Through Her Eyes

by Jennifer Archer

  Come back to the one who’s strong;

  I haven’t changed; I’m waiting,

  Stalled in time till you arrive

  To thaw my frozen song.

  Closing the journal, I murmur, “I want to, Henry.” I do. Going to Henry is like stepping onto a roller coaster. I know I’ll lose control of my feelings, that I could get hurt, but there is a sort of thrill in that, and the danger tugs me against my will. I think of his eyes, and heat spreads from the top of my head down to my toes. I want to feel Henry’s gaze on me again. I want my pulse to scatter and my stomach to drop. I want everything his poem promises.

  Suddenly I recall Daniel’s warning to Bell to watch out for herself around Henry, and I know it’s good advice for me, too. In my mind, I see the red slashes on Henry’s wrist, the defiant, troubled look in his eyes when he talked about shooting himself in the foot. What if he tried to coax Isabel to do something that would be a mistake and cause her trouble? Could I control her reactions? Change her mind? I doubt it. When I’m there, she seems to control me, not the other way around.

  Listen to Daniel, I tell myself.

  I’m putting the journal back into the drawer when the crystal draws my gaze. An urge to touch it overwhelms me. I long to stroke the cut glass, to feel it smooth beneath my fingertips. My hand trembles above the drawer. But then I think of Papa Dan and Mom asleep one flight below while a stranger roams our property, and I turn my head so I can’t see the crystal. Still feeling its pull, I curl my fingers into my palm, and take a breath.

  Quickly, I glance again at the drawer, open my hand, and lift the watch, leaving the crystal behind. Exiting the room, I close the door behind me and hurry down to the first floor, double check all the doors and windows, then take the stairs up again to Mom’s room. I reach to open the door, then pause. Maybe what I saw was only my imagination. A trick of the moonlight, a flicker from the past. Another delusion. I shouldn’t worry Mom just yet—take the risk of exposing my shaky mental state. I’ll go back to my own room first for one more look. If I see something, then I’ll wake her.

  Placing the watch on the nightstand beside my bed, I cross to the open window and scan the yard, the shadows around the barn. Except for the chirp of crickets, the whisper of the breeze, it’s quiet outside. Even the nightingale is silent. The curtains billow. An autumn chill rides the wind, so crisp and cool that I shiver. Who did I see? Who stepped out of sight behind the barn? Could it have been Henry’s ghost? Has he been watching the house? Watching me? And waiting?

  16

  I awake the next morning curled up on the floor beneath the window. I watched the yard most of the night, then dozed off sometime just before dawn.

  Before I leave for school, I walk out to the storm cellar. One edge of the door is splintered, as if someone tugged at it with a crowbar. Someone who wants inside the cellar. Someone or something. Crouching, I run my hand across the damaged wood. Maybe whoever did this was afraid that using a hammer to break the padlock would make too much noise. Or maybe I stopped him when I called out to Papa Dan.

  Twice now, I’ve seen a figure in the yard at night. It must be a flesh-and-blood person; a padlocked door wouldn’t stop Henry, would it? Can’t ghosts walk through solid objects? I’ll have to ask Bethyl Ann. But if it’s not Henry, then who? And what is he—or she—after? I know I shouldn’t let another night pass without warning Mom. But I want to talk to Bethyl Ann first, since she’s such an expert on the supernatural.

  When I arrive at school, I find another black-and-white movie in progress behind the doors. Even Miss Petra has faded. Bethyl Ann has an eye doctor appointment at lunch, so we can’t resume the conversation we started yesterday before Tate showed up. I take advantage of the time by going to the school library and reading about schizophrenia. Apparently no medical test exists to diagnosis it. A doctor decides a person has the condition based on the presence of certain “psychological disturbances.” Agitation. Disorganized thinking. Hallucinations that might include all the senses—seeing things, hearing voices and other noises, experiencing scents and textures and tastes. Feeling shaken and hopeless, I read about the final symptom: Delusions. My heartbeat picks up. People suffering from schizophrenia may believe that their irrational judgments and beliefs are factual…claims of being cheated, hassled, or that others are out to get them…bizarre fantasies of someone trying to send messages or control their actions by peculiar means…

