Through Her Eyes

by Jennifer Archer

  “Shhh,” I hiss, when I see Tate approaching the bleachers.

  She waves at him, and calls, “Welcome, Cassius!”

  “Hey, Stinky.” He pauses in front of us. “My name’s Tate, by the way.”

  I sigh heavily. “And hers is Beth.”

  Looking sheepish, Tate shoves his hands into his pockets. “I thought it was Bethyl Ann.”

  “Then why did you call her Stinky?”

  Bethyl Ann grins. “Yes, do tell, Cassius. Why did you?”

  “Habit, I guess. I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “No worries, Cassius. And neither do I. Mean anything by calling you Cassius, that is.” Bethyl Ann looks smug.

  Tate glances at me, then down at his shoes. He gently kicks the edge of the bleachers, and when he looks up again, our eyes meet and hold.

  Bethyl Ann claps her hands together. “Well…that’s my cue to exit stage right.”

  Anxiety shoots through me at the thought of her leaving me alone with Tate. I’m embarrassed by the way I acted this morning, and I feel bad about turning down his lunch invitation. If Bethyl Ann leaves, I’ll feel obligated to explain myself. Besides, now that I’ve started telling her about Henry, I want to finish. It’s a relief to talk to someone about everything that’s been happening. “You don’t have to go,” I blurt out.

  “Au contraire, Tansy Piper,” she says. “A cue is a cue.”

  Tate’s brow furrows as he watches her and Hamlet walk away. At the center of the tennis court, Bethyl Ann stops and tosses her empty plastic soda bottle for the dog to retrieve. I give her my full attention so I won’t have to look at Tate.

  After a dozen silent seconds, I say, “I guess it’s my turn to apologize to you now. This morning…” I look up at him. “I’m sorry I acted so weird. You know how you said you’ve been going through some stuff?”

  His shoulders lift. “Yeah.”

  “Well, so have I. I didn’t mean to blow you off about lunch. I needed to talk to Bethyl Ann about something important, that’s all.”

  “Not a big deal.” Tate reaches down to the ground, picks up a pebble, rears back his arm, and tosses it over the top of the bleachers. “I came over here to ask if maybe you wanted to go do something after school. We could go get a coffee or something.”

  “Cedar Canyon has a Starbucks?” I tease. “I must’ve missed it.”

  He laughs. “No Starbucks, but there is a place on the highway.”

  “Ah. The Dairy Queen.”

  “Funny.” Smirking at me, he continues, “You need someone to show you around. Just because this isn’t San Francisco doesn’t mean we don’t have some cool out-of-the-way places.”

  “I didn’t mean to make fun of Cedar Canyon.”

  “Sure you did.” He grins. “Well? Do you want to go?”

  I glance toward Bethyl Ann. Meeting Tate after school will mean missing my chance to talk to her alone today. But I’m afraid if I say no to him, he won’t ask me again. “Okay,” I say. “I was planning to take some photographs around town after school, and I need to shop for a necklace chain. But I guess I can do that another time.” I cringe inside when I hear the uncertainty in my voice. He’s going to think that I don’t really want to go with him. Why couldn’t I just say okay and leave it at that?

  “We can still shop for one,” Tate says a little cautiously, like he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing and making me change my mind. “And I wouldn’t mind tagging along while you take pictures.”

  I stare at him a minute. He looks so much like Henry! My heart spikes when I look into his eyes. Still, I’m not completely comfortable with Tate’s sudden friendliness; if he has ulterior motives, I should probably find out what they are before I start liking him any more than I already do. “You’d be bored,” I warn, and watch Tate’s smile disintegrate.

  “I wouldn’t be bored, but that’s okay.” He shrugs. “I won’t bother you.” He starts off across the courts toward the parking lot.

  “Hey,” I shout, shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand. “Don’t be so sensitive. If you want to tag along, you can.”

  He stops walking and glances back at me with narrowed eyes. “I’ll think about it,” he says.

