Through Her Eyes Read online

  My throat hardens, and I can barely choke out a good-bye. All Hailey’s warnings about Colin being bad news echo through my mind, followed by her promises. Call me your first night there. I promise I’ll be home…. I don’t care how far apart we live, you’re my best friend. Nothing will change that. Yeah, right. I’ve only been gone a few days and she not only couldn’t care less if she talks to me, she’s going out with the guy I like. I can’t believe Hailey would do this to me. I trusted her. How could I have been so stupid?

  My hands shake as I open Henry’s journal to the second poem and read…

  Don’t believe the words they speak

  When they look into your eyes,

  When they swear to stand by you

  Till the sun falls from the sky.

  Don’t believe the hollow vow

  Said with ease to humor you,

  Woven stories sewn to please

  But the golden threads aren’t true…

  Henry. I would swear he is speaking directly to me, reaching out from the page, through the years. How can someone who lived and died here so many decades ago know exactly how I feel?

  I jerk awake from a dreamless sleep and blink until my eyes adjust to the darkness. The curtains hang limp in the stale, stuffy air. Earlier, before I turned out the light, I opened the window just enough to let in a little of the cool, blustery air. But the wind has finally stopped blowing and the room is sweltering hot. Mom said she’ll have air-conditioner units installed soon, so we can survive the Texas heat.

  Somewhere in the distance a train wails, the sound reminding me of some of the lonely harmonica tunes Papa Dan used to play. I kick off the sheet, and a breeze sweeps across me, pebbling my skin with goose bumps. Weird. Where did such a cool draft come from on such a hot, still night? My door is ajar, but I remember Mom closing it long before I turned out the light. Could the wind have blown through the window earlier and forced the door open? Even though the latch is as old and worn out as the rest of the house, that doesn’t seem possible. Besides, the door opens into the room, not out of it. Mom might’ve looked in on me again before she went to bed. That explains the door but not the breeze.

  Too tired to worry about it, I glance at the clock on my nightstand. 12:22. I burrow deeper into the pillow. Outside, a bird whistles then breaks into song, the warble low and strangely sad. For a moment, I recall the bird that I saw on the windowsill through my camera’s viewfinder. Then my thoughts drift to Hailey and Colin and I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting tears. Right now, Henry Peterson feels like my only friend. Some social life I’m going to have here—me and a dead guy hanging out on Saturday nights.

  I read his second poem several times after I talked to Hailey’s mom. I don’t really believe his words were meant for me—advice from the grave. Yeah, right. But shaking off that uneasy feeling is hard to do, anyway. I think of him living in this big, gloomy house, walking the narrow hallways, maybe even sleeping in this room. Did he leave the window open in the summer? Did he lie awake and listen to a night bird’s song, the train’s sad wail, the monotonous hum of cicadas? I wonder if he found comfort in the dark isolation, in the creaks and whispers, the quiet sounds of a country night. Or did he feel as lonely as I do?

  The bird’s shaky lullaby relaxes me. But just as I’m in that twilight place between reality and dreams, the singing stops and I’m snapped awake again by the sound of a man’s voice. It drifts to me from the direction of Papa Dan’s room. Could it be him? Eight months have passed since my grandfather has spoken more than a mumbled word or two at a time. But now I hear full sentences delivered in a steady stream. I can’t make out what he’s saying, just his quiet angry tone, rising…rising, then falling to a low, rolling mumble. I don’t remember Papa Dan ever sounding so tense or hateful. His tone of voice scares me.

  Sitting up, I strain to hear more clearly. I tell myself he must be talking to Mom, but my stomach tilts anyway. Why don’t I hear her? The muscles in my legs twitch as I push from my bed and tiptoe to the door. Standing at the threshold, I count to three, draw a breath, and hold it. Then I poke my head into the dark hallway and look toward Papa Dan’s room. No light shines beneath his door.

  “I won’t,” he says in a quiet, threatening voice that doesn’t sound like him at all. He must be talking in his sleep, having a nightmare…. I should wake him. The hallway between my room and Papa Dan’s seems a mile long as I make my way to his door. Pausing, I reach for the knob.

