Through Her Eyes

by Jennifer Archer

  I pat his hand. “Go with Mom,” I say to him. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Mom glances at me. “Aren’t you coming in?”

  “I want to look around outside first.”

  Nodding, she says, “Okay. But don’t wander off too far. The movers should be here soon, and I’ll need your help getting organized.” She shields her eyes with one hand and tilts her face up toward the sky. “You may get wet. Looks like it’s about to rain.”

  When I reach the bottom step, she calls my name, and I turn around.

  A groove dents the space between her brows. “Give Cedar Canyon a chance,” she says. “If you like it, I promise we’ll stay here until you graduate from high school.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll write fast.” Her face softens. “And I’ll set the next book back in San Francisco.”

  “And stay there until I graduate?”

  Her smile fans tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. “You drive a hard bargain, but you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  And I’m holding her to it. I can’t wait to call Hailey and tell her I’ll be home soon. I’m going to hate Cedar Canyon. I’ve already made up my mind.

  2

  Rain sprinkles down. I run around to the side of the house and duck beneath the mulberry tree. Becoming a human lightning rod doesn’t interest me, but I can’t resist the canopied branches. The knot in my chest loosens as I wipe dampness from my cheeks and listen to the soothing patter of raindrops on the leaves above. I stare at the house and wish that I was back in my tiny San Francisco bedroom, curled up on my bed, surrounded by every stuffed animal I’ve saved through the years. I know every scratch and dent on those four bedroom walls, every floor creak, the slant of the morning sun through the window, each dust mote dancing in that hazy beam.

  Light suddenly spills from the first-floor windows of our new house. Minutes later, the second story glows, too. Mom appears at a window—a city slicker in an old Victorian house on the West Texas prairie. Leave it to her to set such a scene. I don’t think she sees me, but I’m sure she’s thinking about me. She’s wondering if she should call me in out of the weather. She’s worrying that I’m too upset by this move. And she’s feeling guilty, which explains the deal she just made.

  Staying here for two years so that I can graduate would be a huge step for Mom to take. She seeks out nightmares, but she runs from memories. She’s been running my whole life, ever since Dad died. That’s really why we move all the time. Mom has convinced herself that it’s because she needs to be in her story’s location in order to write a good book, but I know better; Papa Dan helped me figure it out. He said that sometimes facing what might have been is harder than living what is. Mom’s trying to escape reminders of the past, of what might have been. She’s looking for a place where the memories won’t find her. Crazy, right? But Papa Dan also told me that hearts are seldom rational.

  The wind dies and the August rain shower stops as quickly as it started. I push away from the tree trunk and step out from under the dripping leaves. I walk around to the back of the house, where I find a faded red barn so rickety that I wouldn’t be surprised if it fell to the ground if I touch it. Only one other house is visible in any direction, and I’m guessing it would take a good ten minutes to reach it on foot. With no hills, trees, or anything else to block the view, I can see a lot of details about the place. The farmhouse is neat, normal, and white. The roof is red. I’m sure it fits right in with the rest of conservative Cedar Canyon, while our radical house with its turret, dingy peeling primer, and dull-eyed windows seems as out-of-place here as my family does.

  An old-fashioned windmill sits off in the distance beyond the barn. It towers over the dead grass like a giant, fat-stemmed metal flower. The dark gray petals rotate slowly in the wind, moaning with each turn, complaining like Papa Dan does when his joints ache.

  Halfway to the barn, my heel hits something solid, and I’m thrown off balance. Steadying myself, I look down and see a wooden door in the ground. The entrance to hell, I think. Fitting, since our house could easily serve as the reception area. I kneel, grasp the damp, rusty handle, and pull. The door rasps and lifts an inch. I tug harder and it swings wide, revealing stairs that drop into a pitch-black hole. The second step has a gap in it, leaving only a shoe-width piece of board on which to step. I’ve never been inside a cellar and don’t have a clue what I might find. Possibly some great material for Mom’s research.

  Leaving the door open, I run to the van, dig through the boxes packed in back, and find my camera and a flashlight. Then I hurry back to the cellar, switch on the flashlight, and point the beam into the darkness below. Taking cautious steps, I start down the stairs.

  The cellar is about half the size of my bedroom in San Francisco. It could hold a twin-size bed and maybe a chair, but not much else. When I reach the bottom step, I set my camera bag on the dirt floor and sweep the flashlight beam across the cement walls, down at the floor, then up at the ceiling. Cobwebs stretch from corner to corner. Something makes a scratching noise beneath the steps and I jump, the transfer of my weight causing the board beneath my flip-flops to shift. I take a breath, step down, and crouch to lift the loose plank, surprised to find a container the size of a jewelry box beneath it.

  Sitting on the stairs, I balance the flashlight on the step beside me and pull the box onto my lap. I aim the beam so that I can see every nick and scratch on the rose-tinted wood. Beneath the lid, I find a worn leather book, a gold pocket watch, and a tear-shaped crystal pendant. A tiny wire loop connects to the top of the crystal. I search the box for a necklace chain but don’t find one. The crystal pendant feels cool and smooth as I hold it up and twist it left to right. The cut glass catches the light, throws it at the opposite wall, scattering colored dots across the cement.

