Ghosts of Harvard

by Francesca Serritella

  She heard noises outside and crossed the room to peer out the window. Cady watched as boisterous groups of other freshmen barreled around the darkened Yard, their laughter amplified within the quad of aged brick, oak, and ivy. A wave of loneliness washed over her. She had thought that since she and her classmates were all strangers together, a merry spirit of collective neediness would suck her into a burgeoning friend group like a social undertow. She had hoped that she would at least get to hang with her roommates, or that somehow it would be easier than this. Looking out the window, it seemed that for many, it was. She had wanted to feel swept up, but Cady had gone through the day feeling isolated. Secrets had that effect.

  The ability to keep a secret was an Archer family trait. Cady remembered the day she heard back from the first batch of colleges. Harvard’s acceptance letter hadn’t been among the envelopes she pulled from the mailbox after school. That was because her mother had already checked the mail for it, taken it, and hidden it. What her mother hadn’t known was that Cady had signed up to be notified by email. The first line of that email—Congratulations! It is our pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted to the Harvard College Class of 2023—had been bubbling inside Cady’s chest since lunchtime. It was only later that afternoon, after she told her mom she was accepted, that her mother produced the paper version. Her mother said she’d thought it would upset Cady to see it, which was plausible, as Cady had been keeping the secret from her mother of why she actually wanted to go.

  But this wasn’t what she had thought her first night here would be like. When she first applied to Harvard, she had imagined she and Eric would be moving in at the same time. She mourned that alternate reality, the way it could have been if he were still here. He would already know how everything worked, where you pick up your keys, where you park, whether you got a good dorm. He would introduce her to his friends, and she would be automatically cooler for having upperclassmen who knew her name. He would carry the heavy stuff with his string bean arms that were weirdly strong. He would give her a gross, sweaty hug on purpose.

  Back home, she rarely met anyone without having her brother serve as context. She was always “Cady, Eric Archer’s little sister.” Everyone knew or had heard of Eric Archer; he was the type of kid in high school whom people referred to by his full name. Then, no one had been a stranger. Now, everyone was. And Cady was making it worse. Why couldn’t she tell her roommates she had a brother who died? Cady told herself she didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, but there was the more selfish reason; she didn’t want to be tragic. Tragedy taints a person, and no one wants to touch that sadness, just in case it spreads. A genius brother was one thing, a brother dead by suicide was another. She so badly wanted to rewrite that story, to give him, both of them, a better ending. And if that wasn’t possible, she didn’t want to tell the story at all.

  Cady stepped away from the window and returned to Eric’s notebook. Maybe Eric could still introduce her to some people after all. She flipped through its pages once again, looking for any names mentioned. “Prokop” appeared several times on the earlier pages, once where Eric had jotted down “Prof Prokop’s” office hours, and Cady vaguely recalled the name as the professor who advised Eric on his Bauer Award submission, a project he never finished. She wondered if his office hours were the same this year.

  There was another note that stood out to Cady because it wasn’t in Eric’s handwriting. It was on one of the earlier pages, when Eric’s calculations were still in neatly printed pencil, except on one page there were blue-pen corrections on one of Eric’s proofs. And in the margin the pen said, “Cheers!—Nikos.”

  Nikos. An unusual name like that should be easy to find on Facebook, Cady looked him up on her phone and quickly found him. She enlarged his profile picture—chiseled features, dark hair and eyes, looking dapper in a tuxedo. Damn, Eric, she thought, you couldn’t have introduced me to him sooner? She clicked around his profile: He was a senior physics major like Eric, so it made sense they had classes together. Skimming his groups, she saw he was a member of Harvard Intramural Squash Team and University Choir. Cady sang in the chamber choir in high school and had considered going out for one of the choral groups on campus, an idea that had just become more appealing.

  Cady heard the suite door open and close from inside her bedroom; one of her roommates must have come home. She got up and poked her head out to see which one it was, secretly hoping it was Ranjoo, just in time to see the door to Andrea’s bedroom close behind her.

