Through Her Eyes

by Jennifer Archer

  “Tansy? Why are you up here so early? Are you okay?”

  A spear of pain slices through my neck from sleeping crouched in the chair. Sitting up, I reach to rub my sore muscles and realize my fingertips are numb.

  Mom calls my name again as she pounds on the door.

  “I’m fine, Mom. Just a sec.” I open the drawer on the round table and slip Henry’s journal and the crystal inside. The photo of Papa Dan under the mulberry tree slips from my lap when I stand. My heart pounds as I bend to pick it up. In it, Henry’s timepiece no longer lies on the ground at my grandfather’s feet. I reach inside my pajama pants pocket and pull out the watch, trying to convince myself that I imagined seeing it in the photo before. No other explanation makes sense. Not much of anything makes sense anymore. Quickly I place the photograph and the watch in the table drawer, too.

  Mom’s worried face greets me when I open the door. “You scared me to death. I went to your room and saw your bed hadn’t been slept in. I called and called for you.”

  “I was processing film. I sat down to look at some of the photos and must have fallen asleep.” Hearing the chatter of birds outside, I yawn and ask, “What time is it?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “In the morning?”

  “What did you think?” Mom frowns. “With that dark plastic over the windows I guess you can’t tell night from day.”

  I rub my eyes. “Wow, I really did fall asleep.”

  “You shouldn’t be up working so late.”

  “You do it, Mom. I’ve found you asleep at your desk lots of times.”

  “That’s different. You really scared me.”

  I feel bad for worrying her. “Mom…” Taking her hand, I say, “I’m okay. Really.”

  She hugs me tightly. “Come downstairs. Let’s eat pancakes.”

  “You made pancakes?” I look at her. “I didn’t smell anything burning.”

  Grinning, she swats at me. “I didn’t make them; you’re going to.”

  I manage to smile as I follow her out of the turret, but all I can think about is what happened last night. I don’t know what to believe anymore; it seemed too real to be a dream. The wimp in me wants to pretend it never happened, to put Henry’s treasures back in the cellar and never look at them again. But I’m also curious—too much so to give in to fear. Who was Isabel? It’s beyond weird that I felt as if I was inside her, experiencing everything through her eyes and emotions. I don’t even know what she looks like. Did she really exist in the past? Were she and Papa Dan friends? If only he could tell me. Stepping into the photograph added more questions to my list instead of giving me answers.

  My knees feel like they’re made of pudding as I walk with Mom to the kitchen. “How about I put strawberries and whipped cream on the pancakes the way Papa Dan likes them?” I ask her, swallowing a surge of nerves.

  She wiggles her brows. “Sounds yummy.”

  No matter how hard I try to push it aside, last night’s dream crowds my mind as I make batter and heat up the griddle; deep down, I don’t really believe it was a dream, but I don’t know what else to call it. Despite feeling so unsettled, I manage to put breakfast on the table. But three bites into my stack of pancakes, I notice the strawberries are dark gray. The fruit doesn’t look rotten, just colorless. I’m about to ask Mom how the berries look to her when, beside me, Papa Dan reaches for the syrup bottle. I glimpse a tiny white scar on his right hand in the space between his forefinger and thumb, the same place where Daniel cut his hand. I grasp his wrist gently and ask, “What happened here?” His gaze lifts slowly to mine, and I feel as if a rain shower of needles is cascading over my skin. Barely able to breathe, I ask Mom, “Has he always had this?”

  “The scar? I don’t know.” She sips her coffee. “I’m not sure I’ve ever noticed it before. Why?”

  I shrug. “I was just wondering.”

  I study Papa Dan’s tired green eyes. He looks so old, but in his face, I still glimpse the boy he once was, the one I met last night. He makes a weak noise in his throat, then pulls his wrist from my hand and pushes away from the table, his shoes shuffling against the floor as he leaves the room. I look at his plate, and notice he didn’t take even one bite of his pancakes. He eats less every day. I haven’t heard him whistling this morning.

