by Victoria Lee
Maybe Ellis is right. Maybe I do need closure.
“Come on,” Ellis says, and opens her car door. I sit there a moment longer, breathing the overhot, dry air, then make myself follow.
The cemetery is small and out of the way; I doubt most of the people who live in Kingston even know it exists. This is what Alex’s family could afford. The wrought-iron gate creaks when Ellis opens it. When I curl a hand around one of the prongs, the metal flakes against my palm and stains my skin rust.
Alex’s grave rests under the shadow of an oak. Although the snow has melted everywhere else, it’s still chilly enough here that ice clings to the tree’s roots and laces the curve of Alex’s headstone. Ellis has brought a lantern; she sets it down by the stone; it casts a dull gold light for five feet in every direction before the darkness swallows all sight.
We stand at the foot of her grave. alexandra irene haywood, beloved daughter. She died six days before her eighteenth birthday.
“The coffin’s empty,” I say. “They never found her body. Well, not empty. We all left something for her. A favorite necklace, a square of lace sprayed with her perfume…”
“What did you leave?”
I swallow hard. “I wrote her a letter. Ridiculous, I know. She’ll never read it. But…”
“It’s not ridiculous,” Ellis says. She reaches over and grasps my shoulder, squeezing once. “I’ll give you a minute. All right?”
She heads for the car and I crouch low, toward the frozen earth. A spray of black hellebore grows by Alex’s headstone. I offer a thin smile. Hellebore, in witchcraft, is used for banishment and exorcism. If Alex’s body were in fact here, maybe the presence of that flower would have been enough to keep her spirit confined.
“I’m sorry,” I tell the grave. It feels so inadequate. It feels like a lie. “I…I didn’t know what else to do. I was scared. I tried to save you—I tried. I tried to help, but you…you weren’t…You have to understand.”
I can practically hear her voice: I don’t have to understand anything.
“It was the séance. Margery Lemont cursed us, because we trapped her in our world.”
Saying it aloud here, to Alex, it sounds insane.
I get down on my knees, tilting forward to press one hand against the cold dirt. I try to summon her spirit. I wish I had wormwood or dandelions, herbs good for evocation. Not these god-awful hellebore, taunting me in an ironic twist of fate. I’d tear them up if it weren’t for the fact that touching hellebore is bad luck—and irritating to the skin, besides. Some part of me feels guilty, too, at the prospect of ripping up the only flowers that adorn Alex’s grave.
Please, I think in the direction of that darkness that hovers, omnipresent, on the fringes of my awareness—the darkness I’ve come to associate with Alex’s ghost. Please listen to me.
Silence answers.
At last I sigh and settle back onto my hips, opening Ellis’s book in my lap. The pages are hard to turn; age has stuck them together and stiffened the binding.
“Chapter One,” I read aloud. “There Is No One Left.”
I glance toward the headstone again, as if to see if Alex is paying attention. The stone is as gray and faceless as before.
I keep reading anyway, all through chapter one and well into chapter two, until my throat starts to feel dry and hoarse. I close the book and, after a beat, lean forward to rest it against the headstone. Another gift to a girl who has no need for gifts. Not anymore.
Something painful catches in my chest, and I press my brow against the chilly soil, eyes clenched shut. A tear leaks past my lashes and drips onto my fingers. Useless, this is all so…I’m so useless.
I shouldn’t be here. Alex was always the smart one. Alex was going to be somebody. You could tell by the way the instructors fawned over her work, how effortlessly everything came to her. She would write an essay overnight, drunk with a joint in one hand, and next thing you know she’s won the English department’s Best Paper Award. Alex was applying to the Ivy League. We all knew she’d be accepted anywhere she wanted to go.
Not like me. I’m the spoiled rich girl who lurked at the fringes of Alex’s halo, stealing her light.
The crunch of frozen ground breaking makes me look up. Ellis stands by the stone with her weight braced against the handle of a shovel.
“I think we should dig her up.”
I gape at her, my heartbeat suddenly beating hard and high enough that it feels like I’m gagging on blood.
“What?”
Ellis is as placid as ever. “You said the grave was empty, right? So there’s nothing to be afraid of. There’s no body to desecrate. Maybe seeing that for yourself will give you closure.”
I stumble to my feet, dirty hands tangling in my skirt. “No. Absolutely not.”
“You can put the book in her coffin,” Ellis suggests in a very rational tone. “You can perform a spell to put her spirit to rest.”
“Ellis, digging up Alex’s grave isn’t going to fix anything.”
“And ignoring the problem will?”
I can’t. I can’t do this. I turn away from her, staring out into the forest instead, the blackness of night somehow more complete now than it was when we first came.
“Where did you even get the shovel?” I say. I’m aware of how my voice sounds: wild, hysterical, cracking on the word shovel like I’m a breath away from total delirium.
I make myself twist back toward Ellis, who’s still standing there like this is a perfectly normal conversation to have in a graveyard past midnight.
She gestures vaguely over one shoulder. “The caretaker’s shed. The lock was easy to pick.”
I’m not hearing this. This is absurd.
“You’re insane.”
