by Amy Saia
“I’d better go,” I said. “I’ll be late for art class.”
“Not so fast,” Will said. He pulled me back, and an electric sizzle zapped through our skin, something we hadn’t felt since the eclipse. We both jumped. “I thought those were gone,” he said, shaking out his hand in pain.
“So did I.” I rubbed my arm. Our eyes met.
“I wonder . . .” he said. Breaking the no-affection-on-campus rule again, Will slid his hand into mine. I gave a look of surprise when another shock crossed between us. Like a mini-lightning bolt.
Will’s eyes sparkled. “We need to talk about this. Tonight.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Bennett,” a stern voice cut in, “are you trying to demonstrate the relationship between Phoebe and Halgrave?”
What does she mean, Will?
The House of the Seven Gables. We’re reading it in class.
Our hands broke their connection; the electric sizzles disconnected with a quiet snap.
Will repositioned his backpack. “No, Ms. Jacomber.” He leaned in to brush my cheek with a kiss. “See you in a few hours.” Violation number three, but who cared? I giggled at his breath near my earlobe, and he chuckled in return. “The wicked witch is watching us,” he whispered before pulling away.
I tried not to smile. She did resemble a witch, with those piercing eyes of hers. But there was also a hint of sadness, with her eyes fixated on Will as if he would disappear if she were to blink.
“I admit, it’s refreshing to find two people who genuinely seem to care for each other these days,” she said, ushering him inside. “However, we’re here to read about it, not watch it in person.”
She turned to me with eyes slanting cold, and I felt a tiny ache behind my left eye. Another student, in a rush to get to class, bumped into me and apologized. When I glanced back up, Ms. Jacomber had gone inside and shut the door.
I hadn’t admitted to William how much I hated my art class. First year students were meant to be seen and not heard, learn on our own, explore our talent—if we had any. With no real direction, I spent most of my time doing the suggested exercises in our textbook, but soon I became restless. With a great amount of longing, I watched the exciting projects other students were working on, all the while wishing I could bypass the mind-numbing purgatory I found myself stuck in.
I shared a drafting table with Cowboy Jim—a rancher by trade. On the first night of school, we’d chosen to sit together. At least, I’d chosen to sit by him. He had a calm nature, was all prairie and sky and smells of earth. With thick gray hair flattened permanently by a brown Stetson, he was different from the younger students in class. Though perhaps the real reason I liked him was because he reminded me of my father.
“Hey, Blondie. Working on something new?” He had his all laid out, a beautiful landscape half done. I was hoping he’d keep me entertained with one of his stories; they often kept me from drifting off. After last night’s lack of sleep, I really didn’t have the energy to keep up any kind of conversation. I’d had another dream about the eclipse. About Jesse. Why couldn’t I stop dreaming about him? What was wrong with me? I was married to Will.
Once again, I gazed at my bare ring-finger with a frown.
“Well?”
“Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m working on something new.” I opened my half-filled sketchbook. On the first empty page, someone had written: Put your heart into it this time, Bennett. With black permanent marker, no less.
My heart sank. My mouth fell open.
“I always put my heart into my work,” I muttered to myself. Glancing over my shoulder, I locked eyes with our class instructor, Mr. Hershel. He sat in a relaxed state, chair back and feet up on the desk. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but he was Penn Peak’s most sought-after professor—even though he dressed shabby and wore his hair halfway down his back. His beard was thick enough to break the finest of razors. But this leftover hippie was also a great artist. Well, he hadn’t spoken a single word to me since class started in August. I figured he thought I was a high school dropout who married too young and had babies at home. Not worth his time. He was right about a couple of things: I was married, and I was young. But I didn’t have children, and I wasn’t without talent. Too late—he’d gone through my drawings and made his own assumptions. What a jerk.
“What is it?” Jim asked.
I’d let my thoughts slip to my tongue. “Oh, sorry, Jim. It’s nothing. Totally nothing.”
Ignoring the first twitch of a migraine, I flipped through the drawings in my sketchbook. Line study, shading, abstract, and a still-life of objects I’d thrown together on a table and drawn for two weeks. It was all amateur. I felt a drop in my stomach as I realized Mr. Hershel was right; my work lacked effort and expertise. But still, what had he ever taught me? I needed direction.
He yawned before reaching over to flip on his little desktop radio. The Doors drifted across the room in a hypnotic melody.
I stood and then sat back down. Then stood again.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, Jim. I just—I need to talk to Mr. Hershel.”
“What for?”
“Because I think it’s about time one of us asked him to help the first year students, don’t you?”
Jim let out a dry whistle. “Go ahead. I’ll cut in if things get bad.”
“Doubt you’ll need to. But thanks for the backup.”
I took my time approaching the desk, giving a soft throat-clearing to announce my arrival. “Mr. Hershel?”
“Call me Max,” he said, with slight annoyance. He swiveled in his chair and picked up a small brass object. “What do you need?”
