“Yeah…” She turns around and grabs a box, placing it on the desk with a loud thump. “From Illinois?”
I turn them around and rub a finger along the box with my mother’s handwriting. “My mom.” I groan.
“Well, there’s another one. Why would she send them here?”
“Because she lives to ruin my life.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “What?”
“I blocked her address from sending me stuff. Birthday cards, Christmas packages, letters. They always get returned, and apparently, she finally got smart and stopped shipping to my address.” I sigh, hating that she found a way to get them to me. “I’ll just take them down to the post office and return them.”
She gives me a curious look, and I know she wants an explanation.
“We don’t get along very well.”
“I figured that.”
“She used to send me stuff all the time when I first moved away. I left and didn’t want to look back. I hated being home. I hated being surrounded by the things that reminded me of my sister. So I wanted to completely detach from that part of my life, but she was hell bent on reigning me in.”
“So you blocked her from mailing you things?”
I shrug. “I know it seems harsh, but it was the only way. She wouldn’t stop. I’d send them back, tell her to stop sending me cards and money, because I didn’t want them. My resentment was too heavy to accept anything else from them.”
“Maybe it was her way of asking for forgiveness?” she offers. I know she doesn’t know the whole story, no one really does, but she has a really close-knit family, so it’s hard for her to understand not wanting to be involved in each other’s lives.
“I wasn’t ready to forgive her,” I say simply. “It’s a little complicated.”
“Sounds like it.” She frowns. “Well, I’m sorry either way. I wish I knew how to help.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’ve accepted that my parents and I have a very odd…relationship.” If you even want to call it that.
“You aren’t even a little curious to know what’s inside? I mean, two large packages…I’d be dying to know!” Her face lights up, the anticipation evident in her eyes.
“Fine.” I sigh. “Only because you’re making me!” I playfully scowl.
Her lips go wide in an over-enthusiastic grin. “Yay!”
I shake my head at her. “It’s probably all my old stuffed animals chopped into tiny little pieces.”
She wrinkles her nose and stands up across from me, cutting the tape off the sides. “You’re so morbid.”
I peel back the sides as she cuts them loose. Once all four are spread open, I notice the familiar handwriting on the notebooks packed inside.
“Are these your journals or something?” Christine asks, reading my expression.
“Not mine.” I shake my head, grabbing the first one on top and tracing the lettering of her name written out. “My sister’s.”
“Are they all notebooks?” she asks, peeking inside again. There are stacks of them, all different colors, but all with the same lettering written on top. Ariel Rose.
“Her journals,” I respond.
“Have you seen them before?”
“No. I’d only seen her sketch pads of some of her drawings. I had no idea she had all of these.” My voice is somber, shock and fear taking over my head.
“Why would your mom send you these?” she asks the same question I’m wondering myself. “Do you think the sketchbooks are in the other package?”
My eyes lift to hers, mind spinning at the realization. “Let’s open it,” I say hurriedly.
She lifts the other box on top, ripping the tape off as fast as she can, not even bothering with the scissors this time. Once the sides are lifted open, I see them. On top is one of the sketchbooks I looked at after her funeral, but underneath is a stack of books I’d never seen before.
“Oh my God…” I breathe out. I grab one and hold it, thinking how much smaller it feels in my hands than six years ago. “I hadn’t seen all of these,” I tell her.
I flip through it, remembering the way I felt when I first saw them. Sadness. Heartache. Pain.
The heavy shading in each drawing guts me. I feel sick, but swallow it down. She drew these for a reason…inspired by some inner demon.
“I see the talent runs in the family,” Christine says softly and sincerely. Besides Ms. Jones, Christine is the only person here who knows about the AR Collection. She’s in charge of the financial books, so there was no way around it. But I trust her and Ms. Jones over anyone else.
“I hadn’t even known she was drawing until she passed. She never shared them with me.”
“Really?” I hear the shock in her voice. I was just as shocked, too.
“Yeah, I’m not sure why. Perhaps she was afraid to show them to me or something.”
There have to be dozens of notebooks and sketchbooks in here, which means she’d probably been hiding them for years.
“Do you know what they mean?” She leans over and looks at them as I flip through the pages. “They look really sophisticated for her age.”
“I know,” I agree. “She’d spend hours wandering the fields, always falling asleep in the grass on warm summer days, or so she’d say. I just always assumed she spaced out and got lost or something but thinking back on it, she always did carry a small backpack with her.”
“She wanted privacy,” Christine suggests. “Maybe it was therapeutic for her.” She gives me a sympathetic look, seeing how hard this is for me.
She knows about Ariel falling from a tree, but she doesn’t know about the depression and cutting. These drawings are a window right into her mind of what she was suffering through.
“She suffered from depression,” I explain, the words continuing without restraint. “My parents didn’t believe her, brushed it off as her wanting attention over me or something. They were ignorant to believe that one of their precious children wasn’t perfect. Either that or they didn’t want to spend the time helping her. Ariel kept it all inside. You couldn’t tell most days because she acted like a normal kid, always laughing and smiling, cracking jokes back and forth with friends. But once my parents found out she was cutting, they turned their heads and pretended it wasn’t happening.”
