I link my fingers with Daniel’s, my heart aching at the look on Henry’s face. “Go home,” I plead with him. “You aren’t thinking straight.”
Squinting at me, he drags his glove across his eyes as I turn to leave. But before I can take a step, Henry utters, “Bell.” Anguish as ragged as the canyon wall fills his voice. “Don’t leave me alone. Please. I don’t want to go away without you.”
I look back at him, and my heart shatters into a million splintered pieces. “Stay then…stay here in Cedar Canyon with me.” I lean toward him, reach out with my free hand, grasp Henry’s fingers, connecting myself to him on one side and to Daniel on the other.
“Please come with me, Bell,” Henry coaxes, squeezing my fingers. “It’s what you want. What we both want. You know it is.”
Daniel must sense my uncertainty. He drops my hand, says, “It’s your decision, Isabel. But this is your life we’re talkin’ about.”
I search Henry’s face for several long moments, then shake my head and sigh. “I’m sorry.” I taste tears on my lips. “Go home, Henry. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“I won’t be here tomorrow,” he says, and his eyes turn to ice. He hauls me against him, twisting my wrist.
“You’re hurting me,” I gasp. The mouth of the canyon yawns only inches behind Henry, the black hole so deep that even in the moonlight I can’t see the bottom of it. Beside us, the bridge looms, a dark giant arching into the sky. It beckons to me, offering safety. “Please,” I say quietly, trying to steady my voice. “Let go of me…Henry…we’ll fall. Let’s step onto the bridge.”
“Let her go.” Daniel’s voice quivers like a plucked string on Henry’s violin.
Henry laughs, and in that instant, I know that the stranger inside him has taken over. Panicked, I push against his chest with my free hand, and when he doesn’t budge, I slap him hard across the face.
Henry flinches, and his startled eyes grow wider. He releases me with one hand, but at the same time his other hand swings up, and I think he intends to grab me again. On instinct, I shove his chest, and he stumbles backward against a rock the size of my dog.
Henry’s mouth opens. Panic flares in his eyes. Arms flailing, he gasps as his legs fly out from under him. His right hand grasps at the crystal pendant that rests against my coat, and the chain around my neck snaps. I clutch at his coat sleeve and feel the scratch of wool against my skin as the fabric slips through my fingers.
“No!” I shriek as Daniel lunges forward, grabbing for Henry’s foot. But it’s too late. Henry topples backward into the canyon’s gaping, dark mouth.
“Henry!” Daniel and I both scream at once. Dropping to my hands and knees in the snow, I crawl to the edge and peer deep into the black chasm.
An alarm shrieks in my head, growing louder and louder until it drowns out my own rising screams. I press my hands to my ears, dizzy and sweating, my mind unraveling, twisting, curling, tangling like a dropped roll of film. Before me, the canyon’s mouth seems to open wider. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for it to swallow me, too.
Daniel’s voice breaks through the shattering noise in my head. “Isabel!” he yells. “Turn around. Take my hand!”
The screeching resumes, fills my brain, the pressure building until I’m sure my head will explode. I press my palms harder against my temples.
“Isabel…” My name again, spoken quietly now, a calm, steady note at the center of a storm. “Move away from the edge. Look at me. Take my hand.”
I open my eyes, but I can’t move, can’t stop staring at the place where Henry stood only moments ago.
“Tansy…”
Tansy?
I blink. Blink again. Not Bell. Tansy…
“Move away from the edge.”
My lungs burn from exhaustion. I taste salt on my lips; I hear myself sobbing. With shaky arms, I somehow manage to push onto my knees, manage to turn and glance up.
Tate reaches out to me.
“Tate?” I cry. I take his hand, and he pulls me into his arms. “Did you see him? Henry fell! We have to help him!”
Tate strokes my hair. “You were sleepwalking. Dreaming. Henry isn’t here.”