  The truth I’ve refused to accept sinks slowly to the pit of my stomach and lodges there like a boulder in a pond, heavy and hard and immovable. My grandfather won’t be with me forever. We might not have much more time together. I sit back, remembering that Mom took him to see a doctor in Amarillo last week. How could I have forgotten to ask about their visit? “What did the doctor say?” I ask her now, pushing the words past the lump in my throat. “About Papa Dan?”

  She sets down her coffee mug. “He’s lost a lot of weight since his last checkup in San Francisco. That’s one reason he seems weaker.”

  A tear trickles down my cheek. “He’s quieter, too.”

  “The doctor said that’s not unusual for someone with his condition.”

  “His condition.” I look down at my plate.

  Mom covers my hand on the tabletop. “He’s holding his own, Tansy. He’s hanging in there. And the doctor said he’s not in any pain.”

  No physical pain maybe, but he’s hurting inside—I see it in his eyes. What is it about this house, this place? Memories of Henry? Of Isabel? Why would that disturb him? He was always such a happy man, so upbeat and positive and encouraging to everyone. He looked out for people. After seeing the way he was with Isabel, I realize he was always that way, even when he was young.

  Stabbing a strawberry with my fork, I lift it up in front of Mom. “Do these look funny to you?”

  She shoots me a baffled frown and shrugs. “No. They look as good as they taste.”

  “You don’t think they’re a little dark?”

  “They’re a pretty shade of red, if you ask me. I bet you could sell a picture of these pancakes to Aunt Jemima. It would make a beautiful ad.” Mom picks a strawberry from the bowl and pops it into her mouth.

  My stomach protests as I stare at the piece of fruit. I lower the fork to my plate and squint at the six or seven other gray strawberries topping my pancakes.

  “What’s the matter? Aren’t you hungry?” Mom asks.

  “I’ve sort of lost my appetite,” I tell her. Along with my mind.

  Late in the afternoon, I sit in the turret with Henry’s journal open in my lap. I want to find out if he really did hurt himself on purpose, and if so, why. Maybe then I would understand what’s bothering Papa Dan. Do Henry’s poems hold clues that will lead me to the answers? Clues about his feelings toward Papa Dan? For Isabel? Maybe. But when I read his words, they seem to be written for me rather than Isabel or my grandfather:

  Listen

  Be patient

  Open your eyes

  Don’t be afraid

  Don’t believe lies

  Reach out

  I’ll guide you

  Open your mind

  Listen

  I clutch the journal to my chest, thinking how nice it would be to have someone guide me, to tell me who I can trust and who I can’t. Hailey fooled me. Is Bethyl Ann fooling me, too? And am I stupid for giving Tate a second chance?

  Henry’s right; even if he could answer all my questions, I’m afraid of visiting his memories. And even though I feel connected to him through his words, he frightens me, too. When he looks at Isabel, when he touches her, it’s as if he’s also looking at me…touching me. I don’t know if I have any control over her actions; if Henry tried to kiss me and I wanted to stop him, could I make Isabel say no even if she didn’t want to?

  I know her mind; she’s also a little afraid of him. Isabel isn’t used to guys treating her like a girlfriend. Especially not Henry. She’s never even been kissed. But as much as the change in their relationship freaks her out, she also likes it. Henry may be dangerous, but she still wants to be with him. In that way, Isabel and I are the same. Be
cause no matter how much visiting Henry’s world scares me or how dangerous it might be, I still want to go back and be with him. Most of all, I want to be with Papa Dan. In Henry’s memories, my grandfather is young and strong. He talks to me, teases me, protects me like he used to.

  I close the journal and place it on the round table, confusion clouding my mind. I’m wrong; Isabel is the one my grandfather talks to and teases—it’s Isabel who he worries about. She’s his friend in the past, not me. I only feel as if I’m the one. But maybe that’s enough. At least I get to hear him laugh and see the same twinkle in his eyes I remember, the one that’s no longer there. If I continue to go into the photographs, maybe I’ll learn something about this house and his relationship with Henry that could help me figure out what’s upsetting him now, and I could stop it and give him some peace.

  Though it’s early in the afternoon, the plastic over the windows makes the turret room as dark as midnight. The nightingale must be confused about the time, too; I hear it singing, calling to me. Beneath the glow of the lamp, I study the photograph of the stone bench I passed on the way to the canyon yesterday, and a sense of calm falls over me. I lift the crystal and tilt it to catch the light….