  Fighting tears, I close the book, prop an elbow on the table, and cradle my head in my hand. No need for me to see a doctor who couldn’t tell me anything I don’t already know. I have every symptom in the book. Ever since we moved here, I’ve been agitated over the way Alison and her groupies treat me. And Tate. Even Hailey. Haven’t I felt like they’re “out to get me”? And Henry’s memories…they’re real to me now. The more I’m there, the more they come alive. In his world, I see and hear, taste and smell. I feel the cold and Henry’s touch. More and more, I’m certain Henry is controlling my actions, that he’s trying to send me a message. But it’s all in my head. Warning signs that I’m sick, that I have a mental disorder. Proof lies on the pages in front of me.

  I leave the library on edge, and stay that way for the rest of the day. When the last bell finally rings, I find Bethyl Ann and Tate waiting for me in the hallway outside my classroom. “You want to go to the library and do some more research?” Bethyl Ann asks. Glancing across at Tate, she lowers her voice and adds, “For our history project.”

  “I can’t.” I cut my gaze to Tate, then back to her. “Tate is driving me out to the canyon.” Even if that wasn’t the plan, I wouldn’t want to go to the library with Bethyl Ann. Not now. I want to forget about Henry Peterson. Push him out of my mind. Feel normal again, at least for a few hours.

  “Oh,” Bethyl Ann says, shriveling like a punctured balloon.

  “You can come with us,” I say quickly. “We want you to, don’t we, Tate?”

  “Uh…yeah. Sure.”

  “I’m not stupid,” Bethyl Ann says in a pinched voice. “Truth is truth to the end of reckoning. Another time, Cassius. I’m sure you’ll be waiting with bated breath until then.”

  I pull her aside. “Come with us. I mean it.”

  “Far be it from me to stand in the way of lovers.” She crosses her arms.

  “It’s not like that.” I peek across at Tate and feel myself blush. He leans against the wall, his hands shoved into his jean pockets, pretending he isn’t paying attention to us.

  Bethyl Ann gives me an as if smirk. “It’s okay. Mama won’t let me go into the canyon without an adult, anyway.”

  Sometimes I forget how young she is. But I can’t stand for Bethyl Ann to feel left out, so I try to make it up to her. “Tomorrow we should eat lunch at City Drug’s soda fountain. I’ll buy.” I don’t care about being seen with her anymore. Bethyl Ann has the right idea: Natives be damned.

  “The soda fountain is always packed at lunchtime,” Bethyl Ann points out, then adds more quietly, “It’d be hard for us to talk about you-know-what. Oh, and I forgot. I can’t have lunch tomorrow, anyway, because Daddy’s taking me. It’s his birthday. We always have lunch together on his birthday. It’s a tradition, or I’d try to get out of it.”

  “That’s okay,” I tell her. I’m not disappointed. I no longer want to tell her what’s been going on with me. I know it’s all in my head now. I don’t need Bethyl Ann to confirm it. When we get together, I want to do what normal girls do. The things Hailey and I once did together. Gossip about boys and school. Look through magazines and laugh at the sleazy hoochie clothes the models wear. “Tomorrow after school, do you want to come home with me and meet my granddad?” I ask.

  Her chin lifts, and her eyes brighten. “Will your mom be there?”

  I nod. “She’ll pick us up.”

  Bethyl Ann squeals. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to her when we met the other morning, and I probably would’ve just babbled anyway. I can’t even imagine visiting the home of
a real-life author!”

  “Please.” I roll my eyes. “It’s not a big deal.” I glance at Tate and see that he’s trying not to laugh.

  “Do you think your mom will let me see her office?” Bethyl Ann asks.

  “I’ll show it to you myself, if you promise not to get so excited you pee your pants.”

  Ignoring my sarcasm, Bethyl Ann says, “I’ll ask my mom and call you tonight. I’m sure she’ll say yes, as long as I’m home for dinner and Daddy’s birthday cake. Should I bring snacks? Mama makes the best Rice Krispies Treats in the whole wide world.”

  “Sure, Beth. Whatever.”

  Taking hold of my arm and pulling me farther from Tate, she murmurs, “We’ll talk some more about you-know-who then, okay?”

