Haunted

by Susan Oloier

  “I don’t know how to go on,” she says to the filled-in space of ground where she believes I am. “I can’t do it without you.”

  I have no words to give her—not that she’d hear me anyway. Instead, I reach out a hand and rest it on her shoulder. As I do, the crow takes flight and disappears from the cemetery. And, for the briefest of moments, Hailey looks up. I’m not sure if it’s because of the bird’s departure or because she actually feels my presence beside her, my hand on her. I hope with everything I am it’s because of me.

  Hailey

  His office is off the hospital grounds in a small complex of buildings. My mom drops me off. I expect sanitary and whitewashed walls, reminiscent of an operating room. But when I walk in, Dr. Wheeler has a fragrance burner putting out an unearthly and artificial pine scent. Oak bookcases littered with cheesy, psychoanalytic titles such as Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul and Life Strategies for Teens line the walls. The burgundy couch seems comfy. The room looks out to a stand of trees and greenery on the other side of a wall-to-ceiling set of windows. A nice place to work, actually.

  “Have a seat, Hailey. I’m glad to see you.”

  I only nod, then sink into the sofa.

  “Can I get you water? Juice?”

  “No thanks,” I say, scoping out the room in an attempt to avoid his gaze and this whole conversation. If the choice had been exclusively mine, I wouldn’t be sitting here at all. But my mom wants me to heal. As if that’s possible.

  “So, how are you feeling? I see your bandage is off.”

  My hand reflexively moves to my forehead. “Pain’s still there.”

  “Of course it is,” he says. He’s somehow turned my scar into a metaphor for my psychological torment.

  “Is there anything you want to talk about today?” Dr. Wheeler asks.

  I consider asking him what the chances are of him prescribing me a lethal dose of narcotics so I don’t have to endure his session, but I’m sure he’d take it as suicidal tendencies, so I hold back.

  “Not really. I mean, nothing’s changed. Jeremy’s still dead.” I straighten the fringe of the decorative pillow over my palm so I won’t have to meet his gaze.

  “Would you like to talk about Jeremy?”

  Instead of joining him fairly in his conversation, I make a bet with myself as to how long it will take him to raise his pen or—better yet—a finger to the side of his mouth. The clock reads 5:06. Twenty bucks says it’ll be there by 5:15. But maybe I’m being too judgmental.

  “No.”

  My eyes move to his pen, scribbling something in an open notebook in his lap.

  “What are you writing?” I ask.

  “Doodling,” Dr. Wheeler says. He must notice the skeptical look on my face because he continues. “This is going to be one long session if you don’t say something. So I thought I’d practice my drawing skills.”

  I pay him a courtesy smile. He’s getting on my nerves, cracking lame jokes as if I’m a six-year-old. “Well,” I stop messing with the pillow and set it down beside me, “I started a new school.”

  “And how does the change make you feel?” He moves the pen to the side of his mouth. I check the clock. 5:14. Not bad. I owe myself a twenty.

  “It kind of sucks, I guess.”

  He nods, so I go on. “I mean, I have to do this team project with some classmate I don’t even know. If I were back at my old school, no one would expect me to do it because they know, right? But this teacher is so rigid. She said if I want to do it by myself,” I hear the tone of my voice rise along with my blood pressure, but I keep going anyway, “then I’d have to take a fifty percent cut in my grade. Can you believe it?”

  “And this person who you’re teamed up with, what’s she like?”

  “It’s not a she. It’s a he. But the thing is I think if the teacher knew—maybe if you could write her a note excusing me from the project—then I wouldn’t have to deal with the whole ridiculousness of it all.” I grab the pillow again and hug it tightly as a way to burn off some steam.

  Now the pen taps on his lower lip, and he adjusts his glasses ever so slightly. “What’s this partner of yours like?”

  “I don’t know,” I feel the skin between my eyes do this whole pinching thing. “What does it matter?”

  Dr. Wheeler merely shrugs and raises his eyebrows.

