Jennifer Archer - Through Her Eyes
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- Year:2011
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throughout the years.
I died on a bitter, cold night. Beneath a black sky and a bruised winter moon, I tried to fly, hoping my arms might act as wings. When the howling wind refused to lift me, I closed my eyes and willed death to take me away.
The end came quickly and without pain, but no angel of mercy appeared to help me escape this place; Im as trapped here as I was in life, forced to roam Fathers remote house, the barren fields, this dusty wind-battered town full of small-minded bores. And its all the worse because the girl I love is gone.
At least in the afterlife I fly with ease. I have learned to hover like mist and to soar like a bird. Today I mix with particles of debris and ride the wind as it circles the turret. I rattle the roof beams and roar at the sun, swoop down and around to the front porch, swirl up the steps and shove the old swing, causing the rusty hinges to screech.
I push out into the yard, where a gust of wind carries me around to the side of the house and lifts me to the top of the mulberry tree. Green leaves tremble, and gnarled branches shudder beneath my breath. A small space between a dirty glass window pane and its frayed wooden frame allows me enough room to squeeze through into one of the houses second-story bedrooms.
Once inside I rush down the hallway past more vacant rooms, my silent screams bouncing off walls. Fathers precious house has sat empty too long, devoid of life except for insects and rodents, and they cant help me ease my pain; they cant accomplish what needs to be done.
At the uppermost landing of the staircase, I slip beneath the door to the turret, my refuge in both life and death. I circle the room twice, once fast, the second time more slowly. Soothed by the plaster and wood that still contain strains of my violin music, I float on lost notes that echo from a time when I played for her , when I hoped my melodies might drift across the field and reach her ears.
The wind calms outside, and the sound of a sneeze startles me out of my reverie. Curious, I sweep to the window that overlooks the land behind the house. The root cellar door stands open. Someone a person is climbing inside! A hand reaches up from the cellar and grabs a bag and two books from the ground beside the opening. The title on the spine of the top volume scatters particles of hope through me. Finallyfinally. A lover of Yeats and Shelley, of Shakespeare and Dante. The sort of mind that I might reachor possess.
The cellar door closes. Drifting through the window and down, I sift through the minute cracks in the splintered wooden door, eager to meet my guest, hoping that this one will be my salvation. At last.
One Month Later
Most people run from nightmares; my mother seeks them out. Her name is Millicent Moon, and shes a horror novelistthe female version of Stephen King, minus the megabucks and movie deals. Whenever Mom starts working on a new book, she scouts out the perfect setting. Then she, my grandfather Papa Dan, and I move there. Weve lived in a lot of cool places: the Queen Anne neighborhood in Seattle; a loft overlooking the Cumberland River in Nashville; a neighborhood in southwest Boston where writers like Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau used to hang out. But weve never lived anywhere like the place were moving now, and Id be a whole lot happier if we never did.
Were almost there, Tansy, Mom says, tucking a lock of straight black hair behind one ear and staring ahead at the dusty, rutted road as if its paved with diamonds.
In the backseat, Papa Dan whistles. Loudly. I recognize the tune. The lyrics have something to do with mares eating oats and little lambs eating ivy.
The novel Moms currently writing, The Screaming Meemies , takes place in the town where my grandfather spent his childhood: Cedar Canyon, Texas, population 2,250. Which, after driving through the town for the first time a minute ago, is a nightmare in itself, if you ask me. This will be my first small town experience, which is one reason why this move is the hardest one Ive made so far.
After he finished school, Papa Dan left Cedar Canyon and never returned, so I havent been here before and neither has Mom. She keeps saying itll be easy to make friends in a little town, but I know that the size of the place wont change anything. Theres no convincing her of that, though. Moms chasing miracles by moving here. She hopes that Cedar Canyon will (1) make her forget and (2) make Papa Dan remember.
I wish you would look at the photo. Mom slides her cat-eye sunglasses to the tip of her nose and glances across at me. The place is incredible. Eloise said theres an old wagon bridge at the edge of the property near the canyon.
I turn to stare out the window at a dark cloud in the distance and try to tune out my grandfathers whistling. Over the past two days, I havent spoken more than five words to Mom. But then, since she told me we were moving again, Ive hardly spoken much more than that, anyway. Maybe shes getting used to my near-silence. Usually, it worries her and she asks me a million questions. Are you feeling okay? You want to talk about anything? Is something bothering you? But on this trip, she hasnt seemed fazed. Not that shes gone mute. Far from it. I guess thats a good thing; somebody has to speak for this family.
She could give it a rest, though. For hours on end, shes rattled on nonstop about the old house she rented after finding a crumpled picture of it in a shoe box in Papa Dans room. Shes never seen the place except in that photograph, and Eloisethe leasing agentsaid its been empty for years. Before Mom found that picture, we were going to live in a house in town, instead of out in the boonies. But she called and asked about the place, and just my luck, Eloise confirmed that the house is in Cedar Canyon and that it was available.
It even has a turret! Mom gushes. Can you imagine a turret in the middle of the Texas Panhandle?
I shoot her another glance. I havent seen my mother so excited since the day we first pulled up in front of our tiny bungalow in California, the place we just left. The day after my fifteenth birthday, we parked the U-Haul in San Francisco and stayed almost fourteen months, the longest Ive lived in one place. I met Hailey there. Hailey Fremont. The best friend Ive ever hadthe only close friend, really. We shared more than rides to the movies and homework answers; we shared our secrets and dreams. I should have known not to get close to anyone. I let down my guard and forgot that making friends is a waste of time. Its easier to move when you arent leaving behind something that matters.
Im supposed to call Hailey tonight. I wouldve tried sooner, but since we left San Francisco, I havent had a second alone to talk without Mom listening. I want to ask Hailey about Colina guy in our class who shes been working with all summer at a music store. Hailey warned me that he was bad news, but I didnt care. I think she just didnt want me having a boyfriend unless she did, too. The first time Colin and I hung out, Mom ruined everything after I got home by telling me we were moving here. Colin called later, but we only saw each other once more. He probably thought going out with me was a lost cause, since I was leaving.
Say something, Tansy, would you? Mom sounds exasperated, which makes me happy, though Im not sure why.
Without looking at her, I mumble, Im suffocating.
Aiming the air-conditioner vent at my face, she says, Papa Dan, are you hot, too?
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