Through Her Eyes

by Jennifer Archer

  “One of the times I heard the bell ringing over at the Quattlebaums’, I was outside walking with Papa Dan. And the times I looked through the camera viewfinder…” I exhale a frustrated breath. “I would’ve had to have been sleepwalking. That’s kind of a stretch to believe, don’t you think?”

  “And what you’re telling me isn’t?”

  I prop my elbows on my knees and drop my face into my open hands. “I know.”

  Tate’s arm wraps around my shoulders. “Promise me you won’t go back into the canyon without me,” he says. “And that you’ll stay away from the bridge.”

  “Okay. I promise.” I lean against him.

  “You should put the things we found back in the box and get it all out of your room and the darkroom so you won’t be tempted to look at any of it.”

  I’m reluctant to do what he asks, which scares me, too—the fact that I’m afraid to be without Henry’s treasures. “Where would I put them?” I ask.

  “I could keep them.” My back stiffens, and he quickly adds, “Don’t think that’s what I’ve been after all along, because it’s not. We can put them back under the stair if you want. I’ll nail it down so the box won’t be easy for you to get to. Just in case.”

  It’s humiliating to admit that I’m so obsessed with Henry that Tate has to lock up his possessions just to keep me away from them. Swallowing my pride, I whisper, “Okay.”

  “If you feel like you have to have them for some reason, tell me and we’ll take them out together. Promise?”

  “If you promise not to tell the whole school about this.”

  “I won’t tell them anything. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “I think we should seal it.”

  I give a jittery laugh. “With a handshake?”

  “I was thinking more like a kiss.”

  Tate’s fingers touch my cheek and slide around to the back of my neck. His mouth finds mine, and I taste spearmint. Wrapping my arms around him, I skim my fingers across the 10 on the back of his jacket. He pulls me closer, and I sink into him.

  I was wrong; Henry isn’t the only guy who can make me dizzy and limp-kneed. Clinging to Tate, I ignore the chill of the crystal against my chest and kiss him back.

  “Tansy!”

  Mom’s frantic voice weaves into my dream. I see her running from room to room inside the house, wild-eyed and pale as she throws open doors. When she reaches the turret, she steps inside and sees photos scattered across the floor. Bending, she picks one up and gasps. I’m inside the picture, beneath the mulberry tree, standing in the snow next to Henry and Papa Dan when he was young.

  “Tansy!”

  I stir and open my eyes. Thin spears of light slice the darkness above. Someone has their arms around me. After a few seconds, I realize that it’s Tate and that we’re in the cellar. I sit up, hear Mom call my name again, and understand that her voice is not part of the dream.

  In a groggy voice, Tate says, “What?”

  “It’s my mom.” Pushing to my feet, I make my way to the top of the stairs and bang on the door. “Mom! Over here!”

  In seconds, Tate is beside me and pounding, too. “In the cellar!” he yells.

  “Mom! We’re locked in the cellar!”

  “Tansy! What in the world are you—” She sounds louder now, closer. I hear scuffling, then a rattle, a squeak, and a groan. The door lifts and daylight pours in, along with a good amount of dust.

  I squint up into Mom’s surprised face. “Hi.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I say, coughing and brushing dirt from my hair. She takes my hand and pulls me out.

  Tate climbs up behind me, carrying the dead flashlight. “Hello, Mrs. Piper.” He looks down at his shoes.

  Mom stares at the two of us, frowning. “Tate, right?”

  He nods. “Sorry if we scared you.”

  Mom’s eyes are suspicious. “What were you doing in the cellar?”

  “It’s a long story,” I murmur.

  “I love long stories. Why don’t I make some breakfast while you clean up and Tate calls his parents? Then you can both tell me what happened.”

  Tate brushes off his jeans, then bends down to snatch the hammer off the ground. “I think I’ll just head home. Thanks for the breakfast offer, though.” He looks at me. “See ya later, Tansy. I’ll call you. Maybe this afternoon I can come back and fix that stair.” His eyes say what he doesn’t—that he’ll nail it shut with Henry’s things inside.