  I can’t help smiling as he walks away.

  Tate is waiting for me outside the building at 3:05. “I changed my mind,” he says, falling into step beside me. “I am going to bother you.” He grins, and I find it hard to exhale.

  We head for the highway that runs near the edge of town. Clutching my camera like a security blanket, I snap one shot after another. I don’t pay much attention to what I’m shooting; I just need to keep my hands busy and my mind off Tate. I like all this unexpected interest he’s showing in me way too much. I wish it was possible that it didn’t stem from some self-centered agenda on his part. I wish that—big surprise—the realization of how much he enjoys my company hit him like a lightning bolt from the sky. But I don’t believe it. Some things are just too good to be true, and this feels like one of them.

  Pausing at an intersection, I lower the camera to reload the film. “So…what kind of necklace are you looking for?” Tate asks.

  “Just a chain for a pendant.”

  “A pendant? You mean like a locket?”

  I’m baffled by his interest in my jewelry. I don’t want to talk about the crystal. If I did, I’d confide in Bethyl Ann, not him. I don’t have that much faith in him yet. “It’s just a piece of old costume jewelry. Something I’ve had for a while,” I lie.

  The sky is hazy. I smell dust in the air. Hoping a dust storm isn’t going to hit before we reach the coffee shop, I quickly finish reloading the film and we walk a block in silence until we reach the highway. I gesture to the Dairy Queen on the other side. “I was right,” I tease, yelling to be heard over the sound of an approaching eighteen-wheeler. “Some coffee shop. You got me here under false pretenses.”

  “That’s not it!” he yells back. “Come on. You’ll see.” When the truck passes by, he takes my hand and we run across the highway.

  Behind the Dairy Queen, one block down, we enter a tiny yellow house with a sign in the yard that says THE MUSE. It’s a colorful, artsy place with a nice eclectic vibe—so unlike anyplace else I’ve been in this town. Papa Dan would’ve called it “hippie-dippy.” I read the menu written on a chalkboard above the counter and order a soy chai. Tate orders plain old coffee. As we slide into chairs on opposite sides of a table from each other, he says smugly, “What did I tell you?”

  “Okay. You win. This is a great place.” I sip my chai.

  Watching me, Tate says, “Tell me more about the Peterson house. I’ve always wanted to go inside.”

  “It’s drafty,” I say. Lonely. Confusing. Scary.

  “And haunted,” he adds without so much as a chuckle.

  “You said that like you believe it.”

  “Not really. But anything’s possible, I guess.”

  I study Tate, hoping that maybe I’ve misjudged him. Maybe he would keep an open mind if I told him about Henry.

  “It’s probably none of my business,” Tate says, “but is everything good with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just…your short story in English. The one Miss Petra made you read.” He reaches across the table and lifts the brim of my hat, tilts his head, and squints. “And you look really tired.”

  I shiver. Maybe because of his nearness. Or maybe because he sees too much. I know how I look; I saw myself in the mirror this morning. Bruise-colored smudges beneath my eyes, a too pale complexion. What if I did tell him everything? The reasons why I’m losing sleep, why I’m so jumpy, so moody? The urge to confide in Tate is strong, but what would he think of me? He’s nothing like Bethyl Ann. I can’t imagine that he’d accept my story without hesitation. Even if he didn’t run as fast as he could in the opposite direction to tell the entire school, how could I make someone like him understand why I’m finding it harder to le
ave Henry’s memories? That I’m starting to believe that the world inside the photographs is where I belong? How can I admit that I’m obsessed with a brooding phantom or explain what it means to me to see Papa Dan so happy and whole again?

  Lowering my gaze, I say, “I’ve been worried about my grandfather. He isn’t well.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “The doctors aren’t sure, exactly. It’s some kind of dementia.”

  “Like Alzheimer’s?”

  “Sort of, I guess.”

  “Oh, man…I hope he gets better.”

  “He will. He has to.” But deep inside, I know a recovery is unlikely, and that thought hardens my throat as I lift my cup and take another sip.

