by Susan Oloier
HAUNTED
By
Susan Oloier
HAUNTED
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by electronic means, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval and storage system without express written consent of the author or publisher.
The names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are fictional and products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, persons, or organizations is coincidental.
This work is copyrighted
Copyright @ 2013 Susan Oloier
Other Books By Susan Oloier
My Life as a Misfit
Fractured
Superstitions
Outcast
Dedication
For Justin and Zane who have taught me to appreciate each fleeting moment in life.
Hailey
It’s raining, so I shouldn’t have agreed to be the designated driver. But here I am. No alternatives. I take the keys from Jeremy and dash toward his Subaru. The earthy smell of water soaking into pavement rises around us. Jeremy ducks down as if walking between the raindrops, as if he will live forever within their spaces.
“Let me drive,” he says, though his speech is drowned in grogginess.
“I’ve got it.”
We scramble for the car.
“Just relax. Get some rest,” I say even though I teeter on the edge of sleep, too. But I want to take care of him.
I fire up the engine and crank the heat. Jeremy slips into the passenger’s seat, pulls his door closed, and immediately turns the stereo to our song. Before taking off, I eye him briefly. His bangs hang limply in his face and he tugs his plastered shirt from his chest. Then he pushes his head into the back of the headrest and closes his eyes.
As the music plays, Jeremy lifts his lids and reaches out to finger the ends of my hair. His eyes mingle with mine for a moment, and then he grabs my hand. “Love you, Hailey.”
“Love you, too.”
“I’m so drunk.” Then he lets go and balances between sleep and wakefulness.
I turn on the wipers and focus extra hard on the blurry road ahead. My hands choke the wheel. I hate driving in the rain—at night. But I promised I would, which is why Jeremy drank at the party, then drank some more.
I wind my way along the county roads, twisting and turning. The passing vehicles in the opposite direction douse my windshield in a blinding spray. I sit all the way forward in the seat, feeling the muscles in my neck tighten and the tendons in my fingers strain. I relax a bit when I turn onto the highway where there’s an occasional streetlamp.
As I pass the bird sanctuary, I pivot toward Jeremy to see if he notices. But he’s already pressed too deeply into sleep. His long, dark lashes shade his eyes. I love those lashes and what’s behind them. And as I think more and more about how much I want to look into them and to curl into his arms like always, my own eyes begin to droop. Then everything unravels. Oncoming headlights. A swerve. A crash. An explosion of glass. Then pain fades to nothingness.
Jeremy
I must have dozed off. But now I’m wide-awake and hyper-aware of everything.
I drank way too much at the party. I knew I’d pay for the extra Capetown Berry Mash or two. Extra vodka to boot. Good thing Hailey drove.
But as we remain at a standstill in the middle of the highway, something clearly isn’t right. Obviously, we’ve come upon a major crash. Blue and red spin like disco lights, splashing the wet pavement in a choreography of color.
As I look out the window, I see metal and glass strewn across the road, notice uniformed officers rushing around, EMTs intensely working over a body, preparing to load it into a waiting ambulance. God, this must be bad. I make out silhouettes and shadows of people along the roadside, maybe passersby or stranded drivers milling around as they wait for traffic to move.
It was raining when we left the party, but I no longer hear the patter of drops on the roof of the Subaru. Usually there’d be lingering beads clinging to the windows, a few renegade trails of water snaking down the glass. But when I look closer, the windshield is a spider web of cracks. I pinch my eyes together, afraid to open them to the truth of what’s happened. Finally I do. Then I slowly move my gaze to Hailey. She isn’t there. My heart races.
The doors to the ambulance have already closed, and the vehicle screams off into the night. What the hell happened?
I step out of the car and walk around the accident scene. It’s a nightmare. I stand on the opposite side of the yellow line markings, looking into what would be oncoming traffic. The front end of a Ford pickup is smashed in. A ribbon of emergency vehicles ropes off the perimeter. Traffic is being rerouted by police officers. And off to the side of the road, EMTs make a final zip on a body bag. Shit!
I panic, looking everywhere for Hailey. I search the sparkle of wet pavement, race around the crush of medical and emergency personnel, all of whom are too busy to pay attention to me. Where the hell is she? I finally come full circle to the Subaru and notice how the entire passenger side is totally smashed inward like it collapsed on itself. I gaze into the shattered window and spy blood on the steering wheel. How have I escaped unscathed?
My eyes wander to the body bag again.
“Hailey!” I try to scream. But nothing comes out. Then a white light folds over me and the whole scene disappears.
Hailey
I sit inside the glass doors of the hospital, watching them slide back and forth like a mindless sedative to what lays outside. It’s easier to remain inside the artificial chill of the building than to emerge and breathe in the warm summer air beyond it.
On the surface, everything outside is the same: the pine trees, the winding roads, the San Juan Mountains in the distance. And yet it’s completely different. In so many ways it feels easier to stay behind in the whitewashed walls of the hospital, scrubbed clean of any semblance of real life. I’ve already stayed far longer than I needed—to heal both the physical and emotional wounds.