  “The stair?” Mom glances down into the cellar, then at the hammer Tate holds. “The bottom one is loose,” I tell her, feeling defensive, though I’m not sure why since I haven’t done anything wrong. “Tate offered to repair it so no one gets hurt.”

  Half an hour later, I’m showered, dressed, and eating scrambled eggs with Mom and Papa Dan at the kitchen table. “I heard a noise outside last night,” I explain. “When I looked out the window, I saw someone and I thought it might be Papa Dan, so I went after him. I guess I forgot to lock his door. I’m sorry.”

  Papa Dan blinks across at me when I say his name.

  “The cellar door was open when I got there,” I continue. “I expected to find Papa Dan inside, but it was Tate. I went down to see why he was there and then the door closed and we were locked in. I think Papa Dan didn’t see either one of us go down there. He had to be the one who locked it.” Aware that I’m jabbering, I look into my grandfather’s eyes. “Did you lock the cellar last night, Papa Dan? You can tell me. I won’t be mad at you.”

  Papa Dan smiles at me and keeps eating his eggs.

  “This all sounds a little strange, Tansy,” Mom says.

  Ignoring her, I lean closer to Papa Dan and say, “You know we don’t like you wandering around outside at night. It’s dangerous.”

  “Why would the cellar door have been unlocked in the first place?” Mom asks.

  “I was down there taking pictures recently. I must not have secured the padlock and that’s how Tate got in.” The eggs weigh heavy in my stomach. So do the lies. I hate being dishonest, especially with Mom.

  “And Tate wanted to get into the cellar in the middle of the night because…?” Her eyes narrow.

  “He used to go down there before we moved in. It was sort of his place to get away.” I shift my attention to my plate and force another bite of eggs down.

  “Tansy…look at me.” I meet her gaze. “I’m glad you’re making friends here. And I don’t mind if you have a boyfriend.”

  “He’s not—”

  “But,” she interrupts, “I want to know if you’ve been meeting Tate down there.”

  Heat infuses my cheeks. “No, Mom!”

  She studies me with pursed lips until the distrust slowly melts from her eyes. “Okay.” She sighs. “But next time you hear a noise outside at night, wake me up. What if it hadn’t been Tate or Papa Dan? What if it had been that prowler the Quattlebaums saw?”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  My cell phone rings in the next room. I jump up to get it, silently thanking the caller for saving me from any more of this humiliating conversation. Bethyl Ann is on the other end of the line when I pick up.

  “I’m keeping Mama company at the library,” she says, sounding excited. “I decided to continue looking for articles about Henry or your grandfather, and I found something.”

  “You did?”

  “It’s a picture I saw once before. A long time ago. That’s why I probably remembered Isabel’s name the other day.”

  “It’s a picture of Bell?”

  “I guess it’s her. She’s with Henry and your grandpa and another girl at a high school dance. Underneath the photo it says…” Bethyl Ann clears her throat. “Left. Isabel Martin, escorted by Henry Peterson. Right. Louise Irving, escorted by Daniel Piper.”

  The picture the newspaper photographer took of Henry and Bell at the Winter Dance! Gripping the receiver so tightly it shakes, I shut my eyes, and suddenly it’s Henry
’s hand I’m holding instead of the phone. I smell the liquor on his breath; hear the music playing in the school gym on that long ago night; hear Louise humming beside me.

  “It’s a funny picture, actually,” Bethyl Ann goes on. “Isabel looks like the cameraman caught her off guard. Her mouth is open, and she’s raising her hand like she’s trying to stop him from taking the shot.”

  Of course, I think. She didn’t want him to take it. If the paper printed it, her parents would see her with Henry.

  “And you should see their clothes,” says Bethyl Ann. “The girls are all dressed up in these really old-fashioned dresses, and the guys—”

  “What does he look like?” I interrupt, my heart ticking like Henry’s pocket watch.

  “Your grandfather?”

  “No, Henry. Does he look like Tate?”

