Haunted

by Susan Oloier

  I jump out of my seat and head for the door.

  “Hailey, stop,” Dr. Wheeler says calmly.

  For some reason I do as he says.

  “I do know about your drinking that night.” Dr. Wheeler’s words are like a defibrillator shocking me back to existence.

  He reads the surprise on my face. “Oh yes. It’s all right here.” Wheeler pats the file on his lap. “Hailey, please sit down.”

  I inch my way back to the sofa and perch on the edge of it, refusing to look him in the eye. He knows my secret, and I’m ashamed.

  “It was one drink,” he says.

  Tears stream from my eyes, yet I won’t meet his gaze.

  “One drink,” he repeats. “Your blood alcohol content was well beneath the limit.”

  More tears.

  “One drink,” he repeats. “It was an accident.”

  I finally glance up at him.

  “It wasn’t your fault.” Wheeler leans forward and reaches for my hand. I let him take it.

  “It’s time to forgive yourself.”

  But I don’t know if I can.

  Jeremy

  The butterflies have all gone. A light dusting of snow covers the grounds of the cemetery, punctuated only by one set of human footprints and the outline of animal paws and feet: squirrels, maybe; definitely birds. The crows carry on out of sight in the pine trees.

  I look over to Rae’s gravesite. There’s a man and a woman there—the ones from the burial day—kneeling by her grave. The woman places something in front of the marker. Rae sits on top of the tombstone, legs dangling down. Her head is tipped slightly, a deep observation of them. Her parents, I’m sure. She’s oblivious to me watching. Rae gently places a hand on her mother’s head. The dead comforting the living.

  Rae’s physical presence has changed since she first arrived. It’s like she’s all lit up from within, an internal and muted light bulb emanating from her chest cavity. She appears translucent like the frosted glass on some bathroom windows. Angelic. I wonder if I look that way, too.

  I woke up after I don’t know how much time in the back of a strange vehicle. I vaguely remember the specifics of getting there. But things are fuzzy. I pinch my eyes closed, try hard to recall the details. Then it comes back to me: Hailey on a date. Me in the backseat between her and Eli. Yeah, that’s his name. She was unhappy and reluctant to step outside the vehicle. But when she did, I stowed the tanager’s feather in her purse. I wonder if she ever found it. If she thought of me when she did.

  I look over the dead and cadaverous terrain again. The green has leeched out of nearly everything except the pines. Even the pine needles lay beneath a frosty coat of white draped over the scene like old age.

  Rae touches a hand to the man’s cheek and leans toward him, brushing her lips gently across his face. Then she backs away, her hand first linking with his arm, moving toward his wrist, then resting for a little while within his hand. It’s like she’s practicing for a final goodbye.

  I search the neighboring graves, look through the skeletal arms of the trees and beyond the haggard and thin blades of browned grass that peek from beneath the snow. My view bends toward the veil. There’s something egging me toward it. Curiosity? Need? I don’t know, but I turn away.

  Near the front gates, the child sits with his pinwheel. His eyes are fixed on me, as if he knows all about the forest beyond.

  I look away, avoiding him completely. I’m not ready for that. I’m not going anywhere. Not when I have Hailey here on Earth. My presence here is a definite mistake. It’s not where I belong.

  The caw of the crows pierces the silence in this place only inhabited by critters, memories, grief, and spirits. Then the tanager flits down from its branches and lands near my feet, showing me a slice of hope.

  Hailey

  The red feather balances on the top of my computer as a reminder of what I need to do. He would want me to do this, to reconnect with his mom and Zoe. But months have passed by. What am I supposed to say? I’m sorry? Those two words aren’t enough to fill the holes in their hearts and lives.

  I let the words linger on the page as the cursor blinks madly at me in its silent and accusatory stare. I should have done this sooner. In person. But it’s so hard. How can I possibly apologize for robbing them of a future with Jeremy? How do I say sorry for killing him? Among the three of us there’s so much pain. Can one room really contain so much grief?