  “Listen to me….”

  Now that I’m closer, Papa Dan sounds more like himself. But then I hear two voices at once…overlapping. A sharp “Leave!” A pleading “Watch out!”

  Panicked, I step back. What I heard…what I think I heard…is crazy. Impossible. Still, the echo of those two separate voices speaking at the same time reverberates inside my head. Someone is in the room with my grandfather. I know I should go downstairs and get Mom, but I can’t leave him alone and defenseless, even for a minute.

  Poised to pounce on a burglar if necessary, I grab the doorknob and turn it, pushing open the door. Cool air rushes past me then disappears, leaving me standing in the same fog of heat that hangs heavy in my own room. A yellow moon spills enough light through the gauzy white curtains to highlight my grandfather’s silhouette. He’s sitting alone at the edge of the bed, facing me, his back to the window, quiet now. Still.

  “Papa Dan?” I whisper. “You okay? I’m going to turn on the light.” I flip the switch, squinting against the sudden glare.

  My grandfather blinks and glances at me. His eyes flash confusion at first, then recognition and relief.

  I scan every corner, look under the bed and in the closet, relaxing little by little when no one jumps out at me. I tell myself I only imagined two different voices speaking at once. But I’m still trembling when I sit beside Papa Dan. I hug him and notice he’s trembling, too. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?” I squeeze his shoulders, hoping he’ll answer me, but he’s not talking now. “It’s okay. This place freaks me out, too.”

  His arms come around me. Against my chest, his heart thumps hard and fast.

  “It’s okay…it’s okay. Everything’s fine.” I try to reassure him, as he always used to reassure me whenever I was afraid. But it’s all a lie. Everything isn’t fine. Something is wrong with this house. Papa Dan knew it the minute we arrived. “You don’t want to live here, do you?” More than once, Mom has mentioned that before he got sick, he told her he wanted to take a trip to Cedar Canyon. Now I wonder why he would want to come back after so many years away. Did he want to dig up a memory—or bury one?

  My gaze settles on a photograph on the nightstand: Papa Dan and my grandmother with my dad between them. I study their faces, remembering an album I found in Papa Dan’s closet when I was about six years old. Inside were black-and-white snapshots with yellowed edges, images of people from another time, faces I didn’t recognize. Surrounded by his shoes, I sat on the floor and flipped through the pages. When Papa Dan found me there, he took the album away. That was one of the few times he ever scolded me.

  He has other photo albums that he leaves out for anyone to see, and on a night months ago when his mind was still clear, we looked through them together. Papa Dan talked about places he had lived and visited. He didn’t mention Cedar Canyon, though. Not once. Most of the pictures were of him and my grandmother, a few of my dad. Some were of his parents and Papa Dan as a boy. He didn’t show me the photograph of this house that Mom found, and there were no shots of his childhood friends. No school group pictures.

  In the photograph on the nightstand, my grandparents’ shoulders press together; my dad clings to Papa Dan’s leg. Sitting back, I take my grandfather’s hand in mine, startled by how weak his grasp has become over the last few months.

  I can’t remember my dad’s touch. Even so, I’ve mourned losing it. How much worse will it be to know a touch and have it taken away?

  5

  The next morning, I’m up before seven, wide awake in s
pite of my restless night. I pass Mom’s bedroom on my way to the stairs. Small cartons and suitcases cover the bed. Boxes fill every corner. A grating noise overhead that sounds like a piece of furniture being moved tells me she’s on the third floor, already arranging her office, even though the rest of the house is so cluttered that I have to watch my step to avoid tripping over something.

  My growling stomach leads me downstairs to the kitchen, where Papa Dan sits looking out the side window at the mulberry tree, a pile of shredded paper napkin on the table in front of him. He glances my way and a smile flickers at the corners of his mouth. His eyes are bloodshot, his face ashen, his thick silver hair a tangled mess.