  “Tate Hudson? Why would Henry Peterson look like—”

  “Does he?”

  “I can’t really tell. The picture is blurry where his face is. But you can see the others. Your grandfather was such a cutie patootie. I’m not saying he isn’t now, but you know what I mean. Hot cute.” She giggles. “Gosh, now that I think about it, that’s really an embarrassing thing for me to be saying about your—”

  “Bethyl Ann.” I lift my gaze to the ceiling. “Are you going to be there awhile?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll ask Mom to let me take the car and come over there.”

  “Good. You’ll want to see this.” She lowers her voice. “So you really think Isabel Martin is your Bell?”

  “I guess I’ll find out when I see the picture.”

  “But you don’t know what she looks like,” Bethyl Ann says.

  “It’s weird, but I’m just sure I’ll know if it’s her or not.”

  “Why didn’t you say her name was Martin? Bethyl Ann asks. “Isabel Martin died not too long ago.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “No, I just remember reading her obituary in the paper. She moved away a long time before I was born. Before my parents were born, even.”

  Only Bethyl Ann would remember the details of a stranger’s obituary. Something Mom said recently about Papa Dan crosses my mind. Something about a girl he grew up with sending him a letter. “Beth…how long ago did Isabel Martin die?”

  “I don’t know. A year maybe?”

  Could Isabel be Papa Dan’s friend? The one whose lawyer sent the letter that made him want to come back to Cedar Canyon? “What about the other girl in the photo?” I ask Bethyl Ann. “Do you know her?”

  “Louise Irving? I’m not sure. She looks like my old Sunday school teacher Mrs. O’Malley, only without the gray hair and reading glasses. I think her first name is Louise, too, but I would have to ask Mama. Mrs. O’Malley is nice. She used to live down the block and she made me cookies when I was little. They had these little chocolate drops in—”

  “Wait. Mrs. O’Malley is still alive?”

  “She’s in a nursing home in Amarillo. You know Mary Jane at the pharmacy? That’s her granddaughter.”

  “Ask your mom if Mrs. O’Malley’s name was Irving before she got married, okay? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  20

  The image of Henry and Isabel, Daniel and Louise in the old newspaper photo imprints on my brain like a tattoo. The Winter Dance scene seems familiar, as if I were there when it was taken. Henry’s face is as blurry as Bethyl Ann said, as if he turned his head the second the camera snapped. I recognize his suit as the one he wore that night at the school when he drank too much. As I touch his image, the same mixed feelings of love and apprehension that Isabel felt that night sweep through me, and I long to feel his hand in mine and look into his troubled eyes, to try to make him happy.

  Louise Irving looks exactly as I remember her. And Papa Dan is the same as he is when I step through the crystal’s beam and into the memories. He is Daniel—Isabel’s best friend and protector. His grin makes me smile, but at the same time, I ache inside. He grew up to be more than my grandfather; he was also my friend and protector. I miss him—the young man he was and the old man he became—the man he was before he got sick.

  Isabel Martin, though, is the person in the photo who captures my interest and holds it. It’s the first time I’ve seen her face, yet I know that the pretty girl with pale hair, wide eyes, and a long, straight nose is Bell. Though the photograph is black-and-white, I know the taffeta dress she wears is the color of wild plums. I also know that the sleeves make her arms itch and that the skirt swishes when she walks. She wears the crystal pendant. Henry’s crystal. The one he gave to her…to me.

  In the photograph, Papa Dan and Louise smile into the camera, but Isabel looks startled and alarmed. Though I can’t see Henry’s face, I know Bell felt the heat of his gaze at that moment. I’ve been inside her skin, behind her eyes. Even if Tate comes up with a hundred more rationalizations, I’m not sure he’ll ever change my mind about that.

  “Is that them?” Bethyl Ann asks quietly, and when I say yes, she whispers, “Wow.” Louder, she says, “Mom told me Louise Irving is Mrs. O’Malley.”

  I look up. “She did? I have to find a way to go see her.”