I touch my fingers to the ends of my hair, remembering. Then I let them wander to the bandage over my right eyebrow, a physical reminder of what happened.
“Do you still have my card?” a voice from behind asks.
I thought I was alone. I glance over my shoulder and see Dr. Wheeler, then stare down at his card in my hand. Dr. Robert Wheeler, PhD Clinical Psychology. I lift it up for him to see.
“I’d like to see you in my office in a week,” he says with an anesthetic voice.
The doors glide open again, and my mom sweeps up to the wheelchair where I sit. Her car runs outside in the turn-about.
“Hi, Dr. Wheeler. Ready?” she asks me.
I shrug, then notice my mom’s eyes move to Dr. Wheeler. He simply nods.
“Are you sure she doesn’t need Zoloft or Prozac or something?”
“No. We try to avoid antidepressants with teens. They have a tendency to…” he dances around the words, “…cause more problems than they help.”
“And you still don’t think it’s a good idea she switch to Bloomfield—to make a new start?”
“That’s up to Hailey. But she has to face things at some point. I never recommend running away.”
They talk about me as if I lost my ability to hear, but I don’t care.
My mom nods her reticent agreement.
“Make sure you follow up with my office this week.” Dr. Wheeler touches my shoulder to finally include me in the conversation.
“We will,” my mom says as she grabs hold of the wheelchair handles and rolls me toward the doors. “Thank you, Dr. Wheeler.”
“See you next week, Hailey.”
As I move to the warmth of the summer sun, I kno
w I’ll be doing well to make it through the day without any episodes. I’ve been in the hospital for over a month, nurturing both the physical and emotional scars of the accident.
The pi-tuck of an unseen bird in a neighboring tree instantly drags me back to my old life, making me think of him. There’s no way I’ll be able to do any of this.
“The flowers are already in the car,” my mom says in a much-too-chipper voice while whisking me toward the vehicle, her nervousness coming out in all sorts of mad and un-mom-like ways.
Honestly, I don’t give a shit about the flowers or anything, for that matter. But I keep it to myself, not wanting to hurt my mom’s feelings. She’s been trying so hard.
As I step out of the wheelchair to get in the car, my ankle buckles. I wince. “Shit,” I say out loud. My mom pretends not to hear.
“We’ll get you physical therapy,” she says as she helps me inside, “and you’ll be back to dancing in no time. You’ll see.”
It’s a lie, though. There’s been too much damage.
I ease my way into the passenger seat. “I don’t want to dance anymore anyway.” The tears I try so hard to keep pressed down rise. I swipe at them as my mom takes hold of the wheelchair, staring at me. “Ever,” I insist.
“All right.”
She pushes the wheelchair back to the entrance. As I reach to close the door, I spot something against the curb. Something red. A feather. It reminds me, though it’s painful to remember. I pick the feather up. As I run my fingers back and forth over it, I feel myself slip into the once-was for a moment and almost believe I’m there.
“All set?” My mom’s voice pulls me back to the present, and I stuff the feather into my pocket.
Eli
“Arthur Fonzarelli!” I mutter. I want so badly to say something else entirely, but I’ve worked hard to keep my expletives in check.
I place my guitar case on the pathway and jump off the bike to give it CPR. The tire. Again. I fish out the patching kit and go to work. I really need to find a way to get my car up and running. But that’s a whole different cup of Joe. As soon as I Band-Aid the tire, I loop my guitar case around me, and head to the nearest gas station for air. And a Pepsi. And maybe a bag of Doritos. Ranch flavor.
Walking gives me too much time to think and consider. I prefer the smudge of objects in my peripheral vision as I pedal, the wind blowing away any chances of ruminating on old crap. Crap remains a legit part of my vocabulary. I need to hold on to some vestiges from the past. I’ve given so much of it up already. I try to push old thoughts out of my head by distracting myself with the usually blurred scenery around me.
I come upon the cemetery—definitely a place to breeze on by. I certainly work hard to avoid it. But this time I look in. It seems as though someone’s recently met his—or her—demise. Fresh dirt covers the ground where a casket has obviously been laid to rest. What a great spot, too, beneath a mighty and majestic oak. It’s a super cool spot to rest in peace.
I get so caught up in the awesomeness of it all, and stop listening to the whiz of passing traffic, that I lose track of time. Even though I plan to quit my gig at the library, I don’t want to be a jerk about it by showing up late for work.
I run for the gas station up the road.
“Hey, Eli,” I hear as I park my bike at the quick mart building beside the air pump. Carly—bad girl extraordinaire—complete with the short skirt and cigarette. I’ve apparently earned the ill-deserved title of bad boy since—well, since my personal business leaked out in one twisted way or another.
I feel Carly’s eyes on me as I fill the tire. “Doing anything Saturday night?”
“Rocking Horse,” I answer, attaching the air hose to the valve.
“Don’t you have to be 21 to get in there?” she asks while circling a finger around her peek-a-boo cleavage, a cancer stick in her other hand. She glances at Cheryl, then makes eyes at me.
“Nate knows a guy,” I shrug while giving the tire a whiff of air. I put the hose back, then parallel park the bike. I head for the store. As I push the door, I hear hints of the past from Cheryl, so I hesitate.
