylic. Mom asked me one time why I couldn’t be a “cheap” painter, noting the extreme price difference between acrylic and oil-based paints. What could I say? I couldn’t make her understand the difference, how acrylic paint dried almost immediately on the canvas. Impossible to manipulate. Stubborn and unforgiving if you made a mistake. You had no choice but to paint over your mess-up. And then it stayed hidden within the painting, and you always knew it was there.