  Cady stepped out and walked to Andrea’s bedroom door, hesitating before giving a light knock. “Andrea, hey, it’s—”

  “I’m changing!” Andrea yelled from inside.

  “—Cady,” she said only to herself. So much for roommate bonding.

  She felt awkward just waiting for Andrea to emerge, so she padded down the hall toward the communal women’s bathroom, half-intending to wash up for bed and half-hoping to find someone to persuade her not to, but no one else was wandering the halls. She pushed her shoulder against the door’s smudgy steel panel. A girl was showering in one of the near stalls, and the smallest sliver of visible flesh between the curtain and the tiled wall made Cady feel like a pervert. She turned her back to the row of showers and put her toothbrush and paste on the edge of a sink, clean except for a squiggle of one anonymous hair. She would have to get used to this communal bathroom thing. Growing up, Eric ceded bathroom territory to her entirely; she had only his ginger beard shavings with which to contend, and they weren’t much. Eric was cowed by the sheer force of his sister’s feminine mystique; out of respect or fear, he always gave Cady and her strange girl-things like tampons, body scrub, and flat iron a wide berth, although sometimes he did steal her Herbal Essence shampoo. She would catch him smelling of roses or mangoes or whatever the scent du jour was and bust him. “It was the jojoba that gave me away, wasn’t it? Damn you, jojoba!”

  She looked in the mirror, smiling at the memory, and swept her hair up into a high bun.

  The main door to the ladies’ room swung open and Andrea entered, dressed in purple plaid pajamas and lavender slippers. “Oh, hi,” she said, oddly bashful. “Sorry, I was changing.”

  “Yeah, no worries.” Cady smiled reassuringly. “How was dinner?”

  “Fine.” Andrea set her matching purple caddy of toiletries on the sink next to her.

  The conversation was slower to warm up than the faucet water. Cady bent to wash her face. “Ranjoo is still out.”

  “I know.” Andrea squeezed a line of toothpaste onto her electric toothbrush with an intensity of focus beyond what Aquafresh should require. “We ran into her after dinner in the Square. Her parents had taken her to some fancy restaurant in their hotel. I invited her to get frozen yogurt with us—just to be nice—but she said she was meeting up with some people.” Andrea put air quotes around some people and said the rest with the toothbrush muffling her speech, her mouth literally frothing. “What people? What’s the big secret? I didn’t want to join her, I was getting fro-yo!” She paused to spit. “Rude.” She replaced the whirring toothbrush in her mouth.

  Cady patted her face dry, trying to think of what to say.

  Andrea rinsed and spat a last time. “I guess she makes friends easily. I don’t know how.”

  Cady felt an unwelcome kinship with Andrea, bonded with the glue of jealousy and self-doubt.

  “Can I borrow some toothpaste? I forgot mine.”

  Andrea handed her the tube. “How did you get that scar on your neck?”

  Cady dropped the tube in the sink. “Oh, shoot, sorry.” She fumbled to get it, flustered. “I, um, this?” She covered the scar with her hand and lied, “I had a mole removed.”

  “Skin cancer?”

  She pulled her hair down to hide it. “No, but they thought it could be, so…” Although the scar was only an inch-long depression into her skin, it traced a
shame so deep it cut to her core. “I don’t like it, it’s ugly.”

  “You should wear sunscreen daily. Redheads are prone to skin cancer.”

  “Where did you go for dinner with your parents?” Cady shoved the toothbrush into her mouth so she wouldn’t have to talk anymore.

  “Bartley’s, you know that famous old burger place? My parents had their first date there, so they wanted me to experience it. They said nothing had changed but the menu, which was nice for them, but I don’t really like hamburgers. Then my parents went home. They’re not the type to waste money on a hotel unless they absolutely have to.”

  “Same with mine.”

  “You mean your father and your aunt? Ranjoo told me your mom didn’t come.”

  “Well, right.” Cady stole a glance at Andrea in the mirror. When did those two have a chance to talk about me? “I meant in general.”