  Dread sinks like a stone to the bottom of my stomach as I lift a box and move it into the corner. Papa Dan never joins us in the morning until he’s dressed and shaved, hair combed, teeth brushed, shoes on his feet. Ready for whatever surprises the day might bring. That’s what he always used to say. This morning, he wears wrinkled pajamas, and his feet are bare. I kiss his head on my way to the refrigerator. “Morning.”

  Top o’ the morning to you, Tansy girl. The words echo from mornings long past, an Irish greeting spoken with the slight Texas drawl he never quite shed.

  I grab a pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator along with a bowl of grapes we bought last night. Placing the bowl at the center of the table, I pour two glasses of juice. “Having trouble getting started today?” I ask Papa Dan.

  His hand shakes when he takes the glass I hold out to him, and everything inside of me shifts downward. Papa Dan doesn’t normally tremble. Despite the problems with his mind, his body has stayed healthy and strong. His hands have always been steady enough that he was able to keep carving and sanding some of his woodworking projects in San Francisco, even though we had to take away his electric tools. When he started forgetting and losing things, Mom wanted to take away all of his tools, but he loves working with his hands so much that I convinced her not to. She agreed that he could continue to carve, sand, and polish any unfinished pieces as long as someone stayed with him.

  He doesn’t make anything you can recognize or use anymore. But Papa Dan used to carve awesome birds and fish. He made tables, chests, and the most beautiful jewelry boxes. My breath catches. Beautiful boxes. Like the one I found in the cellar out back.

  I sit down across the table from my grandfather and lift my glass, then set it down again without drinking. Leaning toward him, I say, “Why did you have a picture of this house? Did you used to come here when you were a kid?”

  He only blinks at me, and I’m not sure he understands my question.

  Reaching across the small table, I take his hand and whisper, “You talked last night…I heard you. Why won’t you talk to me now?”

  Papa Dan’s blank expression shifts to one of worried confusion. He touches my cheek, and I realize then that he only understands one thing—that I’m upset.

  I smile at him, tears blurring my vision. “I’m okay,” I say, my voice too high. Sitting back, I reach for the fruit bowl and pluck a grape from the stem.

  Mom walks in and opens the refrigerator. “Good morning, early bird,” she says.

  “The early bird was outside my window last night. It woke me up after midnight and kept singing off and on until morning.” I sit back and look at her, hoping she doesn’t notice I’m emotional. “Didn’t you hear it?”

  “No. Are you sure it was a bird?” She takes out the juice pitcher, then faces me. “That’s odd for one to sing during the night.”

  “I didn’t see it, but I know what a bird sounds like. I’m surprised all the birds around here haven’t been blown to Oklahoma, there’s so much wind.”

  Mom frowns. “Is something wrong?”

  Thinking of my conversation with Hailey’s mother, of the voices coming from Papa Dan’s room, I shake my head. Mom studies me a moment longer before pouring juice into a tumbler. She’s already dressed, her hair pulled up into a knot on top of her head. “When did you get up?” I ask.

  “Over an hour ago. I put that padlock on the cellar.” She sips the juice, then opens a loaf of bread, takes out four slices, and drops them into the toaster. “I’ve been trying to get my office in order so I can start working.”

  Glancing at Papa Dan, I stand and walk over to Mom. “He doesn’t like it here,” I whisper.

  “What are you talking about?” She leans against the counter, her back to the sink.

  “Papa Dan. He seriously hates it here.”

  “Not this again.” She sighs. “How do you know?”

  I widen my eyes, hiss, “Look at him. He didn’t get dressed before he came down.”

  Papa Dan’s chair scrapes the floor as he pushes away from the table and stands. “Don’t you want some toast, Dan?” Mom asks him, but he turns toward the door that leads to the living room and leaves without acknowledging either one of us.

  “We shouldn’t talk about him like he’s not even in the room,” I say.

  “I know.” She touches my arm. “The move has thrown him off, that’s all. The doctor warned us that things like this would likely happen, even without the move.”

  “I heard him talking in his sleep.”

  Her eyes widen. “Talking?”

