Shadow Forest- The Complete Series

by Eliza Grace

  “God, I’m so sorry, Charlie. I didn’t know.”

  “Well, of course you didn’t. You don’t call me and when I call you, you usually talk for a second or tell Jen to say you’re not available.”

  She’s right. I’ve been so self-consumed. And a terrible, terrible friend. I’d never once thought about what Charlie was going through. And not just her—I’d cut everyone out from school. “I’ve been a shit best friend, Charlie. Please forgive me. I promise to call more.”

  “You’ve gone through something terrible. I do understand. It’s fine. But… it’s just not the same without you there.”

  “Why? Bottom of the pyramid a little less steady?” I laugh, trying to shake off my feelings of guilt and the moody fog that’s settled over our conversation. I was a good cheerleader, but not great. And, because of my height, I was always bottom of whatever formation we tried. At competitions in tenth grade, the judges had made me show them my learner’s permit to prove that our team hadn’t recruited a ringer to ace our routines.

  “You know that’s not why.” Charlie chided, using her “friend” voice that told me to “shut up and stop being a tool.”

  “Sorry, trying to lighten the mood here.”

  “Meg’s moving away after Christmas and Nessa is graduating a semester early. I think the plan of going with each other as friends to prom instead of having dates is pretty much spoiled.”

  “Oh my gosh! When did all this happen?”

  “A month ago. Haven’t you talked to them?”

  I’m quiet on my end of the line and Charlie takes that as the “no” response it is. “I love you, Tilda. I feel bad for you and I want to be supportive. You need to pull your head out of your butt though. Your friends need you just as much as you need them.”

  “I know. I know. I’m sorry.” I’m tired of saying that I am sorry.

  “Stop saying that you’re sorry and just keep your promise.”

  “Promise?” I’m staring at Jen’s painting, trying not to cry, because snippets of my old life, along with the happiness I used to feel, are ramming against my skull, desperately trying to make me remember them in vivid detail. I don’t want to remember. It’s so much easier to just stay broken.

  Charlie groans. “To call more often, Tilda.” She stresses every word, like she hopes to hammer them into my brain so I won’t forget. But her voice can barely cut through the din that is already banging about in my mind.

  “I will. I will.”

  “And not just me. You need to call Meg and Nessa too. Maybe…” Charlie pauses and then starts talking again quickly, “maybe you should invite them to Thanksgiving too. I mean, I don’t really want to share you, but, it could be nice. The four amigos back together again.”

  “Oh… um. I’m not sure I’m up to that many visitors, Charlie. I’m not being rude. It’s just…” I don’t want to keep explaining. I hate explaining how I’m feeling; how, somedays, the depression is too much to bear.

  “Yeah. Okay.” She sounds defeated and I’m sad that I’ve punctured her bubble of hope. “Just remember that I’m not the only one that misses you, Tilda.”

  Way to drive the knife in further, I think, feeling even more awful. “I miss them too.” It’s almost a whisper, but she hears it.

  “Sorry, Tilda. I know I’m being all guilt-trippy. I wasn’t trying to be. Just give them a call, okay?”

  “I will.” I’m nodding my head fiercely, even though Charlie can’t see me. I want her to know that I do hear her, that I did mean what I said. I will be a good friend again… to all of them, even if I can’t actually be around them all emotionally.

  “Hey, Meg’s number has changed. Do you have something to write on?”

  “Wait, let me find something.” I set the phone down and I look about Jen’s studio, but see no paper or pencils. Others might find this strange, considering I’m sitting in an art studio, but Jen rarely works with paper and never pencils or pens out what she’s going to paint before starting. She says it messes with her creative vibe if there are lines. My mother once told me that Jen refused coloring books as a child for about the same reason. Good thing we love people for their quirks as well as their easy-to-understand habits. “Jen?”