“That’s awful.” She covers my hand with hers when I realize tears are falling down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry. I’m acting like such a baby.” I’m quick to wipe the tears away and close the sketchbook. I hate that my walls are crumbling down right in front of her. I can feel them tumbling down one by one.
“Don’t you be sorry, Aspen. Seriously.”
“I think maybe I should just take them home now.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll let Ms. Jones know, and we’ll figure out the rest.” I choke back a sob and thank her, placing the folds of the box back together. “I’ll tell Shane to come help you put them in your car if you want.”
I nod and keep my eyes low.
Shane notices the dramatic shift in my mood the moment he helps me carry them to my car. I feel him looking at me, thinking twice about asking me what’s wrong.
“Thank you,” I say softly, shutting the door to my car.
“I’ll follow you home,” he says. When I look back up at him, his expression softens. “Help you carry them inside.”
I only nod in agreement before turning back toward the car and getting inside.
I thank him again once he sets the boxes inside my apartment. I offered to carry one, but he batted my hands away.
“Feel better, Aspen,” he says, sincerity in his eyes. “I’ll let Christine know you made it home safely.” He winks, a friendly smile spreading over his face.
“Thank you, Shane.”
“Anytime.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MORGAN
Having Aspen to myself for most of the week has been absolutely incredible. Waking up next to her, eating breakfast together, spending the day in bed wa
tching Netflix and laughing with each other…
I feel like a lovesick teen all over again.
The worst part is her having to go into work, but since it’s Saturday, Natalia and I get to spend some quality time together. We’re going to ‘drop by’ the gallery for a bit, go out for lunch, and whatever else she decides we have to do.
“Are you ready?” I call out as I lean against the front door, waiting for her. “I thought you were just putting some shoes on?”
“I’m looking for my purse! Just give me a minute.” She shuffles around some things on her desk.
“A purse?” I ask mostly to myself. “You’re eleven. You don’t need a purse.”
She finally walks out with a bag in her hand. “I’m a girl. I have stuff.”
My brows furrow as my lips curl up in an amused smile. “What kind of stuff could you possibly have? Pantyhose? Lipstick? Diary?” I tease.
She rolls her eyes as she walks past me and out the door. “You have so much to learn, Uncle Morgan.”
She says it so dramatically I can’t help but laugh. “Trust me, Shorty. I know.”
We arrive and Natalia nearly jumps out of the car before I even put the gear into park. I practically chase her all the way in, hollering at her to slow down, but she’s so excited and doesn’t even hear me.
I told Aunt Mel we’d be coming, so she’s already waiting for us at the front entrance. She absolutely adores Natalia and is super stoked to show her around.
“Good morning!” I hear her cheerful voice as she wraps her arms around Nat.
“Morning!” I come up behind them and wrap an arm around her shoulder with a squeeze. “She’s extremely excited in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I have!” She smiles wide. “I’m so glad you brought her. We’re going to have a blast!” She winks down at Natalia and grabs her hand.
This is my chance to go find Aspen, so I casually excuse myself for a moment. “I’ll catch up with you two in a bit. I’m going to use the restroom.”
“Okay, just find us when you’re done,” Aunt Mel calls over her shoulder. They’ve already started walking toward one of the exhibits when I start scanning the room for Aspen.
I continue looking around, but can’t find her anywhere. I want to ask where she is without sounding suspicious, but I’m not sure that’s possible.
I grab my phone out of my pocket and text her. Hey, Nat and I came to visit. Where are you?
I’m not sure if she’ll have her phone on her or not, but it’s worth a try. I catch back up with Aunt Mel and Natalia as they’re walking through the Forty under Forty exhibit. It must be one of their new ones because I’ve haven’t seen these before.
“How are things going?” I casually ask, stuffing my hands in my pockets.
“Good!” Natalia spins around, her face glowing with excitement. “It’s so beautiful here. Makes me want to draw something myself.”
“Good eye for art must run in the family,” Aunt Mel says with a wink. I haven’t told anyone other than Aspen that I haven’t painted in months, so everyone assumes I’m still doing it.
“I could get you your own art supplies, Shorty,” I offer. “I also have a bunch in the basement that you can use.”
“Really?” Her eyes widen as her lips tilt up high enough to reach her bright eyes. “I’d love that!” She wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes. I’ve never seen her this excited before.
We continue walking around, and I casually look around for Aspen. I see Christine, but still no Aspen. She walks up to Aunt Mel and flashes a small smile.
“Shane followed her home. I think she’ll be okay.”
“Oh, thank you, darling. I feel just awful.” She presses a hand over her chest.
My interest is piqued as I try to read between the lines of their conversation. “What happened?”
“Aspen received a couple packages from her mom that were upsetting, something about journals, so she went home for the day.”
My blood pressure rises the moment she says her name and mentions her mother. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I know their relationship is rocky at best.
“Aunt Mel, can Natalia stay here with you? I have to run somewhere quick. I’m sorry.” I kiss Natalia on the head and not so subtly run out before she can bombard me with questions.
