Through Her Eyes

by Jennifer Archer

Henry jerks his hand away and tugs his sleeve down as Isabel lifts her gaze to his. She grasps for a reason other than the obvious to explain what she saw. But though his cuff covers the physical evidence, he can’t hide the truth—or the pain—in his eyes.

  Henry’s mouth curves up at one corner. He lifts his chin, defiant. “Will you come to the house tonight, Bell?”

  “Oh, Henry…” She hesitates, then quietly concedes. “I will, if you’ll meet me at the dance. Afterward, I’ll go home then slip across to your house after Mama and Papa go to bed.”

  Alarm shoots through my thoughts. I want to tell her not to do it, but would she hear? She saw his wrist; she knows that he’s disturbed, that his mind isn’t right. She senses that his obsession with her is spiraling out of control. But Isabel’s thoughts tell me that she isn’t worried about herself, only Henry. She hopes if she goes to him, maybe then he’ll tell her what troubles him so. Maybe then she can help him.

  “All right, I’ll go to that silly dance,” Henry says. “But only if you’ll let me take you. Have Daniel drive you over.”

  “Mama and Papa might see his car at your house.”

  “Then tell Daniel to bring you here to the bridge. I’ll be waiting with Father’s car.”

  Don’t, Isabel, I whisper silently. Why won’t Henry just ride in Daniel’s car with the rest of you? Why is it so important to him that the two of you go alone? But if my warning gets through to her, she ignores it. Isabel presses her lips together, then looks away from Henry. “Daniel won’t want to do it,” she says.

  “Convince him.” Henry leans closer to kiss her again, but before their lips touch, he tenses and steps back, muttering, “Speak of the devil.”

  Isabel turns to see Daniel approaching, hands jammed into his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched, his face pale and tight. There’s a strange look in his eyes. Suspicion, perhaps. Possibly disapproval. Worry, for certain.

  Worry for her.

  I jerk awake and know immediately I overslept. I want to stay in bed all day, my head tucked under the pillow to shut out the light. I’m so tired, I feel as if I haven’t slept at all. Was it a dream? Or did I step into a memory last night? Will those questions ever be answered? I remember sitting in the turret, holding the crystal and photograph, the shimmer of light that grew and enveloped me. As before, it was all so real. So confusing.

  Maybe I should roll onto my side, pull the covers over my eyes. I doubt Mom will notice if I don’t get up and go to school. She’s at the point in her book where she’s as obsessed with the story as I am with Henry; in a way, she’s not even here. She’s as lost to me as Papa Dan is.

  I stare up at the ceiling. Papa Dan always understood me. Mom tries, but my grandfather just seemed to know what I was feeling: my loneliness whenever we moved; how hard it is to fit into a new place. Having my grandfather with me made facing everything so much easier. Without him, I feel so lost and scared. So alone.

  You’re all I have. Without you, I’m alone.

  The same words Henry spoke to Bell. Or did he speak them to me? Are we the same person? Was I Isabel in another life? Another time? She loves Henry, but is she wary of him in spite of her love? Or is that distrust only mine? I know one thing for sure: Whatever it is that haunts Henry’s eyes is deeper than loneliness. More desperate. Doesn’t Isabel see that, too? At first, I knew how to separate our feelings, our thoughts. I knew which were mine alone and which were hers. They aren’t so easy to tell apart anymore. If I became Isabel and didn’t come back here, could I save her from Henry’s obsession? Could I save myself?

  Uncertainty grips me as tightly as Henry’s hands gripped Isabel when they stood on the bridge overlooking the canyon. As distrustful as I am of him, I understand his need for Bell. He was as isolated as I am out here at this house, in town, at school, in a crowd of people, most of whom didn’t care to know him at all. As much as I’m starting to like Tate, I don’t identify with him like I do with Henry. With each new poem of Henry’s that I read, I’m more certain than ever that he knows my mind, as impossible as that sounds. Decades separate us, but he still knows me. Henry and I are the same in so many ways. We’ve never belonged anywhere; we’ve always been outsiders. Maybe we need each other, too.

  I think of the red scars on his wrist and feel a twist of fear for both Henry and Bell. Maybe I could save them both.