  Tate leans back against his chair and looks around the coffee shop. “This is nice, right? Me bringing you here? I’ve been behaving myself.” He grins.

  I scowl at him. “What are you getting at?”

  “You said if I behaved myself and acted nice, you’d show me some of your pictures. I’d like to see the ones you took this afternoon.”

  “I said maybe. And you said you’d let me read some of your writing.”

  He winces. “I said I might.” We smile at each other, neither one of us ready to commit to anything. Deftly changing the subject back to me, he says, “I’ve never been in a darkroom before. My mom used to take a lot of pictures, but she didn’t develop them herself.”

  “She doesn’t take pictures anymore?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. She and my dad divorced and Mom moved to Austin.”

  I don’t want to be a phony and pretend that’s news to me. And no words are going to make him feel better, so I decide to just say what I think. “That sucks.”

  “Yeah. Just life, though, I guess.” A long silence, then, “She didn’t even ask if I wanted to go with her. She just…went.”

  The words I’m sorry sit on the tip of my tongue, but he’s probably heard them a hundred times. That’s what everyone says when something bad happens. I’m sorry you have to move, Tansy. I’m sorry your grandfather’s sick. I’m sorry you never knew your dad. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Then they’re free to forget your problems. They’ve said what’s expected of them. But I’m sorry doesn’t really change anything.

  “If your mom had asked, would you have gone with her?” I say.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “You must really miss her.”

  “I’m also pissed at her.”

  “I would be, too. It seems like I spend half the time mad at my mom, but it would be weird not to have her around.”

  Tate downs his coffee and pushes the cup aside. He seems uncomfortable talking about his mother, so this time I change the subject. “I have a question,” I say to him.

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  “Why are you suddenly being Mr. Nice Guy? The truth this time. I mean, that first night I met you at the Longhorn you were a big flirt. Then when I saw you again at school, you acted like you hated my guts. Now you’re buying me coffee?”

  “I told you the truth at the bridge. I don’t have a good excuse. Blame it on a bad mood.” Tate dips his chin, and his grin shoots my heart to the ceiling. “If I tell you I’m sorry a hundred more times, will you forgive me? ’Cause I’ll do it, if that’s what it takes.”

  “That’s an easy out,” I say to him, voicing my earlier thoughts. I turn toward the window, trying not to laugh, ignoring the glances from kids I recognize from school sitting at other tables, studying and talking.

  “I never apologize unless I mean it,” he insists, then grinning, he leans in across the table and says, “I’m sorry…I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

  On about the tenth sorry I say, “Stop!” and the laugh escapes. “Just buy me another soy chai sometime and we’ll call it even. On second thought, an ice-cream soda. At City Drug.”

  He looks pleased with himself. “Okay. Tell your mom not to pick you up after school tomorrow. I’ll bring my car, and after we visit J. B. we’ll drive out to the canyon. Have you been down the trail beside the bridge yet?”

  I think of the winter picnic with Henry and shake my head. “No,” I say. Not as myself. Not in this lifetime.

  While Mom taps away on her laptop in the chair across the room, Papa Dan and I sit side by side on the couch eating popcorn and watching Pirates of the Caribbean. It’s one of my grandfather’s favorites. He thinks Captain Jack is funny. I think he’s funny, too, and that Johnny Depp is possibly the hottest old guy I’ve ever seen. When the movie reaches that scene where Captain Jack says, “Why is all the rum gone?” Papa Dan chuckles.

  His laugh has always made me feel happy, inside and out. As far back as I can remember, it was my morning “hello,” my “welcome home” after school, one of the last sounds I heard before I closed my eyes at night. I didn’t know how much it meant to me until I started hearing less of it. I wish I had a tape recorder close by so I could capture the sound to play back years from now when I’m sad.