“Is that the guy…?”
“Yeah,” Carly says.
I cut off their words with the chime of the door, plucking a Pepsi from the cooler and heading for the chips. The thing is, they all think they know me. They have me pegged as the bad boy because of my tattoo, the band, and my past. But they don’t know me at all. One minute they’re flirting, the next they’re gossiping. Since Madeline, I’ve learned women can’t be trusted at all.
I finally get to the library and rush through the doors. The classic smell of old books and calming mustiness hits me instantly. There are so many reasons to stay and yet so many compelling ones to leave.
“Eli!” shrieks Penny. “You’re here! Want some help setting up?” She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Every time I play a library gig, Penny feels compelled to help me set up the room. It’s both flattering and annoying at the same time.
“I’ll be back,” Penny says over her shoulder to Sharon who rolls her eyes at me over the tops of her glasses.
“Right,” Sharon says while paying me a motherly grin.
“Sharon, can I talk with you?”
“Sure.” She holds my gaze for a while as though she knows something’s up. I really want to get the two-week notice out of the way, but Penny swiftly moves out from behind the circulation desk, sweeping both of us to the conference room as though I’ve never been there before. “Come on, Eli.”
“Later, then,” Sharon says, returning to her work. She seems to relish how much Penny fawns over me.
“Later.”
“So, can I help you take off your jacket?” Penny asks as I set my guitar case down. She pulls it off my shoulders before I can even answer. “Great shirt.”
She touches the fabric of my simple crew, and I notice how it hugs me a little too tightly for any Penny encounters.
“Thanks.”
We push chairs around as Penny stands uncomfortably close to me. Once the stage area’s set up and nothing more has to be rearranged or tweeked, Penny stares at me. “Have you been working out?”
God! What in the world ever possessed me to wear this shirt? Things can’t possibly get more awkward than this. Luckily, the first pair of kids arrives for story time.
“If Sharon lets me, I’ll come back to listen to you sing and play,” Penny says with a smile. There is a definite twinkle in her eyes.
“Sure.” Then I divert my attention. “Hey, kids!” I say, knowing it’ll be one of my last times playing this type of venue. I’ve only been here a month and already I’m bailing. Summer’s coming to an end, and I was just a fill-in anyway. Besides, I’m on to bigger and better things despite how much I’ll miss it all: the kids, their uncensored bliss over music, even Penny’s overbearing attention.
Hailey
I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, trying to find what’s different about me. Aside from the bandage on my forehead, things look the same on the outside. But on the inside, I know everything has changed. I’m no longer the same Hailey I was before. My room is the same red and black, my desk cluttered with fashion magazines, photos pinned to the corkboard on the wall. The disco-ball light fixture my dad put up to make my bedroom more like my own personal ballroom still hangs the same as I’d left it. Yet all of it seems so changed even though no one has touched a thing. More than anything, it’s all so meaningless now.
I finger the trophies on my chest of drawers, picking up the one Jeremy and I had won together at last year’s Regionals. As soon as I touch it, I have to set it back down before the memories surge and threaten to overtake me.
I glance again to my image in the mirror, touching the ends of my hair just as Jeremy loved to do. I’ve never known what to do with my long hair. Pull it forward, clip it back. My mom is always good at these things. But none of it matters anymore. I sweep my bangs to the side and look at the spot again where the white
gauze works hard to hide it all.
“Knock, knock.” My mom’s voice yanks me out of my thoughts. I let my bangs fall back in place as my mom pushes open the door. She sidles up behind me, the smell of lemon verbena swimming over me like a flower garden. Her signature perfume.
“You sure you want to go back so soon?” she asks my mirrored image.
I nod.
“Because I’m sure Sharon can do without you.” She runs her fingers through my hair, and I close my eyes at the comforting tingling at my scalp. Then she stops, pulling back when she comes too close to my forehead. Soon the scar will fade along with the details and nuances of him: the smell of his musky skin, the greenish speckles in his eyes, and even the penetrating way he looked at me as if I was the only person in the room.
I open my eyes, startled back to reality at the thought of it. “It’s only for a few hours.”
Now it’s her turn to nod. “Layla called again. I know you told me you don’t want to talk to anyone, but—”
“Thanks,” I interrupt, and my mom knows not to push it anymore. The right thing to do would be to return Layla’s calls. I’ve ignored them on my cell phone, too. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. There are too many shared memories, and I’ll be forced to talk about them. To talk about him. I just can’t unlock my heart to that kind of hurt. Opening up would mean losing him. Possibly forever. No. No calls. Not yet.
“Want me to drive you?” she asks.
“No. I’ll walk. I can use the fresh air,” I say.
She smiles. To her, this likely means progress. But my reason for walking is completely grounded in my own agenda. Ever since leaving the hospital, I’ve wanted to go there, to see for myself. I’d initially been admitted for a few weeks, but stayed so much longer, so I missed all ceremony. Never got to say a formal goodbye. I’ve been pep-talking myself for days, maybe a week, knowing it would come to this for some semblance of closure. And I need to do it alone.