Ellis shakes her head very slightly. “I’m not the one who’s seeing things, Felicity. I’m not having breakdowns in the woods and warding off ghosts.”
I press both hands over my face, careless of the way it smears grave dirt on my cheeks. God. God.
“I’m not digging up that grave,” I say.
“Fine, then we won’t. It was only a suggestion.”
Ellis takes the shovel back where she found it, and I stay there, my feet planting roots in the earth. This time in Ellis’s absence, the air is colder. I feel Alex’s ghost like breath on the back of my neck.
Maybe Ellis is right. I am crazy. Just like my mother.
We drive back to the car agency in relative silence, Ellis’s gloved thumb tapping against the wheel and my hands gripping my knees.
It’s past two by the time we’re home, but as late as it is, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.
“Are you okay?” Ellis asks once we’re back inside Godwin House, lingering on the second-floor landing. The light from the overhead lamp casts odd shadows on her face. “I didn’t mean to push you. I wasn’t trying to—”
“I’m fine,” I interrupt. “Sorry. I just…”
Why am I apologizing? Of course I didn’t want to exhume my ex-girlfriend’s grave. Ellis is the one who should be asking forgiveness.
Even so, I can’t find the nerve to say as much. I chew at my lip and brace my back against the wall, both arms wrapped around my stomach. Ellis’s thumb scrapes at the finish on the stair banister.
“Look,” Ellis says at last. “I only want to help. You know that, right?”
I stare at her in silence.
“You already knew that grave’s empty. I thought this would give you closure. I want you to understand….I can’t keep seeing you torture yourself like this.”
“Well, I’m sorry it’s so painful for you,” I snap. It feels like I’m biting the words off a sheet of ice. “Seeing me. Like this.”
“Felicity—”
“I’m going to bed.”
I take the stairs up to the third f
loor two at a time and kick my door shut so hard it slams. I brace, anticipating the rap of Alex’s broom handle against the floor.
But it never comes. Alex’s ghost, if it exists, doesn’t care about noise.
The only thing down there, I tell myself, is Ellis Haley.
And Ellis Haley can go fuck herself.
My intent beinge only to construct a School for Young Ladies, a Place of refuge and education in Etiquette, soe these imperiled Young Ladies might prove usefull to Society and to God.
—Deliverance Lemont, accused Witch and founder of Dalloway School
Bury my bones deep, that I might feel the flames of Hell.
—Last words of Margery Lemont, buried alive in the year 1714; recorded by those present at her burial
I’m on my bed, paging through my well-worn copy of I Capture the Castle, when my phone rings.
It takes me a moment to realize what the sound is. It’s been over a week since I’ve used my phone; for the most part I’ve left it plugged into the outlet behind my desk and forgotten about it. But now I dig it out from where it’s fallen, between my trash bin and the wall, and thumb open the screen.
“Mom?”
“—humidity levels really must be checked every day…Oh, Felicity? Is that you?”
I sit in my desk chair. “Of course it’s Felicity. You’re the one who called me, remember?”
My mother’s still in France. It sounds windy on the other end of the line; I imagine her on a yacht off the coast of Nice, wearing a beige sundress and ordering the staff to bring her more drinks. It’s still November, even in Nice, but I can almost imagine my mother’s money going so far as to buy good weather, God herself susceptible to Morrow bribes.
“Oh, right….Well. Dr. Ortega thought it might be a good idea if I checked in on you, now that the semester’s getting on….” Almost over is what she means. Dr. Ortega probably told her to call me weeks ago.
I stay silent. Another gust of wind, loud through the speaker.
“So how have you been, honey?”
My mother has never in her life used pet names.
“Fine. Everything’s fine.”
“You’re sure? I just mean, Dr. Ortega said you haven’t been checking in with her like you were supposed to.”
So my mother is still in contact with Dr. Ortega. I can’t decide if I’m more surprised—my mother has never taken such a close interest in my well-being before—or irritated.
“I’ve been busy,” I say. “I have a lot of work to do, actually, I should—”
“Are you coming home for Thanksgiving? I should be back stateside by then.”
I make the decision on impulse, even though I have nowhere else to stay, even though campus will be closed over the holiday. “No. I’m going home with a friend.”
“Oh? Which friend?”
“You don’t know her.” I hook my ankles around the legs of my desk chair. “But you’re always welcome to come and visit next semester. If you want.”
She doesn’t want.
A long pause drags out behind my words. My mother would love to prove me wrong, but even Cecelia Morrow can’t deny her nature. “Maybe….I’ll be quite busy in the spring. I’ll have to check my calendar.”
“You do that.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? You sound a little…” She doesn’t seem able to find the word. My mother has never been much of a poet. “Have you been taking your medication?”
“I told you, I’m fine. I have to go, actually. I’m meeting my friend to work on our final project.”
“Is this the same friend you’re visiting for break?”
“Yes. Same friend. She’s right here; I have to go. I’ll talk to you later. Tell Dr. Ortega to stop worrying about me.”
I hang up before my mother can say anything else or demand to speak to the imaginary and impatient friend.
I drop my phone behind my bed and sink lower in my desk chair, turning my face toward the ceiling. I’m still like that, eyes half-shut, when someone knocks at my door.