  I nod. “Full sentences. He sounded upset.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I couldn’t hear all of it.” I don’t mention that he spoke in two different voices or that they seemed to overlap. She would either think I was dreaming or worry that I’m going peanutty because of the move. This morning, I’m not so sure I don’t agree with her.

  The toast pops up. Mom places the slices on a plate and takes them to the table. “He may be a little stressed out from the trip.”

  “Maybe.” I cross my arms. “Or maybe this place gives him the creeps.”

  “I thought coming here might do him some good.” Turning, she takes jam and butter out of the refrigerator, then returns to the table and we sit across from each other.

  “You said that Papa Dan told you once that he wanted to come back here….”

  She nods. “A while ago. Before he stopped talking.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Just that he had some old business to set straight. Something to do with a childhood friend who had died. He said she was like his sister when they were growing up. I can’t remember her name, but she was living on the East Coast when she passed away a year or so ago. Her attorney sent Papa Dan a letter she wrote to him before her death.”

  “What did it say?”

  “He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask, because he didn’t seem to want to talk about it. He was really upset over the woman’s death, so I urged him to arrange for a trip out here. I thought it might help him find some closure, if that’s what he needed. Then his health went downhill, and he didn’t have a chance to follow through. I never found the letter.”

  “Maybe he threw it away.”

  She studies me for several quiet moments. “I knew moving would be hard for both of you, but I thought it would pass and you’d get a kick out of exploring this old place. There are a lot of great photo opportunities here. I hoped—”

  “I might take some pictures after I shower,” I say quickly. I don’t want our conversation to head the direction she’s trying to take it. It will just lead to Hailey and Colin, and I don’t think I can talk about them without crying. “Can I set up Papa Dan’s workshop in the old barn?” I ask. “It would be the perfect place for him to put his stuff.”

  Mom averts her eyes. “I don’t know, Tansy. The barn is too far from the house.”

  “It’s not that far.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for him to be way out there alone tinkering while you’re in school and I’m working.”

  “Why not? I know we have to keep his tools put away, but why can’t he just hang out there by himself if he wants to? He likes to be around the things he’s made. And you locked the cellar door, so we won’t have to worry about
that.”

  “I’m afraid he’ll wander off. I didn’t tell you, but last week in San Francisco, I found him out in the yard in the middle of the night a couple of different times. When the handyman comes, I’m going to have him put a lock on the outside of Papa Dan’s bedroom door so he can’t get out at night.” She glances briefly at the ceiling, frowning. “What about that big room on the third floor for his shop? The one across from my office, beneath the turret. I’ll help you lug everything up there later. I could have a lock put on that door, too.”

  “You’re going to start locking him up like a prisoner?” I don’t even try to control the infuriation in my voice.

  “Honey…he could get lost or hurt.”

  “So we’re going to treat him like a baby now, is that it?”

  Her hand covers mine on the tabletop. “This is hard for me, too. But we have to think about Papa Dan’s safety. We have to do what’s best for him.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “I hate what’s happening to him. I hate it.”

  “I know, Tansy. I hate it, too.”

  “It’s like he isn’t even here sometimes. Just his body. And even it—” The words catch in my throat. I open my eyes and look at her. “It’s so weird. He looks the same on the outside, but he’s getting all shaky. And when he holds my hand, he doesn’t feel as strong.”

  “He’s always taken care of us. Now it’s our turn to take care of him,” Mom says softly.

  Fighting tears, I say, “I miss him, Mom. I miss him so much.”

  After breakfast, I take another look at the third-story room. Mom’s right; it’s perfect for Papa Dan’s shop. Just the right size, and the lighting is good.

  Mom wants to get in another hour of organizing her office before we start hauling his stuff upstairs, so I make sure Papa Dan wears a cap and plenty of sunblock, then I grab my camera and zoom lens, put his Havana straw hat on my head, and we take off. I’m anxious to see the canyon and the bridge, but Mom said it’s too far for Papa Dan to walk there, so I decide to save that trip for another time.