  “You think I don’t want to work with him because he’s a guy? Because—what?—he might remind me of Jeremy?” My voice climbs an octave, and I feel myself grow defensive. Is this how therapy is supposed to be: someone who’s allegedly there to help resolve my troubles instead makes me angry and heated? “Because he’s nothing like Jeremy! No one ever will be.” I close my arms over my chest and turn my attention to the clock.

  “Part of being human is forming attachments. With that come so many brilliant sensations and emotions. Love, infatuation…lust.” He leans in a little with the last word as though he’s sharing a secret or saying something taboo. “But the flip side is we’re forced to face what lies on the opposite end of the spectrum. Sometimes jealousy or heartbreak. And, in your case, loss and grief. We can’t avoid it unless we choose to never love at all. Is that what you choose, Hailey?”

  I start to defend myself, to tell him it’s only been part of a summer since the accident, but he stops me.

  “I don’t expect you to answer. I know your hurt is fresh,” he says as though reading my mind. “I just want you to think about it when you decide to close yourself off to others. Because by not forming friendships or by doing everything alone—including team projects—yes, you can avoid pain. But is it worth it? That’s for you to decide. But in the end, I think you’ll be happier if you choose people.”

  I roll my eyes, and Wheeler pretends not to see.

  “Besides sadness, what are some other emotions you’ve been experiencing since the accident?”

  I shrug while avoiding his gaze. My eyes move to the window where the sky outside is clear and filled with promise and hope. Like someone forgot to tell it someone died and it’s time to be gray and cloudy.

  I think about the question. I definitely feel empty, like a whole part of me went missing, carried off to some other realm I can never reach. I can actually feel the void in my chest, as though a huge chunk of my heart and soul were physically ripped out.

  “Guilty,” I say.

  “Let’s talk about it,” Wheeler says. “Guilt implies you violated someone or something. Who or what do you think you violated?”

  I audibly sigh because he already knows this, but he’s going to make me say it. “Jeremy.” My tone is edgy.

  “Who else?” he asks, finally setting his pen down as if we’re getting to the meat of the problem now.

  The universe, I think, for messing up the preordained path Jeremy had been on. The entire dance community who will now miss out on someone destined to be a star. Our friends. Then my mind stops because I don’t want to venture any further. Thinking of what I’ve done to them hurts too much.

  “Hailey?” Dr. Wheeler prompts.

  Someone has a choke hold on my throat, making it hard to speak. The tears paint a path of wetness down my cheeks. Tonya. Zoe, whose calls and messages I’ve been ignoring. She wants answers. I can’t give them. And I know talking to her in person will crush me. I take a deep breath, willing myself to speak their names. It’s a further injustice not to. “Jeremy’s mom...” There’s a huge knot in my throat. I swallow around it. “And his sister,” I finally say. “They hate me. They should.”

  I snatch a tissue from the nearby box and sponge up the mess on my face.

  “How do you know they hate you?” he asks. He’s unrelenting.

  “I just do.” The tissue is a ball of wetness in my hand now.

  “Because they said those words?”

  “Because I know it. They don’t have to tell me,” I snap. I look toward the ceiling as if doing it will prevent more tears from spilling down my face. The technique doesn’t work, and my eyes mee
t Wheeler’s.

  “Have you tried to talk to them?”

  “I can’t,” my voice rises. “I can’t tell them what they want to hear.”

  “Which is?”

  “That there’s a logical explanation for everything. There isn’t.” I hug the pillow to myself to ease the pain inside.

  Dr. Wheeler sits back in his chair. “Here’s what I want you to do. Write a letter to—what are their names?”

  “Tonya…and Zoe.”

  “Write letters. One to Tonya and one to Zoe. Tell them how you feel. If you’re sorry, say it. If you’re angry, include that, too. If you feel they’re culpable in some way, by all means, tell them in the letter.”

  “They’re not to blame,” I say, feeling myself bristle. What nerve!

  Dr. Wheeler clearly notices the slant of my eyes and my total skepticism, yet he continues. “You don’t have to send them. You can burn them if you like. But write the letters nonetheless.”