  …Once again I am Isabel, sitting beside Daniel on the hood of Mr. Peterson’s new Packard on a rutted road beside a field of winter wheat. The sun shines bright, as it has since midmorning. The heat quickly melted much of the snow, leaving only small, scattered islands of slush in the dead grass between the field and the car.

  Across the way, on the bench rock beneath the grove of cottonwoods, Henry plays his violin while, beside me, Daniel plays his harmonica. They’ve reached a truce of some sort; Isabel is relieved about that. Henry hasn’t snapped at Daniel or made any snide remarks all day. She senses that it’s a fragile reprieve, since a weak current of tension vibrates just beneath the surface of their cordial words.

  Henry’s deft hands coax a slow, sad melody from the violin cradled between his shoulder and chin. In harmony, Daniel’s harmonica emits a mournful wail like the whistle of a lonesome train. When the song ends, Daniel lowers the instrument from his mouth, and Henry props the violin beside him. Reclining on the rock, legs crossed at the ankles, he clasps his hands behind his head.

  “That was beautiful,” Isabel tells them.

  “Let’s play another one before I have to go,” Daniel says. “My parents’ll have my hide for bein’ gone all day. I’ll have to do double chores tomorrow after church, and then I’ll be up all night with my studies.”

  “Why did you have to remind me?” Isabel groans. “I have a history assignment due Monday.”

  Henry blows out a noisy breath and sits up. “Would you two forget about school for a change? Ditch on Monday. Come out here with me instead.”

  Although it’s a bad idea, Isabel is glad he invited Daniel, too. She hopes Henry is past his silly jealousy, that he’ll treat Daniel as he used to, like the good friend he is.

  Daniel drops the harmonica into his pocket, lifts his cap, and scratches his head. “I don’t know. I’m strugglin’ with mathematics as it is. Besides, if my parents found out—”

  “They’d have your hide?” Henry scoffs. “Fine. Bell and I will have fun without you.”

  Daniel tenses, and Isabel sighs, frustrated by the return of Henry’s spiteful attitude. But her annoyance scatters like smoke in the wind when Henry’s attention focuses on her. His sleepy, dark gaze makes her forgive him, makes her forget they aren’t alone.

  “Isn’t that right, Bell?” Henry asks quietly.

  Something in his eyes, in the deep, smooth tone of his voice unsettles and excites me as much as it does Isabel. She wonders when her feelings for him shifted from simple friendship to something more complex while I wonder how I can suddenly be so drawn to Henry despite the rude, dismissive way he treats my grandfather.

  “She’s at the top of our class,” Daniel says, tugging his cap back over his eyes. “She wouldn’t play hooky, would you, Isabel?”

  “You’re right, I couldn’t,” she says, but the quirk of Henry’s mouth assures that he doesn’t believe her any more than she believes herself. If Isabel can find a way to do so without her parents finding out, she’ll spend Monday with Henry. He knows that’s true, and so does she.

  Henry picks up his violin and begins to play a jig. The music slowly softens Daniel’s rigid brow. Grinning, he jumps off the car, grabs both of Isabel’s hands, and pulls her off, too. She shrieks as they twirl around in a dizzying spin that sends Daniel’s cap flying off his head. I love the strength I feel in Daniel’s hands, the sound of his laughter, the light I see in his pale green eyes. Surprise ripples through me. His eyes are green! They’re as green as spring grass. And the hair falling across Daniel’s forehead is auburn while Henry’s is a honeyed shade of blond, his narrowed eyes as blue as the sky. All around us color blooms—the field becomes yellow, the rocks russet red, the earth a dark shade of brown. Only Isabel’s clothes remain gray—or are they mine?

  I think of the gray strawberries I ate this morning when I was another girl in another world, and an intriguing possibility sifts through me. If I don’t go back, will Isabel’s clothes change color, too? Turn red or yellow or tangerine? I have the strongest feeling that if I were to stay in Henry’s world, my other life would become the drab illusion and this one my reality. I would become Isabel, not just listen and watch from inside her. And I would finally fit in, belong somewhere completely for the very first time. Best of all, I’d have decades ahead with my grandfather. No more standing back, helpless, watching him weaken and fade away.

