Through Her Eyes

by Jennifer Archer

  “No!” I catch her arm. “I’m afraid she’ll take me to some doctor who’ll stuff pills down my throat until I turn into a zombie.” Sniffing, I let go of her arm.

  She studies my face, scoots back, and murmurs, “I understand. I didn’t mean to make light of things. I just want to look at all the puzzle pieces. How else are we going to see this clearly and understand what’s going on?”

  Something akin to hope seeps into my heart. “By puzzle pieces, you mean rational explanations, right?”

  She beams. “Exactly.”

  “In my case, there aren’t any.”

  “Au contraire. We talked about an intelligent haunting the other day. That’s one really trippy possibility.”

  “You’re teasing me,” I say, ashamed of my pouty voice. “You think I’m making this up for attention or something. Like Jade Malloy shaving her head.”

  “Untrue. I totally believe you.”

  “And I totally don’t believe you.” I press my lips together, concentrating on the wind-bent mulberry tree outside my window. The leaves are turning yellow and brown, and the driest ones rattle on the branches like hoarse voices from the past.

  Bethyl Ann nudges me, and I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She plants a fist on her hip, making her bony elbow stick out like the point on a triangle. “Do I look like a close-minded naysayer to you? I do believe you. You might have a ghost or a demon on your hands. I’ve watched Ghost Whisperer. I’ve seen Psychic Detectives.”

  “So what?” I say, refusing to look at her straight on.

  “So I know what I’m talking about. Things happen all the time that we can’t explain logically now but that someone will figure out later. This might be one of those.”

  “Go on,” I say cautiously, afraid to hope that she’s not just trying to keep me from unraveling at her feet like a spool of thread.

  “Throughout history smart-alecky know-it-alls have pooh-poohed things they didn’t understand. In the scheme of things, it wasn’t that long ago that the pope threatened Galileo with torture if he didn’t say that he’d been wrong about the earth circling the sun.” She sniffs and lifts her chin. “I am not a smart-alecky pooh-pooher.”

  Hope spreads through me like sunshine after a rainstorm. Leave it to Bethyl Ann to find a way to combine science with the supernatural and sort of make sense doing it. I’m so relieved by her attitude that I could hug her. It feels good to have the secret out, to be able to talk about it with someone who doesn’t automatically think I’m whacked out.

  Facing Bethyl Ann, I smile so wide my cheeks hurt. “You don’t know how awful it’s been, having to keep this to myself. I’m so afraid I’m going crazy. That’s the most likely explanation, isn’t it? I mean, the nightingale…I did some research and you were right. They aren’t in North America.”

  She looks smug. “You doubted moi? The smartest almost-fourteen-year-old in the county?”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “The bird might be an illusion.” She sits straighter. “Of course! Henry is playing a trick on you. There’s a supercool Shelley quote that says a poet—”

  “Is a nightingale. I read that. It’s like the bird’s song pulls me to Henry. I make up my mind to stay away from his things, then the bird starts singing and I can’t go up to the turret fast enough to get my hands on that crystal.”

  “And then you become his girlfriend,” she says in an awed whisper, clapping her hands together. “That is the coolest thing I’ve ever heard in my life!”

  “More like terrifying.”

  As if she doesn’t hear me, Bethyl Ann exclaims, “You become Isabel!”

  I go still. “How did you know that?”

  Bethyl Ann frowns. “You told me.”

  “I don’t remember saying her name.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Her brows wiggle. “I told you I found a bunch of articles about Henry in the library archives. I must’ve read something about Isabel being his girlfriend in one of them.”

  “It’s strange that you can’t find those articles now.”

  “I’m not a walking, talking index, you know.”

  She looks at me as if I’m accusing her of something. I do feel an odd sort of suspicion but of what, I’m not sure. Bethyl Ann doesn’t have a devious bone in her body. Sighing, I sit back. “Sorry I’m acting so weird.”

  Her face crinkles into a grin. “I guess you’re entitled, considering your conundrum.” She bites off a chunk of her Rice Krispies Treat and, munching, says, “Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me about that picture of this house your mom found.”