  She doesn’t answer me and it’s not like the house is large. “Jen!” I call louder. Still no answer. Rolling over to Jen’s still-wet canvas, I swipe one of her smaller brushes and the nearest paint. It’s the maroon. Close up, it looks more the color of blood that is just beginning to dry. On the floor, is a cut piece of un-stretched canvas.

  “Okay, I’m ready.” I say as soon as I’ve picked up the phone again.

  “Took you long enough.”

  “Well, I tried to get up and walk and it didn’t work so well.” My tone is chipper and I laugh as Charlie stumbles over her words trying to apologize. “I was only kidding with you, silly. I am a bit slow in the wheelchair, but I didn’t fall or anything.”

  “God, don’t make me feel bad on purpose! Jerk.”

  The words sounds harsh, but I hear the smile in her voice. It feels like old times. “Okay, give me Meg’s number.” I dip the brush’s thin bristles in the paint and do an incredibly shoddy job of writing. But there it is, in dark red, and I know that actually writing it down means that I will actually make myself call my friend. It’s funny how that works. Putting something down on paper makes it more “real” and less easy to ignore.

  “Now promise me you’re going to call them.”

  “I promise.” And I really do mean it.

  “We’re all set for Thanksgiving then?”

  “Sure, I mean, if your parents are okay with it and so is Jen.” I feel the tiniest flame of anticipation spark to life in my chest. It’s what hope used to feel like; it’s been awhile since I’d felt it. Even when I’m at rehab, with Hoyt on one side and Jen on the other coaching me forward, telling me that I am going to get better, hope still remained an unyielding lump of coal in my body. Often, I had felt it move within me, but only to blacken the sidewalls of my soul and make me feel even more that hope would never be something I could have again. Not in its purest, most innocent form at least.

  “Hello? Seriously, Tilda, did you hear anything I just said?”

  “Truthfully? Um… no. Sorry! I was just thinking how I’m excited to see you.” It’s not a lie. I mean, I hadn’t been focused so much on her, more the feeling of hope in general.

  “I can’t wait to see you too!”

  We chat a few minutes more and, after our goodbyes, I put the phone down and exhale one of the breaths that have been long-caught within my body—so many inhalations made stagnant after my family died that could be liberated by embracing my old life instead of ignoring it.

  If I’m totally honest with myself, the hope sparking inside of me is only part comfort. The other parts are full of anxiety and fear. Because I know that to fully live again, to “walk” in life—possibly without legs forever—will take remembering everything in the past. The good. The terrible. The everything.

  I wasn’t sure I could handle breathing out so many pain-soaked and stale memories.

  When the Words Fade…

  When I leave the studio, I look all over the house for Jen—except the attic with its steep and narrow stairwell.

  I find her note in the kitchen, half-hidden beneath a stale loaf of French bread. She’s gone to the farmer’s market in the next county. Her garden hasn’t done well this year and it’s the only place she’ll buy veggies and dairy products. All of the vendors are organic and treat their animals humanely, even the ones that will eventually be packaged and labeled “hormone free and grass-fed”. Another ‘save the world’ bit. She’ll be gone at least two hours. Alone. Again.

  Jen’s like that, so I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s left unexpectedly. One day, she is like velcro—clinging to me and helping me constantly until I am so annoyed that I want to scream at her—and then the next day, she’s off in la-la land, going about her normal business like I
do not live with her. I think it is her two sides fighting—the side that is used to being carefree and single and the side that is now responsible for another life. Or, maybe, she’s got a chemical imbalance. That would explain a lot.

  As I play with Jen’s note in my hand, it strikes me that perhaps Matthew will stop by again and prove that I’d just dreamed of him burning to ash. I hope that it didn’t happen; I hope that it was not real. I should be scared of him, wary of his lies, and the darkness that covers him like a blanket. Yet, there is no fear in me when I think of today.

  Then again, maybe he actually is dead; maybe that is why I’m completely unafraid of him.