“I need . . .” He didn’t seem to be listening. Why wouldn’t he look at me? “I see the note you left. Should I be reading more? Come into art lab on the weekends? I’m lost. Everything I know is self-taught, and it doesn’t seem to be good enough, but I do want to learn.”
“God,” he said with a scowl. “You want me to teach you how to be an artist?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I didn’t say that. I just need a little help.” There was something so familiar about Mr. Hershel, but I couldn’t quite place it. It was all so strange, with a hint of déjà vu. A sickening, I-don’t-really-want-to-remember, kind of déjà vu. I realized I’d been the one avoiding speaking, not the other way around. From the first day I’d come into class, I’d felt a pain at the sight of Mr. Hershel. He resembled a grown-up version of Jesse. Something about it really pissed me off.
It wasn’t fair.
He still wouldn’t look at me, so in the heat of annoyance I turned off the radio. Jim Morrison’s deep baritone stopped dead-note.
His leg slumped off the desk to the floor, but Mr. Hershel didn’t get out of his chair—and I was extremely grateful. I was a bit sick at what I’d done, even if the reason for doing it was still thick in my chest.
Grayish-blue eyes stared into mine. “If you don’t like the way I teach, then you can drop the class. Mr. Baggart next door is old and doesn’t comprehend a damn thing, but you can go to his department if you like being told you’re great and special and all that. His students graduate and then die off into crappy jobs in the greeting card business, or worse, selling little prints at art fairs. Is that what you want?”
“No.” I tried not to grit my teeth while answering.
He smiled. “The way I teach has often been criticized, but my students come out better for it. Those who don’t weren’t even trying in the first place. I can’t help someone who doesn’t try.”
“But I am trying. And I’m here right now, asking you for help.”
“And I told you,” he said, leaning across his desk, “to put your heart into it. That was me teaching you. Take it or leave it.”
I chewed on my lip for a second before gi
ving a nod. He watched, amused, and then reached to turn on his radio so The Doors could resume their slow, psychedelic blues. “And one more thing. Don’t ever touch my radio again.”
My head pounded as I returned to my work stool. The table swirled. I reached out to grab the sides of the desk, closing my eyes while I waited for the dizziness to pass.
“Whoa, there, what’d the snake say to you?” Jim asked upon my return.
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
“Well, I am.” I opened my eyes and flung my sketchbook to a blank page, only to sit in a hazy stare for the longest time. The pain settled to a dull level. “I’m just fine.” I would draw Jesse. Not another abstract. Jesse was what I had been avoiding, not only in art, but life. I couldn’t say his name, couldn’t bear to think of his face or his voice. He was the last part of my heart I’d been reining in, and Mr. Hershel had seen it. Mr. Hershel was here to remind me of it. If I didn’t draw Jesse, I’d never get over what happened.
I’d never get over him.
Chapter 2
A tall Superman in sweatshirt and blue jeans stood waiting for me by the passenger side of the Camaro, book bag over his shoulder, happy grin on his face. “Hello.”
I was piqued; the headache had gotten worse. All I wanted was to go home, grab a cup of tea and a few aspirin, and lie down.
Oh yeah, and I needed a smoke. A big, long smoke. Maybe two. Something Will knew nothing about, because I hid all evidence and blocked every single thought of the activity from my mind. He’d caught me once at the start of school. There was so much stress, so many things to do. I’d needed an outlet, and cigarettes had become my happy little stress reliever. Too bad I had a husband from the 1950s who thought women who smoked were the devil.
“Hi, Will.” Dammit, I’d planned on having a quick one before he finished his class. He was usually held over by Ms. Jacomber.
He held out a palm. “Touch me.” He was so excited; those blue eyes really sparkled.
“Okay.” I placed my fingers over his hand. A jolt snapped between us.
“Emma! That was a big one! It’s really happening again.” He ushered me into the car before making his way around to the driver’s side with a happy stride. The door closed, and it was quiet for a moment. “It’s really happening,” he whispered, adding, “I thought it was gone.” He rested his head against the seat with a sigh of relief.
“Why is it such a big deal?” I asked, trying not to sound annoyed. I’d have a smoke after he headed up to his office at home. When Will started a writing session, I ceased to exist for hours on end.
“It opens up a new possibility.”
“Of what?”
“Of so many things.” His voice had turned gentle.
Will touched me again and again with playful little taps of shock all along my wrist. I distractedly pulled away to rub at my temple. “You’re not well,” he said.
“I’m fine. But I think I’m going to have to make an early night of it.”
“Want me to crawl in bed with you?”
“No,” I said, reaching for my seatbelt. “Not tonight, dear, I have a headache.”
¤ ¤ ¤
At home I downed a few capsules at the kitchen sink with William behind in a state of worry. “Do you think it’s because I hit you this morning?”
“You didn’t hit me.” Why did William always have to shadow me so much? I needed space, couldn’t he see that?
With a delicate touch, he felt along the slightly bruised spot on my scalp and tsk-tsked to himself. “Elbowed. Hard. It’s as bad as hitting.”