  Thunder rumbles quietly outside the cellar as I remove the pocket watch from the box. Etched into the gold on back are the words To Henry on your 17th birthday. From Mother and Father. 1939. One push of a tiny button opens the cover, revealing the timepiece inside. The hands have stopped at 12:22. Placing the watch on the step beside the crystal, I lift the book from the box, open it, touch pages yellowed at the edges. I position the flashlight so that I can read the poem scribbled in black ink on the first page, the tiny cursive letters sharp and tight—a guy’s handwriting.

  Down in the cellar, under a stair

  Covered with cobwebs

  Nobody cares

  Withered and pale, forgotten it seems

  That’s where I hide them,

  Yesterday’s dreams.

  Shake out the memories, blow off the dust

  Smooth out the wrinkles

  Rub off the rust

  Remember the times they sparkled so bright

  Then put them away

  Far out of sight

  Down in the cellar, under a stair

  Covered with cobwebs

  Nobody cares

  Withered and pale, forgotten it seems

  That’s where I hide them,

  Yesterday’s dreams.

  “Tansy!”

  Startled by Mom’s shout, I drop the journal and push to my feet. “I’m here!” I hurry up the stairs, careful of the rotting boards, and poke my head through the cellar’s entrance.

  She stands at the door of a screened-in porch at the back of the house. “Some neighbors just dropped by. Come say hello.”

  “I’ll be right there!”

  Avoiding the narrow second stair and the open space where I removed the bottom plank, I ease back down into the cellar and place the journal and other treasures inside my camera bag. I return the box to its nook and lay the board atop it. Climbing out, I lower the door.

  The poem plays through my mind like a familiar song, and I forget to be nervous about entering the house for the first time as I hurry across the yard toward the back porch. I wish I didn’t have to meet the neighbors so soon, though. I didn’t see them walking from their hous
e when I went to the van to get the flashlight; they must’ve driven over while I was in the cellar. They sure didn’t waste any time coming over to check us out.

  “Eloise told us you write books, Miz Piper.”

  “That’s right,” Mom answers the man. “Horror novels. I write under the pseudonym Millicent Moon. And please, call me Millie. Everyone does.”

  I enter the living room in time to see the old man’s gap-tooth grin disappear. “You mean like those chain-saw movies?” His upper lip curls over that rancid possibility. He glances at the short, round woman beside him, but she just keeps staring at Mom and chewing her gum, her face a wrinkled blank page.

  Mom laughs. “I don’t think I’ve used a chain saw in any of my books yet. I like to dream up my own unique methods of dismemberment.” When she motions me over, I walk around a couch with a flowery sheet draped over it and stop beside her. “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Tansy,” Mom says to the couple. “Tansy, this is Mr. and Mrs. Quattlebaum. They live in the farmhouse across the way.”

  “Howdy-do, young lady.” The old man tugs the brim of his John Deere hat.

  “Hi,” I murmur.

  “We was driving back from town and thought we’d stop by. Already said ‘hello’ to your grandpa. I remember him from when we was kids. He was five or so years ahead of me in school, though.” Mr. Quattlebaum shifts back to Mom. “Guess y’all don’t mind the rumors about the house, seeing as how you write scary books and all.”

  “Rumors?” Mom asks.

  “The house is haunted.” The farmer’s voice drops. “So they say. Didn’t Mr. Piper tell you?”

  “No.” Mom leans forward, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Really?”

  “Eloise don’t usually tell newcomers about the ghost.” Mr. Quattlebaum pauses to scratch the beard stubble on his chin. “News has a way of gettin’ around, though. Been six years since she’s found somebody to rent the place. Before that, nobody ever stayed long.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Did something happen?”

  “Imagination got the best of ’em, I’d guess,” he says. “Back in the twenties, a rich rancher name of William Peterson built the house. When his son was a teenager, he killed hisself. Jumped off the old wagon bridge into the canyon that borders this property. His folks left town afterward. Couldn’t sell the house, though.” He pauses, then adds, “Rumor has it the boy’s ghost still hangs around here.”

  A fluttery feeling fills my chest. Touching the camera case hanging from the strap over my shoulder, I feel the sharp edge of the journal inside and think of the poem scribbled onto an old yellowed page.

  “Oh, I hope the ghost shows up,” Mom says, scanning the room. “I’ve written about restless spirits, but I’ve never actually met one. Except Tansy, that is.” She laughs at her own joke, and I roll my eyes. She’s the restless one, not me.

  Somewhere upstairs, Papa Dan begins whistling shrill and fast. Mr. and Mrs. Quattlebaum look up at the ceiling. His brows tug together. She chews faster.

  “Mr. Piper might recall the tragedy,” Mr. Quattlebaum says. “He would have been close to the Peterson boy’s age.”

  “What was the boy’s name?” I ask.

  “I think it was Herman,” says Mr. Quattlebaum. “Isn’t that right, Myra?”

  The old woman stops chewing, her puckered lips twitching as she meets my gaze. “His name was Henry,” she says in a raspy voice. “Henry Peterson.”