  Her eyes widen. “Hey! Mom and I are going to the mall in Amarillo this afternoon. You should go with us. We could visit Mrs. O’Malley at the nursing home.”

  “You think your mom would take us?”

  “Sure, she will. And we can make Mrs. O’Malley some cookies.” Grinning, she adds, “Let’s go ask.”

  When Bethyl Ann tells her mother our idea, Mrs. Pugh beams at us like we’re a couple of saints. She gets off at noon, so Bethyl Ann and I rush over to the Pughs’ house to make chocolate peanut butter drop cookies, and I call Mom to fill her in on the plan.

  Bethyl Ann already has all of the baking ingredients on the counter by the time I finish talking to Mom. “I can go,” I tell her.

  She opens a cabinet and takes out a big metal bowl and an electric mixer. “I hope Mrs. O’Malley can answer some of your questions about Henry.”

  “Me, too.”

  I lean against the counter and watch as she flips through a cookbook. “Bethyl Ann…I never did thank you for being there for me the other day at school when I was so upset in the restroom.”

  She looks up from the cookbook, and her brows tug together. “I’m just sorry Shanna was such a meanie to you.”

  “Why is she so mean?”

  “Mama says it’s just her nature. Some people are flowers, and some are thorns.”

  I smile as she returns her attention to the cookbook. “What about Alison Summers? I know you don’t think she’s a thorn, but why would she hang out with someone like Shanna if that’s true?”

  Bethyl Ann lays the open cookbook down on the counter. “Alison’s not mean.” She takes the lid off a canister. “She and Shanna have just been BFs forever, that’s all. And—” Catching herself, she blinks and looks down at the measuring cup she holds in one hand.

  “And what?”

  “I don’t want to gossip about Alison.”

  “Hey, I told you all my secrets.”

  “It’s not my secret. It’s not a secret at all. I just feel bad for her.”

  “Because?” When she doesn’t answer, I say, “She defended me to Shanna before you came into the restroom. And she didn’t even know I was there. It surprised me.”

  “It shouldn’t have.”

  “Why? What’s going on with her?” When she doesn’t answer, I say, “When I saw Alison crying the other day, what do you think she was really so upset about? Surely she wasn’t really that bummed over making a C minus. And why did Mrs. Summers freak when she didn’t see Alison the second she stepped out of the store?”

  After a few moments of silence, Bethyl Ann finally says, “Mama told me Mrs. Summers can’t get over her grief. And that Alison still feels guilty.”

  “About what?”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you.” Bethyl Ann blows her bangs off her forehead and puts dow
n the measuring cup. “Alison had an older sister named Amelia.”

  “Had?”

  She nods. “Last year, they were in a car accident and Amelia was killed. Alison was driving.”

  “Oh no,” I murmur.

  “She only had her learner’s permit and wasn’t supposed to drive without an adult in the car, but I guess she talked Amelia into letting her. The wreck wasn’t Alison’s fault, though. Another car ran the light at the intersection on the highway.”

  “That’s terrible,” I say. “Mrs. Summers must be afraid of something bad happening to Alison, too.”

  “I know. Everyone adored Amelia. She did everything right. She had just found out she was getting a scholarship for a full ride at UT after she graduated. She never got into any trouble, either. And she was always nice to everybody, even me.”

  “She sounds just like her sister.” Except for the being nice to Bethyl Ann part, I think. Ignoring someone and standing by while others abuse them is not my idea of ‘being nice.’ “Everybody adores Alison, too.”

  Bethyl Ann blinks at me, fidgety all of a sudden. She measures out a cup of flour. “This is the part I’m not supposed to talk about. It was told to Mama in confidence.”

  “You can trust me,” I say quietly.

  She pours the cup of flour into the bowl then turns. “Mama found Alison crying in the library one Saturday, just before closing time,” she says quietly. “She told Mama that she and Amelia were arguing when they had the wreck, and she keeps wondering if she might’ve hit the brake earlier if she hadn’t been distracted. Then she said that she should’ve been the one who died.”

  “Why would she say that?”