Absolute Brightness (32 page)

She let out a startled hoot and fell back onto the bed. After she kicked one leg up into the air and touched her socked toes to the canopy top, she said, “Girl, don't look to me for the answer. You're the one who kissed the boy.”

*   *   *

A week later, Mom decided that it was time for Uncle Mike to move out of the living room. He'd been with us since the start of the trial, and Mom was sick of coming downstairs every morning to find him hanging off the couch, half dressed and snoring like a pirate. Her solution was to give my room to Uncle Mike and move me to the rollaway bed in Deirdre's room. This was not a happy situation for anyone for the following reasons:

1. My bed was too small for a big guy like Uncle Mike.

2. Deirdre wasn't thrilled with the idea of having a roommate at this point in her life.

3. Neither was I. And

4. Just hearing the word “rollaway” gave me a serious pain in my neck.

“Why can't he move downstairs into the boxed set?” I asked Mom.

She pursed her lips and shook her head as though I'd just spit on someone's grave.

So picture me a week before Uncle Mike was to address the court, unable to sleep a wink. I'd written a long and impassioned letter to Travis, imploring him to apologize to Uncle Mike and explaining to him that his best chance for staying alive was to appeal to my uncle for mercy. I then slipped the letter to Father Jimbo in a sealed envelope. He smiled at me when he took it and promised that he would hand deliver it to Travis himself before the sentencing trial started. Because Father Jimbo was a man of God, I assumed that he'd told the truth and then followed through with his promise. But a day had passed and still there had been no word from Travis, no apology, no letter. I kept imagining the humiliation my family was soon to face when Uncle Mike stood up in court and demanded an eye for an eye. My worst-case scenario involved him playing an original song in the courtroom, a song that he'd been hammering out on his guitar in private during the week, a song that he would dedicate to the memory of Leonard. After a few hours of deliberation, the jury would return to their seats and deliver a unanimous decision, one that would involve Travis Lembeck's execution.

I must have finally drifted off at some point, because I was jolted out of a deep sleep by the sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway right outside the bedroom, followed by a pounding on my mother's door and a plea for help. I looked over at Deirdre's Hello Kitty alarm clock and watched the numbers flip to 5:17 a.m. I got up from the rollaway and pressed an ear to the door. By this time, my mother was telling Uncle Mike to calm down and shut up and what the hell was he trying to do, wake the dead? Uncle Mike was knocking some part of himself against the wall and whimpering like a wounded bear. I heard a loud plunk on the carpet. It was a wonder to me that Deirdre continued to sleep throughout the noise, which was taking place just yards from her head.

“Get off the floor, Mike! For God's sakes, get up!” my mother said in a frantic whisper. “You can't just park yourself here. It's five o'clock in the morning. Get up!”

Somehow she convinced him to go downstairs, and they settled in the kitchen. I was stationed just outside the kitchen door, which is how I heard every word.

According to Uncle Mike's account, he awoke (in my bed) to find Leonard in a ghostly form standing in the middle of the room and looking very confused. Neither of them spoke. They both just held each other's glance for a full minute, each of them considering what to do next.

“Wait. What're you doing here?” Leonard is supposed to have said. “What have you done with her? Why isn't Phoebe in her bed?”

“He
said
these things?” Mom asked Uncle Mike. “He spoke words?”

“Well,” Uncle Mike replied with the kind of hesitation you usually get from a kid when he's caught in a lie. “Not exactly. More like I could feel him saying those words.”

“Go on.”

Uncle Mike said he just lay there staring until Leonard made the first move, a move that involved dissolving into thin air. He was gone. Uncle Mike stumbled out of the room and made his way down the hall to find my mother.

Uncle Mike was convinced that Leonard had come with one purpose—to find me. He believed that Leonard had a message to deliver, and he wanted my mother to wake me up and find out what it could be. He said we all needed to know before it was too late, before we did something that couldn't be undone.

By the time I made it back into my rollaway, the room was just beginning to lighten. Deirdre rolled over in her bed and squinted at me.

“What's going on?”

“Nothing,” I told her. “Uncle Mike saw a ghost.”