  The thought jolts me; I’m afraid of what it means. Henry’s world is becoming too real to me, with color, movement, and sound. While this world, the real one…I scan my room. Last night, before I closed my eyes, the walls were pale blue. Now they’re white.

  I sit up, hug myself, and feel the muscles in my upper arms trembling. Not here, too, I think. Not at home, my only safe place. Other than the strawberries at breakfast day before yesterday, everything has stayed in color here. It’s only at school that I see things in black-and-white.

  Schizophrenia. The word escapes that hidden place in my mind where I locked it away the last time it taunted me. I try to push it back, but it’s grown too strong; it glares at me, huge and hideous, refusing to be ignored anymore. Papa Dan would tell me to face it, find out what it means. He used to say that understanding a problem helps you conquer your fear of it. I want to believe that, but as much as I trust Papa Dan, I’m not so sure it’s always true. There’s no cure for insanity, is there? Maybe I’ll go to the school library, look up the disease, see if the symptoms match what I’m experiencing. But if they do, how will that make me feel any better?

  Drawing my knees to my chest beneath the covers, I whisper, “I’m okay…I’m okay.” There must be another reason that will explain what’s happening to me. One that makes sense. One that doesn’t include ghosts, time warps, or anything else that doesn’t exist. One that won’t prove I’m going nuts. All I have to do is talk to someone. Take a chance again. I consider telling Mom, but I know I’d end up in a doctor’s office in no time flat, and I’m not ready for that. Tate? Not a good idea, either. Our friendship still feels too new and fragile for me to start dumping my problems on him. I’m afraid of what he’ll think, and I don’t want to scare him away. That leaves Bethyl Ann. Despite her horrible social skills, she’s megasmart in every other way. Plus, other than Mom, I trust her more than anyone else, and she wouldn’t judge me. As much as she loves horror novels, she’d probably be psyched about the possibility that her one and only friend might be going insane.

  I climb out of bed and dress, then go up to the turret, where I take the crystal and put it into my backpack. This afternoon, I’ll shop for a chain so I can wear the pendant around my neck like Bell did. Somehow having it close makes me feel safer, as weird as that is.

  I find Mom on the front porch with Papa Dan. He’s in the swing, and she’s in a patio chair, tapping away on her laptop. She says I can take the van to school this morning; she and Papa Dan aren’t going anywhere today. I go back inside for the keys, then tell Mom good-bye and cross to my grandfather, where he sits in the creaking swing, whistling quietly as he stares into the distance. A chill scatters across my skin when I recognize the slow, sad tune. It’s the same one he and Henry played for Bell a long time ago, the same one the nightingale sings each night outside my window. Or am I imagining that, too?

  Papa Dan’s round glasses magnify his eyes. I kiss his cheek and ask, “Did you sleep better last night?” He pats my arm—a good sign that he’s more alert this morning. “I hope you have a good day,” I tell him. “I love you, Papa Dan. Good-bye.”

  “’Bye,” he echoes in a weak voice as I start down the steps.

  In the van, I sit for a minute and watch Papa Dan through the windshield. Mom has her head down, concentrating on her work; she doesn’t notice that I haven’t left. My grandfather has become a shadow of the big, strong man that I once knew—a shadow of the man he was only a month ago.

  My eyes burn as I finally back out of the driveway. The house towers in front of me—I study it, from the turret all the way down to the bottom porch step. Even with
the fresh white paint and the new black shutters the Dilworth brothers put on, it seems to brood, as if the secrets it shelters have infected every plank of wood, each pane of glass.

  The final bell rings as I pull into a parking space at Cedar Canyon High. I run to the building and open the door to a monochrome movie. I break out in a cold sweat, shivering uncontrollably. They’re fading…everyone; am I fading, too? Now I understand why I need the crystal near me. Reality is becoming a bad dream and I feel trapped inside it; that tiny teardrop in my backpack might be my only escape. Or is it a crystal bridge into another sort of nightmare? I imagine it shimmering inside my pack and feel an overwhelming urge to take it out.

  A wave of dizziness washes over me, my vision narrows, and suddenly I’m sure I’m drowning. Planting a hand against the wall, I dip my chin to my chest and try to breathe. Someone touches my shoulder, but I don’t look up. “Go away,” I choke out. “I’m okay.” I don’t want anyone to see me like this. I need to get a grip.