  My fingers touch the keyboard again. I’m sorry for driving, I type. For not being responsible. I’m sorry the world is darker because Jeremy’s not in it. Sorry…I take a deep breath and brush the sliding tears on my sleeve. …I wasn’t killed instead of him. Please forgive me. Hailey.

  It’s not the explanation they’re looking for: the details of how I veered off the road, how fast I was going, what his last words were. It’s an apology, and I know Zoe wants more. I can’t give it to her.

  I quickly hit save and print, but I leave the letters lying on my desk for another time. It’s all I can handle right now.

  Eli

  Something has melted between us since yesterday. It’s almost like she trusts me just a little bit more than she trusts the others. Which may not say much, but I’ll take it.

  “Show me your progress,” Langley orders us after class. When we only have my meager chicken scratches about Hamlet’s complete revulsion for Ophelia and nothing more, she gives us detention. After school. In the library. “Get. It. Done,” she demands.

  My guitar case rests against the leg of the library table. I’m missing band practice. Hailey sits across from me, combing through the pages of a Shakespearean book of literary analysis.

  Tired, I close the play and run my hands over my face and into my hair. My chin sinks into my palms. “Tell me why Hamlet loves Ophelia again.”

  “He professes his love to her in letters he’s written.”

  “But he’s mad, right?” My hand finds its way into my hair again, mussing it up. I must appear pretty mad myself.

  “Right,” Hailey answers in a what’s-your-point manner.

  “So he could be faking it.”

  “But he told her he loves her,” Hailey argues.

  “Telling is one thing,” I say. “Showing is another. Hamlet doesn’t show his love for Ophelia. At all. In fact, he treats her like sh—crap. ‘Get thee to a nunnery’? I mean, what is that all about? I think if you really love someone, you have to demonstrate that love.”

  “Like with you and Madeline?”

  That came out of nowhere. I feel like I’ve been Tasered. “What do you mean?” I venture to ask, wondering what Hailey’s been told.

  “There’s something between you two. It’s obvious.” Her jaw and posture grow rigid. Jealousy? I wonder.

  I sit back in my chair and allow my hand to move to the guitar case where it lingers. I feel jittery as I teeter on the edge of my past, a most uncomfortable place. “We used to go out.”

  “Do you still love her? Is that how you know so much about Hamlet and his lack of love?”

  My eyes meet hers and hold her stare for a while. “I used to,” I finally say.

  She seems hurt by my admission.

  I remain vague and tread lightly in the hopes of not having to revisit my time with Madeline.

  But then Hailey asks, “What happened?”

  “Why do you care?” I lean forward and say too quickly. It’s defensive.

  I think she’s going to push her chair back and storm away the way Madeline would. But she recovers from my outburst, avoids eye contact, and runs a finger along the edge of the table. Then she reaches out to me with her eyes. “Because,” she looks away trying to find the courage to say what she most definitely wants to say. “Because it seems like it would be relevant to proving our Hamlet theory.” She’s copped out.

  “Right.” I push back in the chair again and reopen the textbook. “You want to know what happened?”

  She says nothing. Only watches me, so I continue. “We w
ere in love. At least I was.”

  Hailey hangs on my words, but nervousness skitters across her face, as if she’s afraid to find out the details about Madeline and me.

  I forge ahead anyway. “We had sex. More than once.”

  Hailey’s cheeks pink up, but her stare remains fixed on me.

  “We were stupid. Never used a condom. Never mind all the sex education.”

  Hailey takes in an audible breath. I don’t care how uncomfortable this makes her. It doesn’t get anywhere close to how awkward I feel. Plus, she asked.

  “So one day she tells me she’s pregnant.” I swallow down the pain of the memory in order to hold my emotions at bay. “Of course, I’m shocked. Not ready to be a dad. But I’m a stand-up guy. I tell Madeline I’ll do anything: get a job, marry her, so we can keep the baby. I was willing to go all the way for her and the kid.”