I fly out the front doors and call her cell, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try again as soon as I’m in the car and drive out of the parking lot.
Voicemail. Fuck.
I speed to Aspen’s apartment, unable to focus on anything other than her. I’ve seen her break down on a number of occasions, her anxiety triggered from far less than situations like this.
Once I’m inside, I jog up the stairs two at a time. I’m panting as I arrive at her door, ready to knock it down as I hear blasting music coming from the inside. I knock on the door but turn the knob anyway. There’s no way she can hear me over the music.
Stepping inside, I immediately scan around for her. “Aspen!” I shout. “You here?”
I walk through the kitchen, to her bedroom, and back out to the living room before I check her studio where I finally find her, notebooks spread wildly all around her. Her knees are to her chest with her arms wrapped around them.
“Sweetheart, what happened?” Rushing to her, she looks up at me—her eyes red and swollen, her makeup smeared down her cheeks. She lowers her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks as she shakes her head.
Leaning over her, I grab the iPod connected to the speakers and shut the music off. “Baby…” I plead. “Talk to me. Please.” My voice cracks as I beg for her to say something.
Tilting her face up to look at me, her eyes seal shut as more tears run down. Her breathing is calculated as she counts softly, rocking her body back and forth.
“Aspen.” My heart pounds in my chest as I watch her crumble in front of me.
“She let go,” she finally chokes out, taking a deep breath. “She didn’t fall.” More tears run down her cheeks as I try to comprehend what she’s talking about. “She. Let. Go.” She says one final time.
Wiping her cheeks, she finally looks up at me with a numb expression on face.
“Tell me what happened.” I try to keep my voice calm and not show her that I’m dying inside seeing her like this, feeling completely helpless.
“I can’t get my heart rate to slow down,” she finally tells me. “I’ve never had an attack this badly before.”
“What can I do?” I rush out in a panic. “What do you need, baby?”
“Just hold me. I have to just ride it out.”
I pull her into my lap and hold her, soothing her the best that I can. Rubbing my hand up and down her arm, she fists my shirt and cries into my chest. My heart shatters as her body shakes with every hiccupping sob. Pressing my lips to her forehead, I place a soft kiss and tighten my arms around her.
We stay like that until I feel her breathing steady and the sounds of her crying dissipate. I want to comfort her and ask what’s triggered such a bad one, but what could I possibly say that would have any value at this point?
“Morgan…” Her voice just above a whisper.
“Yeah, baby?” I smoothly ask, brushing the hair back away from her face.
“I feel like the part of me that I had left from before she passed has officially been ripped away from me. It’s been shattered, leaving me in broken pieces of the person I used to be.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” I close my eyes and take a steady breath. “Tell me what happened. Aunt Mel said your mom sent you something?”
“She packaged up all of my sister’s old journals and sketch books and sent them to me.”
“Did you know she kept them all this time?”
“I didn’t even know they existed.” I feel her shudder against me.
“Why would your mom send them?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if she read them and wanted me to read them or if she was just cleaning stuff o
ut and thought I’d want them. She didn’t send a note or even tell me she was sending them. She gave me no warning at all.”
“So you’ve been going through them since you left?”
She nods.
“That triggered your attack?”
“I read them.” Lifting her head slightly, she sniffs and wipes her cheeks off. “They’re awful.”
Rubbing the pad of my thumb under her eye, I brush away the mascara that’s smeared. “Tell me.”
She shakes her head slightly.
“Baby, please.” I rub a hand along her throat and jaw. “You don’t have to suffer in pain alone anymore. Let me take some of that burden.” I rest my forehead against hers, feeling her hot tears against my cheeks.
Slowly, she leans forward and grabs one of the open notebooks on the floor next to us. “This was from a month before she died.” She clears her throat as she begins to read.
I had the same dream again last night. Each time, it becomes scarier and darker. The dark shadows close in on me, making me claustrophobic. My throat tightens, and I choke out for air, but I can’t breathe. I always wake up right before I pass out, but I feel the darkness surround me as I try and fall back asleep.
She swallows and turns the page. “This is a few days later.” She begins reading again.
The dreams are getting worse, and I can’t sleep. It feels as if there’s this demon living inside me, torturing me in my mind every time I close my eyes. It dampens my mood immediately, and I feel nothing but fear. During the day, I feel back to normal, but as soon as the sun sets, I’m scared again. I’m scared because I know what’s coming.
She turns another page. “This was a couple weeks before she passed.”
Aspen is so excited for our birthday that’s coming up. I keep thinking of ideas on what to make her, but I can’t seem to think straight anymore. Even in school, my eyes feel so heavy that I almost fall asleep and my teachers constantly ask if I’m okay. It’s embarrassing when all the kids turn around and look at me like I’m some kind of circus freak. I just wish the dreams would go away. They’re getting darker and more detailed, making it harder for me to wake up from them. A few nights ago, voices started echoing in the dreams, saying awful things, telling me to do awful things.
Pushing the Limits: A Student/Teacher Romance Page 26