“He was, though. He was.” I lift my head from his shoulder and look into his eyes. “Henry didn’t jump off the bridge; he fell off the side of the cliff. And no one pushed him. Not on purpose. It was an accident. I saw the whole thing. Maybe that’s why his ghost reached out to me through the journal. He wanted everyone to know the truth.”
“There isn’t a ghost, Tansy.”
“But—”
“There isn’t a ghost. There never was.” Tate holds my gaze. “I wrote those poems.”
22
“You?” I step back. “You couldn’t have.”
“I should have told you before, but I was embarrassed.” Tate looks down at his feet and exhales noisily before meeting my gaze again. “That’s why I wanted in the cellar. So I could get the journal back before anyone found it.”
“No…I don’t believe you.” Hurrying to the edge of the cliff, I look down, desperate to find Henry, but all I see is darkness. I search around my feet for the rock that threw Henry off balance, but it isn’t there.
“Tansy,” Tate says, “let’s go. I’ll explain everything once you’re home.”
His Blazer sits roadside at the trailhead, not Mr. Peterson’s shiny DeSoto. Climbing in on the passenger side, I shut the door, lean my head against the window, and close my eyes, shaking all over.
“I can’t believe you walked all the way out here alone in the dark,” Tate says quietly.
“I don’t remember walking.” I remember sitting in the darkroom, the photograph, the crystal. My grandfather’s face before I stepped through. Papa Dan! What did he see? “How did you know I’d be out here?” I ask Tate.
“I didn’t. After we talked on the phone, I had a feeling something was up with you. I couldn’t sleep, so I called your cell and tried texting you. When you didn’t answer, I almost called the house, but I didn’t want to wake up your mom. So I drove out to your house to see if the box was still in the cellar. I wanted to make sure you hadn’t taken it out and done something crazy.”
“What were you planning to do? Try to break the lock again?”
“I don’t even know. I just got in the car and took off.”
I cock my head to study him. “But you came to the canyon…. Why?”
“When I pulled into your driveway, I saw your grandfather in my headlights. He was walking in this direction.”
“Papa Dan was walking out here?” I grip the edge of the seat with both hands.
“He seemed pretty upset. He had one of your pictures of the bridge. I took him back to the house, and your mom ran into the yard when I pulled up and said you were missing. I told her I thought I knew where you were, and that I’d find you and bring you back.”
I cross my arms, my muscles tense and trembling. Papa Dan must’ve been in bad shape, or Mom would’ve come with Tate to look for me. “Hurry,” I tell him. “I bet she’s going nuts right now.”
Tate nods, keeping his focus on the road.
“I don’t understand about the journal,” I say.
“Neither do I.” He sends me a quick, self-conscious glance, then adds, “You know I told you I used to come out to the house and read?” When I nod, he continues, “Sometimes I’d try to write, too, but after my mom left, it was like all my words dried up.” He pauses for a breath, then says, “Then I found the journal. The pages were empty; it was just an old book with nothing in it. And the crystal…when I took it out of the box…” Tate’s fingers clench and unclench on the steering wheel. His gaze darts my way again. “It was weird…. I’d go there straight from school. I didn’t even think twice about it. It was like I was supposed to write in the journal, like I was meant to fill those empty pages. The words started flowing out of me and I couldn’t write fast enough. And the poems…I couldn’t believe what I was reading, that I’d written them. I did
n’t want Dad to find them, so I left the journal in the cellar.”
“In the box with the other things,” I murmur.
“Yeah. After that, every time I went back there, I’d take out the crystal and the journal and the same thing would happen. The poems…I mean, the handwriting is mine, but the words and the thoughts…I don’t know. I relate to a few of the poems, but some of them I don’t even understand. It’s almost like they didn’t come from me, like they were—”
“Henry’s,” I finish when he hesitates. “Like he was writing them through you.”
Tate frowns. “But that’s impossible.”
“But you thought it, too, didn’t you? That’s what you meant when you told me you felt as if Henry’s ghost was trying to tell you something.”