  “I’ll try,” I say, doubtful I’ll do it.

  “It’s your assignment. For next time.”

  On that note, our time is up. I don’t get what I want out of the session: a doctor’s note and free pass from working on a Hamlet team project. So the hour feels like a huge waste of time.

  Open myself up to attachment. Apparently, Dr. Wheeler has never had a loved one die before. Write letters to Tonya and Zoe. The man is nuts.

  I sit out on the curb, waiting for my mom to arrive. A warm evening breeze passes over me. And as I listen to the birds carry on in the trees and traffic move by on the neighboring road, I weigh my options: take the fifty percent grade reduction and save myself a huge pain in the ass or suck it up and work on Hamlet with some guy? Then I think of a third choice. I’ll tell Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name that I’ll work on the team project. But, in reality, I’ll do my part alone. Perfect. As perfect as things can get considering where I am in my life.

  Eli

  “What’s up, man?” Nate says as he swaggers down the hallway toward me. He’s the epitome of rock star: black t-shirt, tats, and classic spiked-out hair. Sure as Shih Tzus, he loves to play the part.

  “Ah nothin’,” I say as Nate follows the direction of my stare. I don’t look away fast enough.

  “Who’s she?” He jerks his head down the hallway where I pretend to have absolutely no clue who he’s talking about.

  “What?” I come off pissy. He knows.

  “Come on, man. The hotty. She’s new,” he says, checking out the library girl—my maybe-team partner—from head to toe. I’m pretty sure her name’s Hailey. “I could so get with that.” He slaps my arm with the back of his hand. “It’s about fucking time you start checking out some new skin. She’s—well—she’s hot.”

  “Don’t…don’t say that word.”

  “What? Hot?” he teases.

  “No,” I rake my hand through my hair.

  “You mean fuck?” Nate eggs me on some more.

  “You know I’m trying—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Right. Your twelve-step bullshit.”

  “Not twelve step. It’s called substitute behavior. I’m not a recovering drug addict.”

  “I don’t even know why you use that shit,” Nate says, scoping out Hailey down the hall. “Oh wait. There’s your reason right there.”

  Nate diverts his attention to the far end of the hallway and the all-too-familiar coppery red hair and deceptively conservative sweater with high-neck, hide-it-all shirt. Madeline.

  “Bitch!” Nate mutters.

  “Don’t say that.”

  “After what she did to you, you’re lucky it’s all I’m calling her.”

  My hand is back in my hair again.

  “Man, don’t!” Nate slaps my hand away. “Girls totally eat that shit up when you make your follicles stand up. And I kind of like that your rep’s been ruined with the female persuasion these days. Leaves more opportunity for me.”

  “And two?” I ask.

  “Two. The bitch is going to know she still gets to you.”

  “I’ve gotta go,” I say.

  Nate smacks me on the back. “Band practice tonight?” he asks.

  I run my hands over my face, as Madeline grows closer. “Can’t,” I say, eyes on her. “Got to finish my gig at the library.”

  “Tomorrow then?”

  “Yeah.” I turn tail in the other direction. The last person on Earth I want to see is Madeline. I so can’t deal with her right now, so I head to class early.

  Distracted and frazzled, with sheet music falling out my hands, I find myself in a collision at the classroom door.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention,” she says.

  It’s her. Library girl. I’m stunned she’s even spoken to me—seeing as how she already hates me beyond belief—that I experience a delayed reaction. She’s already stooped down to pick up my music.

  “Here,” she says, handing it to me while we kneel side by side.

  “Thanks.” Our eyes meet for a few seconds. Nate’s right. She’s hot. But there’s something beyond mere hotness. She’s beautiful.

  We both stand up and move to enter at the same time.

  “You first.” I step aside and let her pass. She wends her way to the back again, this time sitting in the seat beside mine. Her ice seems to melt a little. I’m just not sure I want it to. It seems like a dangerous path to go down. I’ve done so well on my own over the summer.