  No. I know he isn’t dead. He’s very much alive, despite my vision and his disappearance. Perhaps he didn’t stop by at all. Perhaps it is my own imagination overlaying my fiery past onto my somewhat-apathetic present. Or, and I think this is the case rather than the other possibilities, I am not afraid of him; because he is somehow part of that thing in the woods that calls to me. And, rather than be afraid of that thing like any sane person would be, I crave it. That thing, in a way I cannot explain, is a part of me.

  It wants me. I want to be wanted. I am a broken shell with emotional bruises that have left me black and blue and out of touch with the friendships that would have kept me strong. Jen loves me, but she doesn’t want me any more than someone would want a bothersome rock in their shoe.

  Sighing, I go to toss the stale bread, but then I remember that Jen always keeps old bread for the geese that live in the pond near her art gallery in Boston. When she’s particularly stressed over a new showing, she takes solace in the lake and its inhabitants. I’ve been there once with her since the accident. I sat by the lake in my wheelchair and watched people walking and chatting. It was beautiful and achingly depressing.

  Jen has names for all of the geese at the pond. I almost imagine her giving any new arrivals an article of clothing and a cute call sign like Cinderella and Gus-Gus. It’s odd, but it’s also endearing, like all of her other strange habits—like when she refuses to wear shoes when it’s raining, saying it’s the Earth’s way of being reborn. And I always laugh, because I know I could warn her of how polluted each little rain drop is and she’d completely ignore me and continue to dance across puddles and soak herself. Like a little child.

  But that’s just the complex beauty that is Jen. She’s a grownup in so many ways—a job, the responsibility of a home, the burden of me—but she’s stayed a kid too. Maybe I could have been that way throughout life if things were different. Maybe I would dance in the water beside her if I could still dance.

  I think about my ballet slippers, tucked away in a nondescript box at the bottom of the cedar chest in my room. Now, when I put on any shoes, I have to lift my lifeless legs up one at a time, bring each to rest against the opposite knee and watch as the shoes slide onto my feet, but make me feel absolutely nothing, not even the slightest hint of fabric against flesh. I hate putting on those shoes.

  And I don’t think I will ever dance in them again, so I have no idea why I hold on to the pink satin things with the worn leather soles.

  Hope. We hold onto things like that, because of hope, hope even when we don’t feel any hope inside of our flesh and bone bodies. And I am hoping again. Talking with Charlie made me, for the first time since it all happened, truly hope again.

  Moving into my bedroom, I look listlessly at the computer on my small desk and remind myself that I should be doing school work. Jen trusts me to self-direct and I do, most days, but today… the last thing I want to do is answer questions on a tedious book that I’ve read twice already (and still don’t understand). Rolling over to my bed, I lift the mattress an inch and dig out my mother’s journal. I haven’t shown it to Jen yet. I’m not sure I want her to know about it. I’m not sure if I want to share it.

  I don’t plan to tell her about Matthew either. It’s wrong to keep these things from her, but, at the same time, I know that I have to keep her ignorant. If she finds out, I believe that she’ll find a way to silence the voice in the forest. The invisible thread that is connected both to me and the caller in the woods grows taut. He is pulling me again.

  My gaze is forcibly pulled to the window and I want to run. I want to lift out of the stupid chair that binds me and race outside to him. The thing. The it. The him… But the field—full of knee-high grass and violet-hued flowers that would make it difficult for the wheelchair—is so wide between the farmhouse and the trees. I cannot even pull my body up a short flight of stairs to the attic. There is no way I can breach this gap. And then there is the fence with no gate. Another barrier.

  The yearning in my stomach grows to a fever-pitch that threatens to take the spark of hope within me and blow and blow until an inferno rages.

  Clunk. I am released.

  Blinking, I look down. My mother’s journal has fallen from my grasp and settled against the floorboards. As I watch, the pages begin to flutter and turn. And, where once the yellowing parchment was blank, scrawled script appears. My mother’s handwriting. It is a sight that banishes everything else.