  As Daniel and Isabel twirl, I look across to the bench rock, dizzy and giddy. Henry’s beckoning gaze wraps around me. It seems to whisper, You can feel like this forever.

  13

  Scents of perfume and chalk, sweat and stale cigarette smoke mingle in the stuffy air of my first-period class. Mom dropped me off a few minutes ago, and I noticed that every person in the school parking lot wore black, gray, and white. “Someone must have died,” I said, looking back at Mom and thinking how pretty her skin looked against the emerald green of her blouse.

  She frowned and asked, “What makes you think that?”

  Panic knocked the air from my lungs when I realized the color in everyone’s clothing had faded; everyone’s except Mom’s, that is. At least that’s how it looked to me. Then Bethyl Ann tapped on the van window, and I could breathe again. She wore a hot pink T-shirt with the words Shakespeare Is My Homeboy on the front. A pale yellow barrette held back one side of her stringy brown hair.

  Feeling detached from everyone around me, I zero in now on that pink shirt and yellow barrette as I cross to the front-row desk beside her. Bethyl Ann is bent over a notebook scribbling madly. “Hey,” I say, slipping into my seat.

  She glances up. “Sorry. No time to talk. I had an epiphany for my story a second ago.” She lowers her head and starts writing again.

  Everyone is extra rowdy, since Miss Petra is out in the hall. How can they act as if nothing’s different? Can’t they see that the world is washing out around them? My sense of detachment intensifies. Fighting back my anxiety, I unzip my backpack on the floor at my feet while glancing around the room, hoping to see someone in color besides Bethyl Ann. Sure enough, I notice a splash of red in the very back—Tate’s shirt. He lifts his hand in a semi-wave. I nod and smile a little, relieved that he hasn’t transformed again to his prior stuck-up self now that we’re back in school.

  The bell rings. Miss Petra enters the room in a bright blue blouse and instructs us to get out our books. She shuffles through her satchel and pulls out a stack of papers and a paperback novel.

  I’m taking my textbook and a spiral notebook from my backpack when Shanna strolls in nonchalantly, as if she isn’t late. Ignoring the scolding look Miss Petra sends her, she walks to her desk, which is directly behind me, right next to Alison and Rooster Boy Jon Jenks.

  “Quiet down, people,” Miss Petra says as she
walks around to the front of her desk and perches at the edge of it, the paperback book in her hand. Opening the cover, she says, “We’re going to begin reading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath for a few minutes each day.”

  I like Miss Petra. She makes English interesting, and she’s my favorite teacher here. As she begins to read aloud, I stare at the sky blue threads woven through her blouse as if they might hold me together. Fear spirals up from my stomach to my throat. I have no idea why Miss Petra, Bethyl Ann, and Tate are the only people at school that I see in color, but I’m desperate not to lose sight of any of them; I can’t let them fade away, too. If I do, I’m afraid I’ll also lose myself. Completely and permanently.

  “Hey, Zombie Girl.”

  The hiss behind me is too quiet to reach Miss Petra’s ears. Rooster Boy. Either Shanna or Alison muffles a laugh as a tiny white tidbit of paper sails past my head. When a bit of paper strikes Bethyl Ann’s ear, she looks over her shoulder, squints, and flares her nostrils. Another wad lands in her hair, and she lifts her middle finger and scratches the back of her head with it, eliciting snickers from everyone behind us.

  I slink lower in my chair, hardly noticing the ping ping ping of paper balls against my head, neck, and back. I concentrate instead on the lilting rhythm of Miss Petra’s soothing voice, and soon my thoughts drift to Henry, Daniel, and Isabel. I wonder what they’re doing today. Crazy, I know. Henry is dead. Daniel is home with Mom, an old man in his eighties. If Isabel ever really existed, she’s either dead or really old, too. Still, I can’t stop thinking about the plans Henry made for the three of us—us—as if I’m one of them. That’s another thing that scares me; after last night, I’m not sure where Isabel stops and I start.