  3

  Soon after the Quattlebaums leave in their big, noisy truck, the moving van arrives.

  “Which is my bedroom?” I ask Mom. She’ll be preoccupied with the movers for a while, and I’ll have time to find a hiding place for my camera bag. I can’t wait to take another look at Henry Peterson’s things.

  “Papa Dan’s is the last one on the second floor,” she says. “Take one of the others.”

  I choose the smallest room. It’s painted a pale blue and doesn’t have any furniture, which is good; I’d rather use my own dresser and sleep in my own bed. A window overlooks the backyard, and another window shows the huge mulberry tree in the side yard and the Quattlebaums’ farmhouse off in the distance.

  I’m heading for the closet when I hear a loud thump at the window and turn to look. Nothing is there, but I get the weirdest feeling that I’m being watched. Get a grip, I tell myself. A gust of wind probably made a limb on the tree scrape against the pane. I study the rain-glossed green leaves on the branches a moment, think how pretty they are, and unzip my camera bag. Reaching inside, I pull out my camera. I left color film in it the last time I used it, and for the first time in a long while, I have the urge to capture a scene.

  I look through the viewfinder, my breath catching when I see a little gray bird perched on the window ledge. I’m sure it wasn’t there before, but now it faces the window, as if it’s staring straight at me. “Hey, there,” I murmur. “Where did you come from?” Stooping and leaning closer, I adjust the lens for a clearer view, but something isn’t right. The windowsill should be blue, but it looks as gray as the bird. Standing, I turn around, and still peering through the viewfinder, scan the room; everything within the frame looks gray and dreary. The walls. The hardwood floor. The light. The lens must be dirty. When I glance to the window again, the bird is gone.

  Disappointed, I return the camera to the bag, then pull out Henry’s pocket watch. I pop the latch, reset the time, and wind it, listening to it tick. I wish I could sit down right this minute and flip through the journal. I’m dying to learn more about Henry, but I don’t want Mom to find me reading his poems. I’m not going to tell her about his things. He must’ve hid everything for a reason, and I feel a responsibility to respect his privacy.

  After putting the watch in the bag again, I place the bag on the highest shelf in the closet, then head down to the kitchen. The room could use a major remodel. The linoleum floor is yellowed and scuffed, with faded black diamonds in the design. The off-white painted cabinets are chipped and dull. At least it’s clean, I think, noting that the movers have already stacked boxes against the walls and on top of an old gray Formica table.

  Through the window over the sink, I see two men unloading a mattress from the moving truck parked behind our van in the driveway. They carry it across the yard toward the front porch as I start opening boxes. I unwrap plates and bowls and glasses, my thoughts on Henry. Did he like living in Cedar Canyon? Did he have a best friend? A girlfriend? What were the dreams he mentioned in his poem? Why did he end his life?

  Mom pushes through the door. “Wow, Tansy. You’re already hard at it.” She sets the box she’s carrying on a chair. “Take a break. It’s been a long two days in the car. After the movers finish up, let’s go get something to eat. We can start fresh in the morning.”

  “I’d rather keep working and get it over with.” I climb up a stepladder I found in the pantry and place a jar on the top shelf.

  “You feeling okay?”

  “I wish you’d stop asking me that.”

  Silence stretches. She sighs. “I know moving is hard on you, Tansy, but it’s how I work. I have to support the three of us, and that means writing the best books I can.”

  “I’m sick of moving,” I blurt out, ignoring her attempts to smooth things over. I hear my grandfather mumbling and glance over my shoulder to see him wander into the kitchen, scanning the floor as if looking for something. “He’s sick of moving, too. Look at him, he’s upset. Aren’t you tired of moving all the time, Papa Dan?”

  “Tansy…” Mom lowers her voice. “You can’t speak for your grandfather.”

  Papa Dan turns and retraces his steps, leaving Mom and me alone in the kitchen again. I shake my head, hating the tears that burn the backs of my eyes. “And you can speak for him? I don’t think so. While you’re all caught up in writing your stories, he and I are together. I know him a hundred times better than you do.”

  Sounding exasperated, she says, “We raised you together. I think I know the man.”

 
“Okay, then tell me what he misses most about Dad.”

  Mom stares at me like she’s shocked to discover that a demon has possessed her silent, okay-whatever-you-say-I’m-a-doormat daughter. “I don’t know, Tansy.” Her voice is as soft and ragged as the map in our van’s glove box. “What does he miss most about your father?”

  “Everything.” I bite my lip to keep the tears from falling. I miss everything about my dad, too, as crazy as that sounds. Ever since Papa Dan got sick, I think about Dad all the time. How could I miss someone I never knew? I don’t even want to imagine how it feels to lose someone I do know.

  I face the cabinets again so I don’t have to look at Mom’s sad expression, and movement outside the window over the sink snags my attention. Papa Dan passes by with his head down. Mom must see him, too, because she says, “I’d better go round up your grandfather before he walks all the way into town.”

  Remembering the cellar, I tell her about it. “The door’s pretty heavy,” I mutter, “but he might be able to open it if he tries hard enough.”