  “Um,” she turns to me, tucking her hair over her ear. She struggles to get the words out, but I wait. “About the whole partner thing. I’ve decided to do it. But just so you know, I work alone.”

  “Okay?” I refocus on my sheet music. So much for the melting ice. It appears the glacier is still very much in place. “I do, too.”

  She appears surprised by my response, but then quickly turns inward again, and it’s like we’ve never spoken to each other at all.

  Hailey

  I thought I’d done a great job of staying away from others, staking out a solitary spot to spend my lunch in peace and quiet.

  I open my History book. My pen at the ready. My notebook is open if the need arises. And in case that doesn’t keep others at bay, I wear my ear buds as a clear signal I want to be left alone. Never mind no music plays. Everything I own reminds me of Jeremy, so it’s all a ruse. I think of the reddish feather I found outside the hospital. Maybe I should have kept it. Maybe it was a sign from Jeremy. He so loved birds.

  I scan the trees for any movement. There’s an occasional Stellar’s Jay, maybe a sparrow. Nothing out of the ordinary. No clear sign from him. I tilt my head back toward the pages of the book to be alone with my thoughts.

  But there’s always one. One person who refuses to read the nonverbal cues and approaches anyway.

  “Hey!” she amplifies her voice. “What are you listening to?” She gestures toward her ears while balancing a plate of nachos in the other hand. The silver bangles on her wrist jangle.

  “Just some stuff,” I say, picking up my pen and turning my attention to—I scan the page—the Russian Revolution.

  This girl sits down uninvited. “I brought some nachos since you never seem to eat.”

  What? Is she stalking me or something? How does she know about my eating or not eating? And better yet, why is it any of her business?

  I look at the yellowish glop on top of the tortillas, then up to her. “I’m vegan. Sorry.” I go back to fake reading.

  “I never understood the difference between vegan and vegetarian,” she says.

  “No animal bi-products for me,” I say simply enough, hoping she’ll go away. But she doesn’t.

  She looks down at the nachos. “I don’t think this is actual cheese,” she says. “But, I can get you something else.”

  “No, thanks.”

  This girl is the precise reason I planned to eat lunch alone. She is Layla on speed. No boundaries. No reservations. I wish I’d found a more isolated space for myself. She reminds me too much of my cheerful past, which i
s gone for good.

  I continue reading, and she glances at my book. “So, reading for pleasure?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. Because Russian History doesn’t actually start until later in the semester.”

  The pinch between my eyes again.

  “We’re in the same class,” she says by explanation, as if to jog my memory. Truth be told, I make efforts to avoid anyone in my classes.

  “I’m Stella.” She holds her hand out for me to shake it, her bracelets jingling again. “You’re Hailey.”

  I nod, wondering how she knows. “Pretty bracelets,” I say just wanting to be polite, barely taking her hand. She’s thin, cute, and a little on the Goth side.

  “Thanks.” She fingers a cheese-coated nacho chip and slips it into her mouth.

  I survey her for a bit. Hip and kind of artsy with her dark pageboy hair, drop earrings, and trendy t-shirt. She doesn’t seem like a freak.

  As Stella and I sit side-by-side in awkwardness, the redhead from my first day gives me a dirty look as she passes by.

  “Steer clear of that one,” Stella suggests as we both watch the redhead saunter away. “She’s trouble.”

  “I ran into her by mistake on the first day, and now she hates me.”

  “Oh, that’s not why she hates you.”

  I wait for Stella to elaborate, but she doesn’t. Instead, she licks her fingers and changes the subject. “I know you likely want me to go away, but the suckiness of high school can be a lot more palatable if you have someone to share it with. Especially since you’re new and all.” She stands. “Sure you don’t want these?” Stella holds out the nachos again. “They’re yummy.”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, enjoy your music,” she says. “You might want to turn it on next time—in order to actually listen.” Her smile reaches her wide, hazel eyes.

  My cheeks heat up, and I lower my gaze. As she walks away, I lift my eyes again, wondering if it would be less lonely and painful to make a connection with another human being.

  Hailey