  “We’ll see.” I cast a nervous glance in Tate’s direction, hoping he doesn’t think that Bethyl Ann is referring to him.

  A few minutes later, Tate and I pull out of the school parking lot in his old Ford Blazer. I’m trying not to think about what I read in the library book, but that’s all I can think about. I’m so tense, I feel as if I’m standing on the railing of the bridge, like Henry did in my delusion.

  Tate glances across at me. “So you and Stink—”

  My glare cuts his sentence short.

  “You and Bethyl Ann are good friends, huh?”

  Feeling defensive, I snap, “Is that a problem?”

  “I was just asking.” He smiles.

  “What?” I cross my arms, aware that I’m overreacting because of all I found out about myself today. Even though it’s not Tate’s fault that I’m psychologically disturbed, I can’t keep from lashing out at him. It’s not every day a person discovers that they belong in a mental ward. And isn’t this one of my symptoms at work? Agitation?

  “I didn’t say anything,” Tate mutters.

  “Beth is the only person who’s been nice to me since I’ve been here.”

  His brows lift.

  “Go ahead. Say what you’re thinking.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Just say it.”

  He shrugs. “Some people think you’re kind of hard to approach.”

  The statement hits me like a splash of cold water in the face. “Some people like who? Straight-A Alison Summers and Beer-for-Breakfast Shanna? Or possibly Rooster Boy?”

  Laughter sputters out of him. “You pretty much summed up Alison and Shanna. Who’s Rooster Boy?”

  “The bad comedian who sits next to you in homeroom.”

  “Jon Jenks?” He laughs again. “Why’d you call him that?”

  “He struts around like a rooster, but he’s really just a scrawny chicken.” Tate snickers and drives while I stare out the window and fume. “I guess you think it’s easy moving to a new school. What was I supposed to do? Show up on the first day and introduce myself to everyone? Shake their hands?”

  “I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.” He chokes back another laugh.

  “Maybe I have been hard to get close to, but that didn’t stop Beth.”

  Tate sobers and says, “I don’t have anything against Bethyl Ann, but you’ve got to admit that she’s weird.”

  “She’s only thirteen. Everyone needs to give her a break. Have you ever thought how it would feel to be that age again and so smart that they stuck you in high school with a bunch of jerks who treat you like crap?”

  He squints straight ahead out the window, and after a few seconds says, “I guess you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “You keep saying that.” I think about all of Hailey’s pathetic attempts to apologize in her emails and only get angrier. Apparently, Tate’s no different than her or the other assholes in this town. “I don’t feel like going to the canyon anymore,” I tell Tate. “Just take me home.”

  “Tansy—” He curses quietly.

  “If you don’t want to drive me there, then I’ll just walk. Pull over.”

  Tate shakes his head and exhales a noisy breath. “Relax. I’ll take you home.”

  The next day after school, Bethyl Ann follows me up the stairs to my room, carrying the plate of Rice Krispies Treats her mother made. “I like your hair,” she says out of the blue. “Does your mother cut it?”

  Relieved that her chatter isn’t about Henry, I look over my shoulder at her. “I wouldn’t let Mom near my hair with a pair of scissors. I went to a salon in San Francisco.”

  “There’s only one hairdresser in Cedar Canyon. Sherry Combs.”

  “Sherry Combs?”

  She nods. “Scout’s honor.”

  We pause on the landing. I glance at Bethyl Ann’s stringy hair and crooked bangs. “Does Sherry Combs cut yours?” If she says yes, I’m looking for a salon in Amarillo.

  Bethyl Ann shakes her head. “No, Mama does.” As we start down the hallway, she adds, “I’ve been thinking it might be fun to have a makeover, now that I have a friend who knows about clothes and cosmetics and hair.”

  “You do?” I lead her into my bedroom. “Who?”

  Bethyl Ann smirks. “Don’t be humble. I brought some magazines we can look through for ideas.”

  “I’m not much of a makeup person,” I say, stopping in the middle of the room to take off my backpack and toss it into the corner. “I seriously doubt that anyone at school admires the way I look, anyway. I might only get you noticed in a way you don’t want.”

  “This is for me, not the natives.”