  Keeping my head down, I manage to draw several deep breaths of air, and when I feel steadier I walk down the hallway toward my homeroom. As I approach the girls’ restroom, I feel strangely pulled to go inside, to take out the crystal and feel its weight in my hand. I push on past, terrified of the irresistible need to give in to the urge.

  Mrs. Tilby faces the blackboard at the front of the class. I slip in without her noticing and take my place next to Beer-for-Breakfast Shanna, across from Rooster Boy. And Tate. I can’t look at him. What if he asked me something? How would I answer him? I don’t trust my voice to work.

  Taking another deep breath, I glance up, and find him squinting at me with a worried expression on his face. He mouths, You okay? I nod and dart my gaze away. I’m going to ruin everything with him. I don’t even know why I care. Isn’t Henry the one I want to be with now? Or is that Isabel thinking through me? Ohmygod, I can’t think straight. I don’t know what I want anymore. I don’t even know who I am.

  I’m reaching into my backpack for a book, and my fingers brush across the smooth crystal. A tingle shoots up my arm. Startled, I jerk my hand back. The glass, usually so cool, was warm—almost hot. I fumble for the book, find it, pull it out, then open the cover and stare down at the page. More than anything, I want to get out of here, go to the restroom, escape.

  A few minutes later, the first-period bell rings. I gather the book and my backpack, push away from the table, and hurry toward the door, where I slam, face-first, into Tate’s back. The book falls from my hand and smacks the floor between our feet.

  “Whoa,” Tate says with a sharp laugh, turning to face me. He backs up and searches my eyes. “You in a hurry to get somewhere?”

  I stare up into his face, so like Henry’s. Look at me like he does, I think. Give me a reason to want to stay here, to hang onto my sanity. But I see a hesitance in Tate’s eyes that I’ve never seen in Henry’s. And I realize at once that, for some reason, Tate is as unsure of me as I am of him, as afraid to get too close.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and stoop at the same time he does to grab the book. All I can think about is the crystal, the envelope of photographs in my backpack, an empty stall in the girls’ restroom three doors down. I am in a hurry, Tate. I’m in a hurry to get to Bell’s world, where I can breathe again. I can almost feel Henry’s fingertips digging into the flesh of my arm and see the intense blue shine of his eyes. Should I be running away from him instead? Is he causing everything here at school to fade? Trying to frighten me away from here? Trying to draw me back to him? If so, it’s working. But if I go, what else will fade when I return? If I return. What if Henry won’t let me?

  I look up into Tate’s eyes again. They’re blue, not gray. Vivid and bright. A lifeline. I don’t look away.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I lie, but I can’t stop trembling.

  He lifts my book from the floor and hands it to me. We both stand. Tate’s gaze flicks away, then back to me, wary. “You seem—I don’t know. Like you’re mad at me or something.”

  “I’m just having a weird morning.” Like you wouldn’t believe.

  “Why did you tell me to go away before class?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You did. Out in the hall. You looked like you were freaking out.”

  I’m mortified to realize that he was the person who touched my shoulder. “Sorry about that. I sort of had a bad night.”

  Tate laughs a little. “All those creaks in the Peterson house kept you up, huh?” When I don’t respond, he adds, “I heard that a lot of their old stuff is still stored out there.”

  “Yeah, they left some things,” I answer, still trying to calm down.

  He tilts his head. “You find anything interesting?”

  Thinking of Henry’s treasures, I shrug. “Just an old velvet chair and a table I put in my darkroom.”

  “You have your own darkroom?”

  I nod. “In the turret.”

  “Sweet.” He hesitates, then says, “I was wondering…you want to have lunch with me today?”

  I do want to go to lunch with Tate, almost more than anything. Almost. I’m more anxious to talk to Bethyl Ann, to tell her what’s been happening to me ever since I moved here. Now that I’ve made the decision to confide in her, unloading the two-ton weight I’ve been carrying around on my own for so long feels too urgent to postpone, like I’ll get crushed if I put it off even one more day. “I have something I have to do at lunch,” I say.

  Tate’s eyes shift past me. “Okay. No big deal.” I see him shutting down, shutting me out. He calls to a guy down the hall to “wait up,” then mutters to me, “See ya later,” and takes off like he can’t get away from me fast enough.