“I told you I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Then how do you explain what happened?”
A long silence, then, “I can’t.”
The house comes into view, the windows aglow with light. Just as Tate pulls to a stop in our driveway, Mom and Papa Dan step onto the porch in their pajamas and robes, holding hands.
“Should I come in with you?” Tate asks.
“She’ll want to talk to both of us. I guess it’s time I told her everything.” I sigh, nervous about confessing to Mom, but also relieved to finally have it all out in the open.
Tate reaches across the seat and covers my hand with his, as if to let me know that we’re in this together.
I open the door.
An hour later, I tell Tate good-bye while Mom goes upstairs to check on Papa Dan; he went to bed right after Tate and I came home. I guess he only needed to know I was safe before he could calm down enough to sleep.
When Tate’s Blazer disappears into the shadows on the road, I go back inside the house and lock the door. I return to the kitchen, where, moments ago, Tate, Mom, and I had sat around the table talking. After Tate brought me home, even though Mom was pressing me to sit down and explain, I immediately ran up to the turret. I placed Henry’s treasures into the rosewood box and brought it downstairs. Mom needed to see it all in order to understand. The crystal and the watch; the journal, too. Tate’s poems. Now everything remains on the table where we left it, even the journal. Tate surprised me by leaving it here.
I pick it up, and when Mom enters the room again, say, “I guess Tate forgot this.”
“You can give it to him at school tomorrow.” She pulls out a chair and sits down beside me.
I look into her eyes. “How’s Papa Dan?”
“Resting, but still not asleep.”
That’s not what I meant by my question, and she knows it. He’s been less agitated and restless the past couple of days, but physically he’s weaker, more fragile, less quick to move.
“How about you?” Mom’s brows draw together. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.” I open the journal. “I still can’t believe Tate wrote these poems. Now that I think about it, some of them could be about his mom leaving, though. You should read them.”
“I’ll ask Tate if it’s okay first.” She smiles. “We writers are sensitive about sharing our work.”
“You think he’s right, don’t you? You think that I’ve been dreaming, too.”
Mom hesitates, then says, “That makes the most sense.”
“What about the things I saw through my camera? I was wide awake then, Mom.”
“I don’t know, sweetie.” She clasps her hands together on the table.
“Other than hearing that scream the first night we were here,” I say, “have you had any more weird experiences or seen anything strange?”
“I’ve been spooked once or twice, but that goes along with my job.” Another smile teases her lips.
I take a deep breath and, before I can change my mind, say, “I still think Henry used my photography to get through to me. And he used Tate’s writing to get through to him. Maybe he was trying to reach you, too.”
She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “I said dreaming makes the most sense, and it does. But I’m open to other possibilities, Tansy.”
“Like maybe I’m losing my mind?” I stare down at the table, and the knot of tears inside my chest begins to loosen. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
“No.” She nudges me gently with her elbow until I look at her. “I know you’re stronger than that. I’ve been worried about you, though. You’ve been through so much. Maybe…” She looks into my eyes and shrugs. “Some things that happen in this world can’t be explained. If you believe Henry Peterson’s ghost reached out to you and Tate, I won’t argue.” Mom starts to say something else, then, changing her mind, looks away.
“But?” I prompt.
Tears fill her eyes. “I can’t help thinking that I caused this.”
“You? How?”
“By moving you so much. You don’t have roots…a place to call home or steady friendships. The stress of this move on top of Papa Dan’s illness—maybe you were so lonely you—” Breaking off, Mom averts her gaze.
“What? Made up an invisible friend?” I ask, humiliated.
Her face scrunches up, like it always does when she’s trying not to cry. “You’ve paid the price for my silly selfishness. You don’t know how much I wish I could go back and change that. But I can’t.” A tear trickles down her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
I reach up and wipe the tear away. “You’re making your really gross crybaby face, Mom. I’ve told you a bajillion times it’s not a good look on you.” She laughs a little, and I say, “None of this is your fault. And don’t worry—I don’t need to see a shrink. Not anymore. I was getting pretty close, though.”