  Jolting my body forward, not paying attention and ramming my head into the footboard post painfully, I grip the leather-bound volume with eager fingers. And then I am reading, page after page, as more and more words appear. My eyes grow wider with every sentence.

  It’s so strange. I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling—it’s like there’s this rope tied around my waist that trails across the field and, every now and then, something is yanking on it. But the connection isn’t really outside my body; it is inside, deep inside of me, like a part of myself that I’d forgotten. I tried to follow the sensation, but Dad stopped me. He got angry again, like he did about the party… but… I have to know what’s in the woods. I just have to. And I can’t explain why, even to myself. And I realize now, now that Dad has kept me from going into the forest a second time, that during all of my fifteen, almost sixteen years, I have never been past the white fence at the edge of the meadow… Not even once.

  But Jen has been into the woods before… hunting with Dad, mushroom gathering with Mom. So what does that mean?

  ***

  I skim-read a few pages, as much as it pains me to do so, because I cannot stand to read and read about my mother’s discontentedness and her fights with Grandpa. I want something wonderful, something amazing about her life to grasp on to.

  ***

  I know what I am now. Dad couldn’t watch me forever. I made it into the forest. I’ve been three times now.

  Jen says I need to run away, leave. She’s just jealous though, because he doesn’t want her too. Only me. She says she has not felt it at all, not the tugging or the voice. She hasn’t even heard the footsteps in our room or seen the shadow playing across my sheets when I cannot fall asleep at night. I can hear so much envy in her voice. But I don’t care. Of course he doesn’t want her. She’s so odd and not nearly as pretty as I am. He told me not to call him by his name. But he’s mine. My M.H.

  So, I just can’t leave. Not now. Not now that I know what I am and what he can teach me and how I feel about him. Mom has never believed the stories about our Clarke ancestors. But I do. Everything he said made so much sense. I think Dad knows the truth. I think that’s why he got so angry when I wanted to go to Greg’s party and why he’s kept me away from the woods all my life. Jen thinks if I don’t run away that I need to tell Mom and Dad about him.

  But when he looks at me, I feel beautiful and smart and grownup. He’s so handsome, more than I ever dreamed he’d be. I love him. I really love him. So… I’ll make her forget. If she doesn’t remember, she can’t tattle on me.

  ***

  I tried another one tonight. A spell. The one to make Jen forget was so perfect that I had to try a second. The words just flowed from my mouth like water, honeyed phrases in a language that no one else understood. I told Dad that I was practicing Latin for an oral exam at school. He believed me.

  M
om was surprised when she lifted the cover off the casserole and butterflies flew out! Ha-ha. I want to try more, learn more, but he says I have to stay next time, that I can’t leave him again. He’s given me enough for now, but…

  Magic is amazing. Now that I know, I want to know everything. And I can’t believe that I’m a witch. A WITCH. That’s better than finding out you’re a princess or secretly rich or anything else.

  ***

  There are pages and pages of mom trying new spells—causing the laundry to fall off the line outside, doors to inexplicably close, changing her grades from Cs and Ds to As on her report cards. I begin to feel jealous that she knew him first… the man, for now I know for sure he is a man, out in the forest that is mine. Mine now. But then the writing changes… it becomes more exact and less hurried.

  ***

  He’s angry with me.

  It’s stormy every night now and Mom’s garden died without warning, all the food going black and rotten. I know it’s my fault. I told him I’d come back, that I’d stay with him. I just wanted more spells, just another taste. Dad called the school and he knows that I’m failing all of my classes. He yelled at them, asked them why my report cards say I have all As if I’m failing. They’re talking about sending me away, shipping me off to finish school somewhere hours away.

  I think that I want to leave. He… he scares me so much. I want to talk to Jen, tell her everything that’s happened, but she doesn’t remember anything about him or the woods or spells and witches, because of me.