  “Why didn’t your mom come?”

  Cady sighed. “She’s totally disappointed in me that I’m going to Harvard.”

  Andrea frowned at her for a moment, puzzled, before her face eased into a smile, and she laughed. “You’re joking, I get it this time.”

  Cady smiled, revealing nothing more. “See you in the room.” Walking out, she could see Andrea’s uncertain gaze follow her, reflected over and over again in the row of mirrors.

  So not one, but two painful memories chased Cady back to her empty bedroom. She changed quickly and climbed under the covers of her bottom bunk, but she couldn’t fight off both memories at once. As she tried to sleep, her mind replayed that awful memory of the night she’d discussed those college acceptance letters with her parents at dinner.

  * * *

  —

  SHE REMEMBERED HOW her father sat back in his chair as he said it: “Harvard. You got in—really?”

  She remembered the conscious effort it took not to look at her mother’s face the whole time.

  Then her father took a deep breath and summoned a smile. “Well, that’s wonderful.”

  “Andy.” Her mother gave him a look as if he were making a bad joke.

  “It is. It’s an incredibly prestigious university, not to mention highly selective, and they picked our daughter. That’s a very big deal, Cady, congratulations.” He raised his water glass in Cady’s direction.

  “Well, that’s true, honey, and I hope you feel proud of yourself, because I am.” Her mother nodded to Cady briefly. “She’s worked very hard, that’s why she got into many other top, top schools, including Ivies, so she has her pick. Of course she’s not picking Harvard.”

  “Have you asked her?” Her father raised his brows at his daughter. “Do you want to go?”

  “Actually, I do,” Cady answered, softly.

  “All right, then I support you. That’s an excellent choice.”

  “Wait, what?” Her mother’s mouth dropped open. “Cady, you don’t want to go there.”

  “It was my first choice school.”

  “Before, but not now. How could you want to now?”

  Her father turned to her mother. “Don’t jump on her. She gets to make her own decision.”

  “I can’t believe we’re even having this discussion!” Her mother gave a laugh, but her eyes flared. “Is this about attention? I mean, first the scattering ceremony, and now this?”

  Cady’s cheeks flushed with heat. “No, that day, I don’t know what happened, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Then why are you doing this?”

  Cady looked down to shield herself from her mother’s glare. “I just want to—”

  Her father interrupted, “Karen, you can’t blame Harvard. We have to face the fact that Eric was schizophrenic. It was his mental illness, not the school, that became too much for him. Harvard didn’t kill him.”

  “It didn’t save him,” her mother snapped. “I brought my son home from Harvard’s campus in a body bag. Some cafeteria there is where he ate his last meal. I still get overdue notices from Lamont Library for books he didn’t return. I received a letter of condolence on Harvard stationery with that stupid fucking crimson seal that I hope never to see again.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “It is home to the greatest tragedy of my lifetime. It is his tomb!”

  “Mom.” Cady reached across the table to touch her mother. She felt terrible, and in that moment, she was ready to change her mind, until—

  “And you.” Her mother recoiled from her and stared at her, wild-eyed. “What are you thinking? How could you even think to do this to us? To me?”

  “I want—”

  “Want what? To drag us through four more years of agony? To keep me up more nights than I already am? Honestly, I don’t know why you’d want to go through it yourself. How could you tolerate it? It’s like his death means nothing to you.”

  Cady felt the heat rise to the surface of her skin, reddening her cheeks as though she’d been slapped.

  Her father held up a hand. “Enough. That is enough. We are all grieving for Eric, yes, in our own ways, but we are all grieving, and we will be for a long, long time. But I will not allow this family to be defined by this loss forever. I won’t. Yes, Eric’s death has cast a shadow over our lives. But Karen, you seem hell-bent on drawing some indelible chalk outline around it.”

  “What do you want me to do? I’m his mother!”

  “You’re her mother, too!”

  Her mother’s last words before leaving the table: “Not tonight.”