“Whoa,” she murmured as she scratched her head. She then threw back the covers on her bed and scooted her body over against the wall, making room for me. “Come on. You might as well get in.”

I did and pulled the covers over me. I could feel the warmth from where her body had just been, and I could feel the heat radiating from where her body actually was. I felt I might get some sleep after all.

“Is it late or is it early?” she asked me.

“Both,” I replied.

We were in for a very long day.

Later, when I came downstairs dressed and ready for breakfast, I made buttered raisin toast, drank my orange juice, and asked Uncle Mike if he'd be moving out of my bedroom anytime soon. He stared at me.

“Huh?”

“Or maybe you could move downstairs to Leonard's room,” I suggested.

He shook his head no.

Nothing more was said for the rest of the week, but I felt that I had found a possible solution to my problems—not only the problem of where I would be sleeping (Uncle Mike moved back onto the couch the next night) but also to the problem of Travis Lembeck. But it wasn't until we were dressed and sitting next to each other in the backseat of Mom's car and waiting for Mom and Deirdre to join us that Uncle Mike was able to address the issue.

“I don't do much public speaking,” he said. “Standing up in front of people and all. Never been my thing.”

I nodded and pretended to be arranging stuff inside my purse. The fact that he was nervous wasn't exactly news. The signs were there. He had spent most of the morning locked in the bathroom mumbling to his reflection in the mirror. Also his cologne was stronger than usual, and he had two cuts on his face from shaving. This was the morning that the sentencing phase of the trial was scheduled to begin—the phase in which Travis's fate would be decided.

“Was he wet?” I finally asked, without looking up from my purse.

“What?”

“Last time Leonard came to see me, he was dripping wet. From the lake, I guess. He looked good, though. Happy. Did he look happy?”

Uncle Mike stopped breathing, his mouth hung open.

“You seen him, too?” he managed to croak.

“All the time. He's getting to be a total pest. Just like in life.”

We continued to sit there in silence until my mother and Deirdre slipped into the front seat and we drove away. Once we were on the Turnpike headed toward Trenton, Deirdre, our self-designated driver, launched into a rather lengthy dissertation about the origin of the French twist, a topic that no one other than Deirdre herself cared to discuss. Uncle Mike kept looking out the window, and though he held the pages of his prepared speech furled up in his fist, he never even gave it the once-over.

We pulled into downtown Trenton, and right away we found a parking space on the street; but before getting out of the car, we arranged ourselves as best we could. We were sure to run into the same old photographers and reporters on the courthouse steps, and despite the fact that we claimed not to care, we still couldn't help wanting to look our best. If Leonard had taught us anything about life, it was to always make an effort, because you never know.

Only Uncle Mike seemed unconcerned with his appearance; he just stood on the curb staring up at the clear blue sky and letting the wind make a mess of his hair. He looked wild-eyed and nervous and ashen. But then what could you expect from a person who was being haunted by a ghost?

“You all right?” I asked him.

“Just thinking.”

He ran his hand over his face and pulled at his features, as if he were desperately trying to change how he felt by rearranging his expression. Then he added, “Maybe Leonard was trying to tell us something. And I've been thinking maybe I know what it is.”

“Really?” I said. “What?”

“I think maybe he doesn't want me to talk today.”

It had almost been too easy.

“You know,” I said to Uncle Mike, “you might be right.”

Then he turned toward me, placed his hand on my shoulder, and said, “It's you who oughta speak for him, Pheebs. You're the one oughta get up and say what Leonard wants. You know what it is, don't you? He told you, didn't he? You know.”

“What's going on with you two?” Mom called out from where she was standing.

“Nothing,” Uncle Mike and I said at the same time.

“Well, then come on. Let's get this over with.”

Once we were inside the courthouse, I surrendered to the usual grind of metal detectors and grumpy guards. As usual, I wished that I was anywhere but where I was—standing in my stocking feet on the cool linoleum flooring in a New Jersey courthouse.

“You're clear,” the guard said.

When I sat down in one of the metal chairs to put my shoes back on, Uncle Mike was beside me lacing up his boots. I could feel him looking at me.

“So you're gonna do the talking, right?” he whispered.

“No prob,” I said. And that was that. A deal had been struck.