  “It was with some of Papa Dan’s things.”

  She studies the room, from ceiling to floor. “Something really, really bad must’ve happened here when he was a kid for it to still bother him so much. I bet he and Henry were both in love with Isabel.” Her eyes widen. “I know! Maybe Henry got jealous and beat up your grandpa!” Her hand flies up to her mouth. “Maybe Henry tried to kill him!”

  “I don’t think Daniel—my grandfather, I mean—I don’t think he was in love with Isabel. They act more like sister and brother.”

  “Oh. Wow. You talk about them like you were there. If this is a haunting, you were there. You were her. Wow, wow, wow.” Bethyl Ann sits back again and purses her lips. “As for things starting to fade here…Hmmm.” She cocks her head. “Am I in color now?”

  “You’re always in color. You, Mom, Papa Dan.” My eyes flick away from hers briefly as I mutter, “And Tate.”

  “Ah, Cassius.”

  I don’t know why she calls Tate that, but I don’t dare ask and risk launching her into a rambling explanation. “Until yesterday, I was seeing Miss Petra in color, too.”

  “Interesting.” Her eyes narrow.

  “What do you think it means?”

  “You said in Henry’s world you’re seeing more color, and hearing more noise, right?”

  “And smelling scents and feeling textures and tasting. It’s as if this world becomes a little less real to me as the one inside the photographs becomes more real.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “No it doesn’t; it’s completely bizarre.” The second the words exit my mouth, a realization hits me. I grab Bethyl Ann’s hand. “Oh my gosh. The people I still see in color here are the people I like most. The ones I’d miss if I left.”

  Her face brightens. “And I’m one of them?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I’m honored. But that doesn’t explain Tate.” Her eyes narrow. “Or does it? Well, well, well. Silly me.”

  Anxious to divert the conversation away from Tate, I say, “Explain why everything is only colorless at school. And why does it all return to normal after a little while?”

  “That’s not true about school being the only place you see in black-and-white.” Sweeping an arm around the room, she adds, “You said these pale blue walls were white when you woke up the other morning. And the strawberries you ate for breakfast were gray.”

  Sighing, I slump back against the headboard. “If there’s no consistent pattern, how are we supposed to figure this out?”

  “Chin up, Tansy Piper. Maybe it’s a gradual process. As you see more color in Henry’s world, you might start seeing less here and for longer periods of time—at home and everywhere else. You might even stop hearing things here and lose your other senses, too. If your theory about the people you care about is right, then it makes sense that your house would fade more slowly than school, because your home means more to you than school.”

  Sarcastically, I mutter, “That makes me feel a whole lot better.”

  “It’s only a hypothesis. It’s also possible that this will end as quickly as it started.”

  “And maybe Hamlet’s going to start quoting Shakespeare, too.”

  I’m about to ask Bethyl Ann if a ghost would have any reason to use a crowbar to pry open the cellar when a knock sounds at the door and Mom call
s, “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  She opens the door and steps across the threshold, holding her phone in her hand. “That’s not Hailey, is it?” I whisper. “I don’t want to talk to her.”

  “No, it’s for me,” Mom responds. “But someone’s here to see you. That cute kid who flirted with you at the Longhorn Café.”

  “Tate?” I swing my feet off the bed and stand.

  “Is that his name?” Mom wiggles her brows. “He’s got a great smile.”

  “Mom.” The thought of Tate on my front porch right this second almost paralyzes me. “He’s smiling? That’s good news. Maybe he won’t bite my head off then.”

  Bethyl Ann mutters, “There’s daggers in men’s smiles.” Shifting her attention to Mom, she explains, “That’s from Macbeth, not Julius Caesar, but nevertheless quite appropriate when referring to young Cassius.”

  Mom stares blankly at Bethyl Ann a moment, then she slides her gaze toward me and arches a brow.

  “I don’t try to make sense of her anymore,” I say. Nodding at the phone to postpone having to face Tate, I ask, “Who are you talking to?”