  I gaze at the stacks, glue my eyes to a faux Monet on the wall, to keep moving through my story without episode. “She says ‘okay’ and makes like my plan works for her, too, even though it’s less than ideal for both of us. The next thing I know,” I look right at Hailey again, “she’s had an abortion—without telling me.”

  “God,” Hailey whispers. “I’m so sorry.” Her brows knit with concern.

  “But it gets even better. Aside from killing our baby without telling me, she starts to get all this grief from her popular friends about doing it. So, she blames me. Tells them I planned to dump her if she didn’t have the abortion. Makes me take the fall for it. And stupid ass me—sorry,” I say for the slip-up, “I did.”

  “But why?” she asks.

  “Because I thought it was the right way to demonstrate my love for her.”

  Hailey reels from the shock.

  “Hamlet’s an asshole,” I blurt, completely chucking the whole replacement-word BS.

  Hailey looks over at me and nods. “We’ll do it your way.”

  “I’m not much in the mood for studying right now,” I say.

  “Me either,” she leans a hand against her cheek, and I can’t help but stare. “But I am kind of hungry.”

  “Me, too.” The whole Madeline reveal has taken a lot out of me. I didn’t want Hailey to find out. She was one of the few people who didn’t know. But I find myself smiling despite myself.

  “What about Langley?” Hailey asks.

  “She’s probably eating at home.”

  Hailey ensnares my fingers in a playful gesture. “You know what I mean?”

  We both notice her hand still touching mine, and she pulls away. The smile leaves her face. I wish she’d left it there. I feel my mood brightening.

  All right,” I say, “I’ll grab something to eat with you, but it’s my choice this time. No Long John Silver’s.”

  “Aw, come on!” she jokes. “You mean you’re not a fish and chips guy?”

  I close the textbook, stuff it in my bag, and gather my things. “No,” I say. “I’ll show you what kind of guy I really am.”

  Hailey

  Could Dr. Wheeler actually be right? Is it okay for me to have feelings for another guy? For me to be all right with another guy showing feelings for me? How can something that, on the one hand, feels so very right also feel completely wrong?

  Eli borrows Nate’s car and takes me to this really amazing restaurant in town. We ditch his guitar case and our books in the trunk. He leads me inside, opening doors, being gentlemanly. I always thought I liked the women’s lib idea of doing everything for myself, but it’s different—maybe even refreshing—to be treated like a princess of sorts.

  “Wow,” I say to him as we wait for a table at the hostess podium. The décor is cloth napkins, Dale Chihuly drop lamps, dimly-lit gorgeous.

  “Hey,” Eli says, “we can always skip on over to LJS.” I pay more attention to his hand on the middle of my back, brushing the ends of my hair, than his joke. Knowing it’s there sends tiny prickles down my spine and out the tips of my fingers and toes. I breathe into it, remembering Dr. Wheeler’s words of advice. Maybe it is okay to feel something for Eli, to want to be with him. Because so much of me does—want to be with him.

  We sit across the table from one another, and the smoky light of the restaurant makes his eyes smolder.

  I study his face: his mussed-up and sexy hair, the hint of a five-o-clock shadow, the curve of his lips. I want to lean in and kiss him. I check myself and pull back to reality. Maybe in a fantasy world I can do it: feel the touch of his skin against mine, run my hands through his hair. But not in this lifetime. We’re just here because we both like food that’s not fish and chips. That. Is. It.

  I study the menu, barely taking in the words.

  “This is the kind of place I would have taken you for our first time,” Eli says.

  It sounds so sexual, and I blush. He notices. He definitely notices.

  “No,” he smiles over at me delicately. “I meant our first time out together.” He blushes, too. “Am I making this more awkward than it should be?”

  “Yeah,” I say and smile.

  His menu lies open and unread in front of him. Instead of reading it, his eyes comb over me. “What was his name?” Eli asks. “Your boyfriend.”

  “Jeremy.”

  “What was he like?”