“No. That’s not what’s causing my headache.”
“It must be, though. Dammitt, how could I have been so careless? Especially with your injury.”
He was referring to the car accident I’d had back in Springvale over a year ago, which had stolen my memory for a few weeks, conveniently erasing all my thoughts of eclipses, Seekers and ghosts. For two weeks, I’d believed William to be an angel at my beck and call. In reality, he was making secret plans to get me out of town, and in the meantime, turn himself in to the cult. Jesse would be my means of escape.
Jesse.
My head throbbed again, much worse than before. I couldn’t figure out which was worse, the headaches, or having to block my thoughts so Will wouldn’t hear or see all the crazy stuff in my brain.
A pair of arms slipped around my waist. I closed my eyes.
“It’s just stress, that’s all,” I said.
“Want to talk about it?”
I hesitated; his embrace was so warm. But I couldn’t tell him about Jesse. Not yet. “It’s nothing. I mean, okay, today my art teacher gave me trouble about the quality of my work. At first I was mad, but he’s right. He’s absolutely right. I haven’t been doing my best. But that’s all going to change.” There, I’d switched the topic. I was good at that.
“If you think so.”
“I do. I’ve just got to try harder.”
William kissed my head. He rubbed at my neck, brushing the hair away with a gentle hand. “Are you sure that’s all?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Well,” he said, sounding like he wasn’t entirely convinced, “no one has to be rude to make a point.” A soft kiss, and he pulled away.
I heard his stomach rumble.
“Are you hungry?”
“Oh, no, not really.”
“Yes, you are,” I said, moving to the cabinet. Headache or not, I was someone’s wife, and dinner needed to be made. “I’ll heat you up a can of soup.” Something to keep me busy.
“But you were going to bed.”
“Some things can wait.”
A few minutes later I was leaning against the stove, hovering over a pot of soup which was close to boiling over. A wooden spoon dangled from my hand, but I wasn’t stirring. My thoughts were somewhere else. I was somewhere else.
William said from the table, “You’re so quiet.”
I could tell I was being watched carefully. There had already been a few unspoken messages I hadn’t responded to. How could I tell him, much less show him, all the thoughts in my head? This process of grief was finally on my shoulders, and I had to deal with it, but I didn’t want to. It meant accepting it. It meant letting go.
I placed two bowls of hot tomato soup on the table and sat down. The pounding in my head began to cease; the aspirin was finally doing its job. William lifted the evening newspaper to read while eating, a bad habit he’d picked up but which I said nothing about. A copy of The House of Seven Gables sat on the table as well. “So, is that Ms. Jacomber’s favorite book or something?” I joked, and he lowered the paper in surprise.
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, I’ve already read it,” I said, grinning smugly. “In tenth grade. Want me tell you all about it?”
Will shifted in his chair and peered at me from under a stern brow. He picked up his book. “That would be cheating, Emma.”
“Cheating, shmeating.” It’d serve Ms. Jacomber right. I couldn’t think of a reason why, but it would.
Will continued to read, and it reminded me of the library back in Indiana where we first met—back when he was a ghost, and I’d first come to town and couldn’t figure out what the hell I was doing with my life. William became my obsession to replace all that; he was mysterious and beautiful. Only seventeen at the time, I fell hard and nothing and no one was going to stop me from having him.
A memory of a rebellious longhaired boy came to interrupt the image—someone more stubborn than me. My head pounded and I clenched my fists under the table.
“Your teacher really gave me the eye today,” I said, averting the subject dwelling inside my subconscious.
“Who? Ms. J
acomber?”
“Yeah. It was weird.”
He spoke from behind the book. “Ah, she’s just serious about her class, that’s all. Just like your art teacher.”
I sat for a while and slopped the soup around with my spoon before getting up to wash it down the sink. I couldn’t eat. I needed that cigarette. “Exciting plans, now that I’ve fed you?” I asked, without really needing an answer. My husband would go upstairs, like he always did on Friday night, to start a weekend-long writing jig. These sessions were sure to produce the next Great American Novel, and I was proud to witness such a magical event; only, he sure was taking his time tonight.
Standing behind, I flipped his ebony locks around for a moment before leaning in to kiss the top of his head. Bad idea. He’d really laid on the Brylcream. Will placed the book down next to his plate and cranked his head to look up at me. “How’s your headache?”
“Better.”
“Really?” He turned and slid his hands around my waist and pulled me close so his face nestled in my midriff. Lips pressed into my navel, and it was no casual gesture.
My body stiffened.
Jesse. Jesse was still in my head and my heart, and was poisoning everything.
Pulling away with a hurt glint in his eye, Will pretended he hadn’t felt my body’s reaction. I watched him shrug a little and reach for the book. “Well, I’ll just finish this chapter and go up to write.”
I reached around to grab his empty bowl and spoon. I swept crumbs of bread—leftover remnants from his beautiful mouth. Then I walked to a sink of dishes needing to be washed. They had been there all week. I was a horrible cleaner.