  I watch Papa Dan and make a vow to myself not to go up to the turret tonight, not to read Henry’s journal or look at any photographs or the crystal, which I put back in the turret after school. I never got around to buying a chain for it, and that’s probably a good thing. My Henry fixation keeps growing like the weeds Mom pulls from the flower beds; no matter how many times I try to tug it up by the roots and toss it aside, it sprouts again.

  The prospect of becoming Bell forever is both enticing and unsettling. Whenever I think about it, a strange urgency spirals up inside me. One minute I want to become a permanent part of Henry’s world and be with him more than anything, and the next minute the thought of that scares me senseless and Tate is the only guy I want to be around. I’m sure I should see a doctor and have my head examined, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to deal with what I found out about my mental state. I need to do something, though, make up my mind, one way or the other.

  Mom’s fingers pause on the keyboard. She looks up at me and smiles.

  I remind myself of my promise: I’ll stay out of the turret for a while, away from Henry’s things, the photographs. I’ll be okay if I stop thinking about him. Everything will go back to normal, and Mom will never find out about any of it; she won’t have to worry about me.

  When the movie ends, we all go upstairs. I take Papa Dan to his room, tell him good night, close the door, and lock it. In my own room, I check my email and open a couple of Hailey’s emails. They both start with an excuse, so I close them without reading to the end. I turn off the computer and curl up in bed, facing the window, listening to the nightingale sing. Moonlight spills through the parted curtains and washes over my face. Henry’s voice whispers through my mind…. Tell Daniel to bring you here to the bridge. I’ll be waiting with Father’s car.

  The nightingale’s song is so pretty and sad…like poetry….

  I push back the sheet and get up, crossing the room to the window and shoving the curtains aside. Silver light bathes the backyard. I open the window wide. The nightingale trills louder, the melody of its song weaving through my thoughts. What if I did climb the stairs to the turret? If I read another poem…took out the photographs…the crystal? If I slanted it just so and lost myself in its shimmer? Would I find myself alone with Henry on another night? Would he kiss me like he did at the edge of the canyon? I’ve been kissed before but never like that. I’m sure no one else will ever make me feel the way he did. No one else could. Not even Tate.

  A breeze flaps the curtains. I turn around and toss away the promise I made to myself. Four steps and I’m at the door, my hand on the knob.

  A rattling noise outside startles me, and the nightingale abruptly stops singing. I return to the window, lean out, and look down. In a hushed voice, I call, “Papa Dan? Is that you?” Did I forget to lock his door?

  A shadow creeps across the cellar and moves toward the barn. I suck in a breath when it takes the form of a person. Flinching, I grab the curtain, hide behi
nd it, then peek out again in time to see the figure disappear behind the dilapidated building.

  I try to relax, telling myself I did forget to lock Papa Dan’s door. He might be down there looking for something he thinks he misplaced. The pocket watch maybe.

  For at least a full minute, I stare into the darkness below, waiting for my grandfather to reappear. He doesn’t, so I leave my room, intending to climb the stairs to the turret and get the watch, so I can show it to Papa Dan and coax him back inside. I’m sure that’s what he spent so much time searching for beneath the mulberry tree the other day. But when I reach his bedroom door, it’s closed and locked. My grandfather was not the shadow I saw outside.

  I think of the sheriff’s warning about prowlers, and a tremor snakes through me. Every nerve I possess screams at me to go get Mom. What if the person I saw tries to get into the house? I start for her room but pause when the nightingale’s song drifts down from the turret and a sudden sense of calm settles over me. Get the watch. Show it to Papa Dan in the morning, so he’ll relax. That’s what I tell myself as I climb the stairs—any excuse to go up to the turret, to be near Henry’s things. I know it’s a bad idea, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I go in, open the drawer, take out the journal, and read his next poem.

  Return to the place where you belong;

  It hasn’t changed; it’s waiting,

  Stalled in time till you arrive

  To right a senseless wrong.

  Here you will find the laughter you’ve lost,

  The missing piece of a broken heart

  Chipped away without a thought

  Of the terrible cost.