  I shrug, searching the room for answers to who my boyfriend is, as if they lay among the tables or in the conversations of the other diners. “I don’t know. He was a dedicated dancer. A great dancer,” I correct myself, not wanting to shortchange Jeremy. What else do I say? “He was competitive,” I continue. “Though he was only seventeen, he seemed so much older, almost wiser than his years.”

  Eli nods. “He was your dance partner.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still do it? Dance, I mean?” He corrects his almost-stumble.

  “No.”

  The server comes by, rattles off the specials, and takes our order. I think I’ve ordered a vegan dish, though I’m not sure since my mind is somewhere else. It’s a jambalaya of thoughts from memories of Jeremy to Eli sitting across from me, giving me bedroom eyes and speaking in Freudian slips.

  “Why don’t you? Still dance?” he adds to jog the memory of our conversation before the server arrived, as though I’d forgotten. I was actually hoping he’d moved past that question and line of conversation. I don’t want to talk about Jeremy. Not with Eli. Not with anyone. How can I adequately answer him? No one can know what it’s like to have the very thing you love the most tied so inextricably to the person you love most. There’s no explanation, so I simply shrug.

  “Because of Jeremy?” Eli pushes.

  “Because it’s not me anymore,” I snap. “That part of my life is over. It died with Jeremy. Okay?”

  “I’m sorry,” Eli says, backing off a bit. “I just don’t understand. I would never be able to give up my music. No matter what happened.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand.” I dip my straw in and out of my drink glass.

  “So what?” he asks, taking a sip of his cola. “You never dance again because someone you loved died?” He asks it gently, and I know he means to come across as straightforward, but I bristle at hearing the words. Defensive-me takes over.

  “That’s right,” I say, straightening my posture.

  “But—”

  I interrupt him because he’s genuinely making me mad. “Don’t you have something you shared with Madeline that you work like crazy to avoid now? Besides possibly having sex with her?”

  “Wait a minute,” he flinches. “I was just asking. You don’t have to get personal.”

  “Oh,” I say, now completely up in arms, “it’s okay for you to get personal, but when the tables are turned…”

  The server slides our dishes in front of us, and we both clam up until she’s gone.

  “I don’t need to put up with this.” I slip to the end of the booth and stand, not bothering to glance at the plate of food. “You have no idea what it’s like to lose someone you love in such a
horrific way.” I notice my voice is much louder than I intend it to be. I race for the doors and push my way outside. I don’t know what I plan to do once I’m out on Main Avenue or how I plan to get back home, but I speed walk down the sidewalk. After a few moments, footfalls catch up with me. Eli grabs hold of my arm and swings me in his direction.

  “Wait a second, will you? You don’t think I know what it’s like, Hailey.” I look at my arm—the one he’s still holding—and he lets go. “You know, you’re right in some ways. Maybe I didn’t get into a car accident that killed my girlfriend. And maybe I don’t know what it’s like to feel guilty every single Arthur Fucking Fonzarelli day of my life. But I do know what it’s like to lose someone in a horrific way. Try losing a child you never met.”

  I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. I recover from the proverbial sting. He’s right. God, I’m such an idiot. I’ve been so self-absorbed with my own problems that it’s like I hadn’t even listened to a word Eli confessed to me in the library. “I’m sorry,” I say.

  He places his hand on my arm again, touching it lightly as if he had hurt it, which he didn’t.

  There’s a long, awkward pause. “You know, it’s a really expensive meal back there that we’re not eating,” Eli finally says.

  I nod, and we both head back toward the restaurant. “I do have one question,” I say. “What in the world is an Arthur Fucking Fonzarelli?”

  He stops mid-sidewalk and looks at me. “I sort of came unglued with the whole Madeline thing. I was—how to put this?—arrested? Instead of juvie or whatever, I was forced to do anger management classes.”

  My look asks him to explain better.

  “I cursed. A lot. Before. So I use replacement words for the bad ones like…” he fills in the blanks with a wave of his arm. Well, you know. Arthur Fonzarelli was a character on Happy Days.”