The worst part was, I couldn’t grieve for him. I had to hide all my feelings, which I’d never been good at. My family had a saying, “Georgia ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.” And I wasn’t happy. I was devastated. The whole town was still in shock over Kathleen’s death, and even though Moses hadn’t smothered her in her sleep or slashed her throat, the town still acted as if he had. My parents weren’t much better. Moses had been weird. And weird was easily suspect. Weird was frightening and unforgiveable. But I found I missed that too—he was weird and wonderful and totally different from anyone I knew. From anyone I would ever know. And he was gone.
I got asked to my senior ball, which was held the last Saturday in January. Terrence Anderson asked me, of all people. I guess he’d decided he liked tall girls after all. Or maybe he just wanted to make Haylee jealous since they had broken up just after the school year started. I considered telling him no. Lord knows I had plenty of excuses. But Mom told me it was bad manners and that I should be grateful, after all that had happened, that people were moving on. I had laughed hysterically at that and Mom had sent me to my room, convinced I was sick. I cried myself to sleep and felt no better the following day.
I accepted Terrence’s invitation to the dance, but I wore a black dress because I was in mourning, and the highest heels I could find just to make him feel stupid. If he was going to use me that was fine. But I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. And that night, sitting on the bleachers in the high school gymnasium, watching couples dance and sitting beside a seething Terrence, I missed Moses most of all. It wasn’t hard to imagine how he would look in a tux or a nice suit, I could have worn four inch heels and he would still be taller than me, and I had a feeling he would have liked my black dress and the way my body was changing.
Terrence just stared at my fuller chest with a sneer and I realized that my plan had backfired a little. The heels practically put my boobs at his eye level. I ended up taking them off and resigning myself to dancing in my bare feet and pretending Terrence Anderson was Kenny Chesney—Kenny was a little guy and a famous country singer, and he was plenty hot. Sadly, I found my tastes had changed dramatically, and cowboys and country singers, however hot, had taken a backseat to eccentric artists in mental institutions.
Moses
WE DIDN’T REVISIT it right away. Not with Dr. Andelin anyway. Tag and I were both put on isolation for three days due to the slug fest. Neither of us were allowed out of our rooms, and I was journaling with pictures once again, explaining “my thoughts and feelings” through my drawings. Dr. Andelin brought me a stack of sketch pads. Good ones. Not computer paper. And he brought grease pencils too. I don’t think he asked permission. I think he was thanking me. I liked the non-verbal appreciation far better than anything he could have said, especially since I hadn’t done it to make him happy. But I made sure to show my gratitude in my own way.
I drew and drew until my fingers cramped and my eyes wouldn’t focus. And when I was done I had sheets and sheets of still life drawings and portraits. Umbrellas and pebbles in a stream and Noah Andelin in his neat little beard, laughing and looking up from the page at a woman who was gone but not forgotten. When I presented the pictures to the doctor on his next visit, he took them reverently and spent our entire session thumbing through them, not talking at all. It was the best session yet.
On the third day of isolation, Tag sprinted into my room and shut the door.
I stared at him balefully. I was kind of under the impression the door was locked. I hadn’t even checked to see. I felt stupid for just sitting in a room for three days behind an unlocked door.
“They stroll the hall every few minutes. But that’s all. That was ridiculously easy. I should have come sooner,” he said, and sat down on my bed. “I’m David Taggert, by the way. But you can call me Tag.” He didn’t act like he wanted to engage in a brawl, which was a little disappointing.
If he didn’t want to fight, I wanted him to leave. I immediately went back to the picture I was working on. I felt Molly there, just beyond the water, her image flickering through the falls, and I sighed heavily. I was weary of Molly. I was even wearier of her brother. Both were incredibly stubborn and obnoxious.
“You’re a crazy son-of-a bitch,” he stated without preamble.
I didn’t even raise my head from the picture I was drawing with the nub of a grease pencil. I was trying to make my supplies last. I was going through them too fast.
“That’s what people say, don’t they? They say you’re crazy. But I don’t buy it, man. Not anymore. You’re not crazy. You’ve got skills. Mad skills.”
“Mad. Crazy. Don’t they mean the same thing?” I murmured. Madness and genius were closely related. I wondered what skills he was talking about. He hadn’t seen me paint.
“Nah, man,” he said. “They aren’t. Crazy people need to be in places like this. You don’t belong here.”
“I think I probably do.”
He laughed, clearly surprised. “You think you’re crazy?”
“I think I’m cracked.” That’s what Georgia said. But she hadn’t seemed to mind. Not until the cracks had gotten so wide she’d fallen in one and gotten hurt.
Tag tilted his head quizzically, but when I didn’t continue, he nodded. “Okay. Maybe we’re all cracked. Or bent. I sure as hell am.”
“Why?” I found myself asking. Molly was hovering again and I drew faster, helplessly filling the page with her face.
“My sister’s gone. And it’s my fault. And until I know what happened to her, I’m never gonna be able to get straight. I’ll be bent forever.” His voice was so soft I wasn’t sure he meant for me to hear the last part.
“Is this your sister?” I asked reluctantly. I held up my sketch pad.
Tag stared. Then he stood. Then he sat down again. And then he nodded.
“Yeah,” he choked. “That’s my sister.”