  “The sheriff,” Mom answers, adding, “So are you two just going to leave Tate down there waiting?”

  “You go,” Bethyl Ann says to me. “That’ll give me a chance to snoop through all your drawers while you’re gone.” One corner of her mouth curves up.

  I’m sure she’s teasing, still I’m relieved I locked the journal in the turret, just in case I’m wrong. She may know everything about Henry now, but I still feel protective of his thoughts and words.

  Mom chatters into the phone to the sheriff as I follow her downstairs, but I’m too nervous to pay any attention to her end of the conversation. When we reach the first floor, she covers the mouthpiece with her palm and yells toward the door, “Nice to meet you, Tate.” Sending me a goofy smile, she heads for the kitchen.

  “Hi,” I say to Tate, stepping onto the porch.

  “Hi.” We look at each other and our eyes dart away at the same time. “I thought you might want to go to the canyon today,” he mutters. “We won’t talk about Bethyl Ann.”

  “She’s here.”

  He hesitates before saying, “She can go with us.”

  “She’s not allowed.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot.” His jaw muscle spasms. He backs up a step, reaches into the pocket of his jeans, tugs out a tiny plastic bag, and offers it to me. “I bought this for you,” he says.

  My pulse skips like one of Papa Dan’s old vinyl record albums. “What is it?”

  “Open it.”

  I take the pouch and pour the contents—a silver necklace chain—into my palm. It’s so beautiful and I’m so amazed that he gave it to me that I can’t speak.

  “It’s for your pendant,” Tate explains. “You, um, said you needed a chain for it, right? I just thought…I mean, since we didn’t get around to looking for one the other day.” He clears his throat. “I hope it’s the right kind.”

  “Thanks. I love it.” Even more, I love that he cares enough that he bought it for me. Tate bought it for me. Only a few days ago, I wouldn’t have believed this could ever happen. Not in a million years. I finally meet his gaze, and all I can think about is the fact that Henry gave me a necklace, too, except it was gold. And after he hooked the clasp at the back of my neck, we kissed. Actually, Henry kissed Bell, but I felt the brush of his lips all the same. I lower my focus to Tate’s mouth. Would I like kissing him as much?

  He takes another backward step, inching so close to the edge of the porch that I’m afraid he’ll fall off. “Well, see you at school,” he says, then turns toward the yard.

  “Tate?” I close my fingers around his peace offering as he faces me again. “Mrs. Pugh is picking up Bethyl Ann at five thirty. I mean, I know it’s a long drive out here—”

  “It’s not that far. I only live about four miles down the road.”

  “If you want to come back—”

  “Is five forty-five okay?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  We share a quick smile before he turns and takes the steps down into the yard.

  17

  Bethyl Ann’s bangs are choppy now, but in a good way, and her long locks are clipped to chin-length. I plucked about a million and one hairs from her unibrow, and now she has two arched ones with a nice, smooth space between them. I brushed a tiny bit of blush on her cheeks, a touch of brown mascara on her stick-straight eyelashes, and clear gloss on her lips. For her “signature avant-garde flare,” as Bethyl Ann now calls it, we decided to put a maroon streak in her hair. Only one, on her left side in front; I didn’t want to go overboard. I had a bottle of color left over from last year when I tinted my own hair.

  We went out to the barn, and I dug through some boxes of my old clothes. I don’t know why Mom bothered moving them, but I’m glad she did. They’re a little outdated but not in Bethyl Ann’s usual geeky way. We hauled a box up to my room, and I put different styles together until we found a mix that was right for her. Bethyl Ann labels it the “eclectic look” and swears it’s how she’ll dress from this day forward. She takes this makeover thing way too seriously, but I’m sort of psyched about that, since she looks really great. I can’t wait to see how everyone at school reacts tomorrow.

  Bethyl Ann turns away from the mirror and hugs me so tightly that my lungs deflate. “Thanks,” she says.

  I didn’t mind helping her. It pushed Henry to the back of my mind for a while. When she finally lets go and I can breathe again, I say, “No problem. It was fun. And you look hot.”