 

twenty-two

THE COURTROOM WAS
packed, and in anticipation of a sentence that would determine someone's life or death, the reporters were crammed up against the doors.

Mom glared at the courtroom sketchers as we entered and then shook out her hair so they would be sure to notice her new hairstyle. We were called to order; Judge Gamble entered and began the sentencing phase of the trial. Right off the bat she asked our family if we wanted to step forward and speak on behalf of Leonard. We all rose, and though I was the one who had agreed to speak, I looked toward Uncle Mike and nodded at him as though it were time for him to say something or forever hold his peace. I know it was cowardly of me, but being in that courtroom again—standing before the same jury and facing Ms. Fassett-Holt—made me realize that my plea for Travis's life might seem like the desperation of a spurned girlfriend trying to make good. Uncle Mike looked over at me as if he might lose his lunch right there in front of everyone. I shot him a don't-look-at-me look. He unfurled his prepared speech, but clearly he was lost. He managed to swallow hard, ask for a drink of water, and then, after a couple of sips, clear his throat. I thought he might actually manage a few words; but just as he opened his mouth to speak, Deirdre took pity on him, lightly touched his arm, and stepped forward.

“Your Honor, if it's all right, I'd like to speak for my family. But, um, if there's no objection, I'd like to say it directly to Travis. I mean, if that's all right?”

Judge Gamble looked around the room, took the temperature of everyone present, and then indicated with a quick nod that it was fine. She gave her gavel a single bang to quiet the rustles and whispers. Deirdre then turned her body to face Travis, who was sitting at the defense table. She addressed him directly.

“Hey, Travis.”

He looked up, startled by the sudden attention. It seemed that for the first time since the trial began, he actually looked like a human being; and maybe that was because for the first time since the trial began, someone was speaking directly
to
him instead of just
about
him. It was kind of genius, and I think everyone took notice. Suddenly he was just Travis Lembeck, some kid Deirdre had gone to school with, someone you could pass on the street and say “hey” to. But then, as if the pressure of being ordinary was too much for him, Travis turned and looked away.

“Look, I don't know how to do this, so…” Deirdre fussed with her hair and let out a nervous little laugh. She was wearing a gray sweater hoodie and a black pleated skirt. She was actually wearing knee socks, her Adidas running shoes, and though she didn't really have enough hair to warrant it, a headband. It was as if she had dressed to please just about everyone in the courtroom. On top of all that, her nerves had added a deep and sudden blush to her cheeks. She looked stunning. “Anyway, I just wanted to say that I don't think anyone in this courtroom can excuse or pardon you for what you've done. No one in the world can do that. I guess maybe that's God's business. And really, for us, for my family, no punishment on earth could ever make up for the loss of Leonard Pelkey. You know that, right?”

Travis didn't respond. In fact, he wasn't looking at her, not even close. He'd fixed his gaze across the room where the wall and the ceiling joined; he was squinting hard as if desperate to read a message that had been written there for him in invisible ink. Unfazed, Deirdre continued.

“And y'know, as much as I hate to admit it, if that's true … I mean, if it's true that no one can pardon you, then I guess it's also true that no one has the right to condemn you to death either.”

She paused here to yank up one of her socks, but really, I suspected her of pausing for dramatic effect. In either case, she accomplished both and then went on.

“Honestly? My whole family, I think we all wanted to see you die a slow and painful death. I mean, at first. We were
that
angry. But even Uncle Mike here, who's been dead set against you, has kind of come 'round to another way of thinking in the past couple of weeks.” Uncle Mike snapped his head around at that and looked at Deirdre with an expression that said,
Who me?
“We all realize that maybe it'd be better if you were forced to live.” Mouths dropped open at this. “I mean, because that way, you'll be forced to wrestle with your own conscience every single day for the rest of your life.” Murmurs of astonishment came from the crowd and a knock from the gavel. “But my one big hope, Travis?
Our
hope is that in that struggle, your conscience'll beat the crap out of you every time. Some people complain that this kind of thinking allows killers to, literally, get away with murder. They say stuff like, ‘A killer has
no
conscience to wrestle with.' And until recently maybe I was thinking that, too. But then, you want to know what made me change my mind?”