  Stupid, Tansy. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why didn’t I say I’d like to go to lunch with him another time? Thank him for asking? Something to let him know I wasn’t just brushing him off? I watch Tate weave through the people in the hallway, wishing I had the nerve to catch up to him, to explain, to walk with him to our English class. But I can’t bring myself to do it. So as kids rush by me in the hall, I stand alone, wanting more than anything to duck into the restroom, close myself in a stall, and take a trip into Henry’s world on the crystal’s luminous beam.

  15

  At noon, Bethyl Ann and I sit on the stadium bleachers eating our sack lunches while Hamlet pants at our feet. He waits patiently for our crumbs to fall, his tail thumping out a spastic rhythm on the ground. I drop a few on purpose while mentally rehearsing the best way to tell Bethyl Ann that I have the hots for a guy who’s been dead for more than seventy years. I don’t know why I’m so antsy. She’ll probably just spout off dialogue from a Shakespeare play that won’t make any sense at all.

  “Did you see Jade Malloy in the hall this morning before homeroom?” Bethyl Ann asks. When I shake my head, she says, “What a doofus. She had a Britney Spears moment and shaved off all her hair. Mama says she does outrageous things to get attention.”

  “Beth…” Unable to concentrate on her chatter, I fold my sack and slant her a look. “Do you believe in supernatural stuff?”

  “Like what, for instance?” She pulls a toothpick from the brown paper bag and goes to work on a chunk of apple that’s stuck in her braces.

  I take a sip of my soft drink, trying to appear nonchalant. “Hauntings…time travel…possession. Stuff like that.”

  “Ohmygosh!” Bethyl Ann lowers the toothpick. The bleachers squeak as she bounces up and down. “Your house is haunted. I knew it! It’s Henry Peterson, isn’t it?”

  “Shhh.” I look around. “This has to be our secret, okay? You have to promise. I don’t want anyone else knowing I even brought this up.”

  She nods enthusiastically. “Mum’s the word. The natives shall remain clueless. Now tell me everything! Don’t leave out one tiny iota. Do you think the house has a place memory, or do you think it’s an intelligent haunting?”

  Wow. She’s not only a Shakespeare geek, she�
�s a ghost geek, too. “What’s the difference?” I ask.

  “Don’t you watch Psychic Detectives? Or the Syfy channel or—”

  “No. I don’t watch any of that.”

  “A place memory is like a tape playing the same thing over and over again. The ghosts are unaware of you,” she explains. “But if it’s an intelligent haunting, the ghosts are trying to contact you for some reason.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I’m not sure I even believe in ghosts.”

  “But you said—”

  “It’s confusing.” Hamlet nudges my hand until I pat his cold nose. “Things have happened I can’t explain.”

  “Like what?” She leans toward me and whispers, “I’ll keep it a secret, I promise.”

  Focusing on Bethyl Ann’s face, I take the plunge. “I see things sometimes,” I say quickly. “And hear things. Things that my mom doesn’t see or hear.”

  “Oh. My. Gosh.” Her eyes widen more and more with each word. “What about now?” she whispers, glancing around. “I mean, do you see something right this minute?”

  I shake my head. “It usually only happens when I’m looking through the camera viewfinder.” I take a deep breath to steady the fluttery feeling inside me. “On the mornings I’m not at school, I hear a bell over at the Quattlebaums’ farm at eight fifteen, and when I look out the window I see a man shoveling snow. A big black dog runs up to him. The same thing happens every time.”

  “But it’s too warm for snow.”

  “Exactly. And the Quattlebaums don’t have a dog.”

  “Wow.” She puts the baggie of apple slices into her sack. “That’s trippy.”

  “I know. At first, I thought I must be dreaming, but one night I woke up and—” I hesitate. Can I trust her? What if she tells someone in school? It wouldn’t be long before the rumor spread that I’m certifiable. She might even tell her parents or Mom.

  “Don’t stop now!” Bethyl Ann shrieks. “What happened? You’re torturing me.” Before I can answer, her gaze darts toward the tennis courts. “Get thee to a nunnery. Look who’s coming,” she mumbles. “The ever-brooding Cassius himself. Or considering the gushy way you two look at each other of late, maybe I should start calling him Romeo.”