It’s Kajal. “There’s a visitor downstairs for you,” she says. I recognize the dubious edge to her tone and frown.
“Who?”
“Some little third-year girl. She kept asking if Ellis was here, too.”
Hannah Stratford.
“Did you tell her I was gone?”
Kajal’s mouth twists into something that is almost but not quite a smile. “I told her you’d be right down.”
I sigh and follow Kajal down the stairs to the entryway, where Hannah Stratford stands in the foyer, bowed under the weight of a massive brown box.
“Hey!” she says, breathless and staggering with the effort of keeping herself from tipping over. “I was just in the mail room. This came for you!”
A dark, mean part of me wants to keep watching her struggle, but I shove it away. I’m not that person. I’ve tried so hard not to be that person. So I move forward to take one end of the box, and when it slumps lower in Hannah’s arms, it exposes her flushed, damp face grinning over the edge of the cardboard.
“You didn’t have to bring it here,” I tell her. “They would have called.”
And now I’m wondering why Hannah was looking at the names on packages in the first place.
“I know, but it’s been forever since I’ve seen you, so…”
Hannah nudges the box against my chest, and I step back, letting her guide us up the stairs. We have to pause on the landing for Hannah to catch her breath; I position myself in front of the corridor, in case Ellis makes the mistake of emerging from her room while Hannah is still present.
Eventually we manage to lug the box to the third floor and shove it onto my bed. Hannah’s shoulders heave. I’m perspiring a little myself.
“What’s in it?” Hannah asks.
I eye the box, which is plastered with fragile stickers and has my own home address scrawled in one corner. “It’s everything I didn’t bring with me when I came back to school.” My mother had said she’d send it at the start of the semester. I’d almost forgotten.
“Oh! Cool! You should open it.”
I look at her, long enough that anyone else would have gotten the message. But Hannah Stratford stays precisely where she is, beaming at me patiently with her hands clasped in front of her.
I wonder if I ever looked like that. I wonder if I ever smiled so easily.
I dig out a knife from my desk drawer and slice open the tape, unfolding the cardboard flaps to expose the box’s contents. Hannah watches on, fascinated, as I sift through all the artifacts of a life lived so long ago it feels like it happened to someone else. There’s a handheld video-game system—that can go in the trash, obviously—some art prints I bought two years ago in Granada, hiking books filled with glossy photos of trails in Albania and Greece and Turkey from trips me and Alex will never take. It’s a box of useless things.
Hannah dives in the moment I withdraw, pulling out my tennis racquet. “I didn’t know you played,” she says, delighted. “We should go down to the courts sometime.”
I used to do intramurals at Dalloway. I didn’t even bother signing up this year.
“This is a really nice racquet,” Hannah says, rubbing her thumb over the brand name engraved into the handle.
“You can keep it.”
“What? No, I couldn’t….” Of course, she’s already smiling.
I dump the hiking books back into the box and close the flaps. “I’m not going to play, so it might as well get put to good use. Take it.”
Hannah’s grip tightens around the racquet, and even though she opens her mouth to protest more, I can tell she’s already made her decision.
“What are you two troublemakers up to?”
Hannah spins around so quickly she drops the racquet, then swears and
snatches it back off the floor. Ellis leans against my open doorway, arms crossed over her chest and a crooked smile curving its way up her mouth. She’d climbed the stairs so quietly I never heard her coming.
“Ellis! Hi!” Hannah lurches forward, saving me from having to respond.
Ellis draws her gaze away from where it’s fixed on my face, but belatedly, just in time to let Hannah grasp her hand. “Hello. Have we met?”
“Sort of. I mean, I’m friends with Felicity.”
Ellis makes eye contact with me over Hannah’s head, and I shake mine, very slightly.
Hannah barrels on: “And we were both at the Lemont House party last month! Do you remember? You left so quickly…”
“What do you want, Ellis?” I say.
Hannah’s mouth snaps shut, and Ellis takes the opportunity to extract her hand from Hannah’s grip, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step into my room. “It’s personal.”
At last, Hannah seems to catch the hint. She clutches the tennis racquet to her chest and backs out into the hall, her gaze flitting back to Ellis even as she says, “Okay. I’ll see you later, Felicity. Thanks for the racquet.”
Ellis kicks the door shut with her heel.
I linger by the bed, my own arms folded now and my chest a cage for my heart as it throws itself against my ribs. “ ‘It’s personal’?”
“It is,” Ellis says. She moves in, sitting down in my desk chair and crossing her long legs at the knees. She sits as if she owns the place.
“I don’t want to talk about what happened in the graveyard.”
“We’re going to have to talk about it,” Ellis says. “You were very upset.”
“Sometimes people are upset, Ellis. Let it go.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t. You know that.” She digs a thumbnail into the wood groove of my desk, tracing it toward one corner. “I don’t like this tension between us. I want you to trust me.”
“I trust you. There—are you happy?”
Ellis fixes me with a narrowed gaze. “I mean it. You’re right, I shouldn’t have pressured you the other night. It was a strange request. I know that now.”