Laughing, I squeeze her hand. I reach again for the journal, flip to the last page, and read the poem I started earlier tonight but never finished. My heart beats harder with each word on the page, and I know without a doubt that Henry wrote this poem, if not the others. Through Tate, yes, but the message is from him…and I know who he meant to reach. Papa Dan already knew that Henry didn’t jump off the bridge. Henry had something more that he needed to say to my grandfather.
Handing the journal to Mom, I say, “Just read this one. Tate won’t mind. Maybe then you’ll understand why I believe what I do.”
Mom hesitates before taking the journal and lowering her gaze to the page. After a minute, she looks up at me with stunned eyes. “Oh, Tansy…do you think…?”
I lift the journal from her hands, and without another word, we both stand and leave the room, headed for the stairway.
Lamplight glows beneath Papa Dan’s bedroom door. Pausing next to it, I say, “I’m going to tell him good night.”
“He’ll like that.” Mom touches my arm. “If you want me to sleep in your room with you tonight, I will. Or you can sleep in mine.”
I used to do that as a little girl when I was scared or sad or upset. But I’m not any of those things now. Not anymore. Still, it would be nice to have her close by, to reach out in the darkness and feel her beside me. Like me, my mom’s not perfect, but she’s mine. “If I get lonely, I’ll let you know,” I tell her.
She gestures at my grandfather’s door. “He was really worried about you tonight. He loves you so much.”
“I know.”
Mom kisses my cheek, then heads for her room, leaving me in the hallway. I tuck the journal beneath my arm and knock on Papa Dan’s door. After a few seconds, I open it and poke my head into his room.
He sits at the edge of his bed, a sheet of beige stationery across his lap. The mattress springs squeak as I settle beside him. “I’m sorry I scared you tonight.”
His eyes meet mine, and I realize that though I may never totally convince Mom or Tate about Henry, my grandfather knows the truth. He saw me step through the shimmer of light from the crystal beam. He spoke to Henry on those nights when I heard his voice and another’s—Henry’s—in this very room.
I glance down at the stationery in his lap, and chills chase up my spine. The name Isabel
is scrawled in neat script at the bottom. “May I read it?” I ask him, and he lifts his hand off the page.
Dear Daniel,
I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve thought of you often through the years. You’ve remained one of my most cherished friends, despite the miles that have separated us and the long silence between us. You are a true friend in every sense of the word.
To protect me, you honored my wish, though I realize you were never comfortable with that decision. I want you to know that I regret placing you in such an awkward position. I was a foolish, terrified girl in the beginning and, later, a cowardly woman who couldn’t bear the thought of a scandal.
You were right; we should not have kept such a terrible secret. It was wrong of me to ask you to. Wrong and unfair. Not only to you but also to Henry and his family. Doing so harmed all of you. Our secret even harmed me.
I spent what should have been the best years of my life worrying that someone would find my crystal pendant in the creek bed below the cliff, and that the necklace would tie me to Henry’s death.
I wish I’d been as brave as you—as willing to tell the truth and face any consequences. What happened was an accident, and surely that would’ve been proved in the end. Years back, when I saw you at your mother’s funeral, your eyes revealed the suffering you’ve endured for allowing everyone to believe Henry committed suicide. If your guilty feelings extend further than that, you’re wrong. You bear no fault in his death, either.
I thank you every day for stopping me from running away with Henry that night. But I was the one afraid to speak the truth. I’m the one who chose to ruin Henry’s reputation, not you. I’m ashamed to admit that I have remained a coward to the end, as I’ve waited until I’m an old woman at death’s door before writing this letter. Should you decide to expose the truth, you have my blessing. I hope you will forgive me for not giving it sooner.
Through Her Eyes Page 28