  * * *

  —

  CADY AWOKE TO the sound of her own terrified voice, “No, no, no!” Still dreaming, she had put her arms up as if to push someone from on top of her, but instead her hands made contact with the honeycomb wiring of the mattress above her. The room was pitch black, but slowly her senses returned to her: the plasticky scent of her brand-new, extra-long bedsheets; the sound of her heavy and rapid breathing; the cold sweat at the back of her neck; the feeling of restraint coming from the sheets tangled around her legs, as if she’d been tossing and turning for a while. Finally her eyes adjusted to see a girl’s hand waving at her over the side of the upper bunk.

  “Sorry, sorry, it’s just me,” said Ranjoo’s voice from above. “I tried to be quiet, but I’m still getting the hang of this top bunk thing. It’s really creaky.”

  Cady exhaled a long and shaky breath. “That’s okay. I didn’t know what was above me. And I think I was having a nightmare.”

  “Then maybe it was good I woke you? But sorry. Good night.”

  “Good night,” she said to the mattress.

  But as Cady’s fear dissipated, the loneliness she had felt earlier came back to take its place.

  She reached for her phone plugged in on the floor and checked the time: 3:11 a.m. She scrolled idly through her messages, looking for some source of comfort. She had texted her high school best friend, Liz, earlier in the day, but she hadn’t responded, probably too busy with her new friends at Penn. Cady went to her Favorites list and let the highlight bar alight on Eric’s name. When they were little, if she got scared at night or had a bad dream, she would go into Eric’s room and tell him about it. Sometimes she even made up a nightmare to tell him as an excuse to stay up with him. On impulse, Cady keyed in a text message, fingers moving furtively, as if someone might catch her, and clicked Send. She replaced the phone on the floor beside her bed and pressed her face back into the pillow.

  A few minutes passed, when a ping went off, her cellphone’s text message alert. She reached for the phone, and a shiver went down her spine when she saw the screen: 1 New Message. She didn’t know what she expected to read, a text message from beyond the grave? But desperate people believe in miracles. Her heartbeat quickened as she unlocked the screen and clicked on her text messages. The screen was blindingly white in the dark. It read:

  Delivery Error

  Msg: I miss you.

/>   Sent: 3:12 AM

  Recipient: Eric Not Available

  5

  “And your name is …” Dr. Sutcliffe, director of the Holden Choirs, rubbed his knuckles against his brushy white mustache as he looked down his clipboard.

  Cady exhaled a shaky breath of nerves. She was standing in a rehearsal room in Paine Music Hall, about to begin the rigorous audition that would decide her placement in one of the seven campus choirs, from the most selective, the Collegium Musicum, to the more welcoming ones with less Latin in their names, like the Harvard-Radcliffe Chorus. University Choir fell somewhere in between, and Cady had hoped to meet Eric’s friend Nikos among the members manning the sign-in desk or organizing the auditions. She’d even arrived a half hour early to stake the place out, but to her disappointment, he wasn’t there. Now she supposed she’d have to go through with this anyway.

  “Cadence Archer.”

  “Ah. We’ll start with the piece you prepared in advance. Soprano, correct?”

  Cady nodded, and three of the existing members rose from their seats in the front row. They took their places around her, and Dr. Sutcliffe held his hands in the air ready to cue them. Cady kept her eyes on her sheet music and waited for the opening measures to begin, trying to keep her breathing slow and steady.

  Dr. Sutcliffe cleared his throat and turned over his shoulder to the accompanist. “Nikos? When you’re ready.”

  Nikos. Cady met his eyes for only a second before he tilted his face down the keys, but it was enough to be sure—it was him, and he had been looking at her. His jet-black hair shook as he played the stirring introduction to the piece. But even in that brief glance, she noticed he was more handsome in person.

  Cady came in a beat late, flushing her face with embarrassment, but she recovered and sang the rest as well as she could, distracted with thoughts of the boy behind the piano. She pulled it together for the second song, a test of her sight-reading abilities, which were strong, but she was performing for an audience of one.