  Ever since Mom picked us up at school, Bethyl Ann has vomited words like she ate the dictionary. That’s fine with me, since I haven’t felt much like talking today. Avoiding Tate has left me exhausted. I’m more than a little mortified that I got so upset and made him drive me home yesterday. It just stung to hear what people were saying about me.

  I was too depressed to do anything when I got home. And tired. After dinner, I fell asleep watching television and didn’t get off the couch until Mom woke me at bedtime. I barely made it up the stairs, and I was asleep again the second my head landed on the pillow. If the nightingale sang, I didn’t hear it.

  “What sort of look do you have in mind?” I ask Bethyl Ann, crossing the room again and closing the door, ready to take my mind off my troubles with some meaningless girl talk. I hope she doesn’t ruin things by bringing up Henry.

  Her eyes blink excitement at me. “Whatever you decide. I’m in your hands, oh beauty guru.” She plops onto my bed with a bounce.

  I quickly look her over as I take off my hat and run a hand across my short locks. “You’ll have to lose the hair barrettes. In fact, you’ll have to lose the hair. You want me to cut it today?”

  She grins. “Would you?” When I nod, Bethyl Ann leans forward and whispers, “First I want to hear more about your visions—the ones you were telling me about the other day at lunch before Tate so rudely interrupted.”

  Great. I knew the reprieve couldn’t last.

  With an eager glance around the bedroom, she lowers her voice and asks, “Have you seen Henry? Is he here now?”

  “That’s not how it happens.” I walk over to the dresser to get the plate of snacks, then join her on the bed. Setting the plate in front of her, I kick off my shoes. “Do we have to talk about this right now?”

  Her eyes widen as she unties the laces on her dingy sneakers. “Of course we do. You can’t just tell me something like that and expect me to forget about it. Besides, I’ve been wondering about this house being haunted for a really long time.”

  “What made you think it might be?” I ask.

  “Remember when I told you I came over here that day when Mama was visiting Mrs. Quattlebaum?” She leans closer and in just above a whisper adds, “I went down into the cellar in your backyard. Don’t tell Mama. She’d be really mad at me for trespassing. I didn’t stay long, though. I got a creepy feeling down there.”

  “You sensed something?” Bethyl Ann nods again, and I pick up a Rice Krispies Treat, nibble the corner, wondering how to explain…where to start. Anyone would get a creepy feeling down in that cellar. She ob
viously doesn’t understand that what I’ve experienced is a lot more involved. Should I just tell her I’m delusional and leave it at that? Or should I tell her what’s been happening and let her make her own decision?

  “Well?” She pulls off one shoe then the other and drops them onto the floor.

  Watching Bethyl Ann closely to gauge her reaction, I say, “It’s like I go back into the past and I become another person who was my age a long time ago.”

  She stares at me with her mouth open, and just when I begin to think she’s gone mute, she says, “Oh. My. Freakin’. Gosh. Henry Peterson is possessing you?”

  “Not exactly. Henry’s not the person I become.” For the next few minutes, I tell Bethyl Ann everything while she nibbles and gasps. I begin with finding the box and end with stepping through the photographs and into my grandfather’s past. I explain about the nightingale’s song. How the past world is becoming more vibrant while this world is dimming. How I feel as if I’m living through Henry’s girlfriend while I’m there.

  “Holy schmoley.” Bethyl Ann sits back against my headboard, blinking rapidly. “Does mental illness run in your family?” Her words drain the blood from my face. She must notice my reaction, because she nudges me and says, “Oh, geez. No offense. But if you want me to help you figure this out—”

  “No, you’re right.” I try to swallow the lump that lodges in my throat like a pebble. “I’m losing it. I’m epically schizo.” My voice cracks the word in two.

  “Maybe,” Bethyl Ann says in a matter-of-fact way, as if schizophrenia is no more serious than the common cold. “But we should rule out all the other possibilities before we lock you away.” She grins.

  “This isn’t funny.” I can’t help it—my face scrunches up.

  Bethyl Ann’s expression changes to one of alarm, like she’s afraid I’m going to spaz out. “Oh, darn.” She scrambles to the edge of the bed. “I didn’t know how upset you were—I’ll get your mother.”