  “But do I look older?”

  “Way older.”

  Beaming, she plops down onto my bed, and as she studies my face, her smile slowly dims. “Don’t take this wrong, but you’ve been looking sort of wiped out the past few days. Do you feel bad?”

  “No, I just haven’t been sleeping that great, though.”

  “Because of the visions?”

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “That and other things.”

  Fluffing her new bangs, she gives me a knowing look and says, “Oh, I get it. You mean Tate. So you’re going out with him later, huh?”

  “Not going out, exactly.”

  “He likes you, I can tell. Not just for a friend. He likes you, likes you.”

  I attempt to look indifferent. “He’s just going to show me around the canyon so I can take some photos.”

  “Oh, happy dagger! Please try to control your excitement.”

  “It’s just that…I’m a little afraid of spending time with him.”

  “Afraid? Why?”

  “Because I do like Tate and—” Blinking, I turn toward the window. “When I’m with Tate, sometimes I feel like I’m cheating on Henry.” I pause and look at her again. “Now tell me you don’t think I’m nuts.”

  “I think you’re confusing yourself with Isabel. Who wouldn’t? Geez, you’re getting inside pictures, going back to the past, living through her.” She sighs. “Such stuff as dreams are made of.”

  “It’s weird. I like both of them.” Embarrassed by the admission, I add, “And they even look alike. Almost exactly.”

  “Henry probably knows you like Tate, so he makes himself look similar so it will be easier to woo you and get his message through.”

  “Why doesn’t he just tell me his message instead of tormenting me?”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Why not?” For some reason, her that’s-just-the-way-it-is attitude exasperates me. “Is there some unwritten rule among ghosts that they have to make everything a big puzzle for us humans to solve, or what?”

  “It could be a lot of reasons. Spirits try to communicate in different ways.”

  “Great. How are we supposed to figure any of this out then?”

  She tilts her head. “Have you seen any things over and over again in your visions?”

  “I don’t know, why?”

  “He might use symbols for clues to try to get t
hrough to you. Something he knows means something to you. One of those ghost guys on TV sees yellow roses when a female is coming through, because those were his mom’s favorite flowers. That kind of association thing might be what Henry’s using, too.”

  The ring of the bell at the Quattlebaums’ farm comes to mind. The farmer and the dog showing up at 8:15 in the morning. The nightingale’s song. “I guess the bird could be a symbol, but nightingales don’t have any special meaning for me,” I tell Bethyl Ann. “Besides, I think Henry is the nightingale, as weird as that sounds. I mean, he’s a poet and that Shelley quote says—”

  “A poet is a nightingale!” Bethyl Ann claps her hands together and grins. “You’re right. Henry is a poet. He is the nightingale. He’s having all kinds of fun playing off Shelley’s quote to seduce you.”

  “I don’t know about seduce.” The word makes me squirm. “Summon maybe.”

  “Seduce, summon.” Bethyl Ann waves a dismissive hand. “What’s in a name?”

  “You could be right. I’ve actually been thinking the same thing.” The nightingale’s song always tempts me to return to Henry’s memories, and Henry’s poems speak to me. “I love his poetry,” I say quietly. “It’s like his words were intended for me, in a way. When I read them, I hear his voice, like he’s talking to me.”

  “That’s so romantic,” Bethyl Ann says wistfully. “It must kill you to be away from him.” She heaves a dramatic sigh and murmurs, “Never was a tale of more woe than this of Tansy and her Henry-O.” She frowns. “Or is it a ‘story’? I can’t remember the quote exactly.”

  All at once, I miss Henry so much that I can’t stand it. Is he lonely without me? Does he need me? Oh, God…is he hurting himself? Hoping Bethyl Ann doesn’t notice my sudden distress, I say, “He wrote those poems a long time ago when he was alive. They couldn’t have been written with me in mind.”

  “How do you know he wrote them a long time ago?”

  “What are you saying? That he wrote them as a ghost?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “How? I read the first one just a few minutes after we got here.”

  “Maybe he’s a fast writer.” She giggles.