Good morning everybody! I hope you had a lovely weekend.
For a limited time I'm giving a FIVE chapter sneak peek to my readers on social media, Wattpad, and Tapas. The 5 chapters will be posted below!
I will take this sneak peek down on Sunday (August 12th) so take a look while you can, and please, if you like what you read, consider preordering a signed copy of WHAT THE FLOWER SAYS OF DEATH. Your early support helps make this release a success and I appreciateeach and every one of you!
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WHAT THE FLOWER SAYS OF DEATH, FIVE CHAPTER SNEAK PEEK
I
My grandparents' estate was not how I remembered.
When I was young, the rolling acres seemed never-ending against the forget-me-not horizon, and the modest, victorian-style manor felt stately and royal, like a palace. I recalled playing in the technicolor garden, violets in the air and grass stains on my tights. Feeding the sheep and goats, their fuzzy lips tickled my palm. Going on horseback rides along the ocean with my grandfather, salt tangled in my ashy hair.
I spent many summers there as a child. Whenever my mother felt stifled by my incessant needs, I visited my grandparents for a few weeks. As I grew older and became more capable of taking care of myself, the trips waned to once in a blue moon. It had been eight years since my last stay.
Returning was underwhelming.
Unlike the warm, dewy summers, fall in Newport was desaturated and still, making my grandparents' oceanside residence appear foreboding. The white fence surrounding the property had faded to a cinder gray. The house's exterior, once a vibrant yellow, was now sun-bleached and dulled with dirt and grime. Maple trees lined straight and neat on either side of the dusty road leading to the house, their old age showing with patchy autumn leaves and skeletal silhouettes. I was akin to them, spindly fingers gripping tight onto the last of their beauty as the winter threatened to strip them bare.
I'd once remembered this place having so much life, but Death had touched it since then. Fitting that I was spending my next few months here, as I'd also recently been touched by Death.
I tucked a bitten fingernail under the bandages binding my wrist, scratching at the forever itchy skin beneath. If I'd known I would be caught, I wouldn't have slit my wrist. I loathed the idea that I now had to live with the scar.
Battle wound, I tried reminding myself. A scar was what my mother called it while expressing disappointed in my now tarnished skin. Something unsightly, something to be covered up and hidden, like why I did it.
"Remember, Vi. You're to do as your Nan says. You'll help with the chores, and take care of Grampie."
I rolled my eyes. "Grampie's in a coma." What care could I possibly provide?
My mother opened her mouth, her frosty gaze saying she was about to snap at me, but she found the willpower to hold her tongue. I smirked to myself over the minute victory.
I wasn't looking to start a fight, but I was bitter and she knew I sat on a short fuse. Rightfully so, since she was ditching me two hundred miles from home only ten days after a suicide attempt. I guess her daughter's troubling desire to kill herself wasn't enough to make my mother wake up and smell the fragrance of her own neglect. I gnawed at my lip, my annoyance itching as violently as my stitched up wrist. I was angry that she was running away again, but maybe it was for the best. I didn't want to be around her for a second longer.
I opened the car door before my mother brought it to a complete stop, forcing her to slam the breaks.
She followed me out of the car with an exhausted huff. "Violet, please. I just need some time to think. To figure out what to do. I don't know how to handle all this. I'll be back for your birthday," she reasoned, always stifling a note of frustration when talking to me.
I retrieved my duffle bag from the backseat and slammed the door closed, sending a sharp glare at her over the hood of the car. As a teen filled to the brim with unnecessary angst, everything came out of my mouth far more poisonous than intended, so I committed to the toxicity. "Why do you only seem to be able to think when I'm not around?"
My mother stared at me, a deep wrinkle appearing between her brows, like I'd wounded her. She opened her mouth to reply, but the front door of the aging house opened, and my grandmother stepped out onto the veranda. There was a smile on her face, but it shrunk a fraction when she felt the heat from the conversation she'd interrupted.
I turned back to my mother, shutting my eyes to settle my anger. "I'm sorry. Just do what you need to do." I always ended up apologizing. Every time. Because a small part of me always hoped she'd change. That she would suddenly see the errors of her ways, tell me to get back into the car and take me home, and we could resolve it like a real mother and daughter.
My apology just gave her permission to not feel guilty though.
She sat back down into the driver's seat and took off with little more than a goodbye.
I watched her drive away until the dreary gray swallowed our silver sedan in the seaside fog. Once released from the paralyzing disappointment, I turned, slipping past my grandmother as she held the door open. I avoided her gaze so she wouldn't be forced to hold her sugary smile anymore. I knew she was doing it. She was so much like my mother and me.
I glanced around the entryway instead; it was as I remembered, yet hauntingly different. It wasn't the warm, welcoming home away from home it used to be. Now, it felt cold and quiet, smelled of stale air, just as in the hospital. The comparisons made my mouth dry and my skin itch, as if my wrist wasn't the only part of my body covered in uncomfortable gauze.
"The spare room is tidied up for you. I left some boxes in there so it's a bit cluttered, but I don't expect you to be spending all your time in your room while you're here anyway."
Her frigid tone suggested she was as apprehensive of me being there as I was. I didn't blame her; there was enough on her plate with taking care of the estate and my grandfather by herself. I guess I understood now how she might need my help, even if it was simply one of my mother's weak excuses. But did she want my help? That curiosity didn't have such an easy conclusion. I felt like nothing more than a burden, only there on suicide watch. Another unresponsive body for her to tend to.
"Let me know if there's something I can help with," I answered.
I didn't exactly want to do anything, and I wasn't sure how the offer would hold up if she ever decided to take me up on it, but I didn't want my grandmother sore with me before even making bed. All I wanted to do was curl up and sleep through the winter. But if she wasn't going to allow it, then I might as well try to help make our time together as painless as possible.
"I'm making dinner at six," she said, locking the front door and heading upstairs without another word. I heard the beeps of a heart monitor before she disappeared behind a closed door at the top of the stairs, leaving me alone.
II
The spare room was almost exactly as I left it eight years previous, apart from the addition of a few stacks of boxes filled with old, moth-eaten clothes and books. By the looks of it, the room had gone completely unused since I stopped visiting: dust accumulated on the window sill, pluming in the air as I opened the curtains, and an old chestnut vanity tucked under a white sheet hid behind boxes. The linens on the small, single bed were new though, and the wooden dresser was emptied, dusted, and free for me to use.
I dropped my bag to the floor and sat down on the bed, the springs squeaking under my weight. It wasn't as comfy as I remembered, but it would do fine. Hopefully. I was always either sleeping too much, or not at all; the bed never made a difference.
I sighed as an overwhelmingly heavy sensation threatened to lure me under the covers and keep me there. I pet a thumb over my bandages, the wound still tender, then got up.
I didn't want to waste my time any longer. I only had a bit of it left, after all.
I unzipped my bag and rummaged for my leather journal. I'd wrapped it up tight in a pair of leggings so my mother wouldn't find it when I packed. I couldn't let her see it; she'd tell her shrink and they'd send me to a hospital instead of just my grandparents'.
The journal was my diary, but also my day planner, and my therapist, since I refused to keep a real one for longer than a few weeks. I told it everything through drawings and jotted notes. Most of what was written or doodled inside would have no meaning to any prying eyes.
The incriminating content was my newest installment: my "to-do" list.
I started it the day of my failed suicide attempt, after deciding I'd have to try again. I had already written a goodbye note; it was folded up and tucked into the secret pocket I made in the binding at the back of my journal. I titled it for the day I'd attempt again: January fifth, my eighteenth birthday.
After the note, I started a list of all the things I wanted to do before the date came. None of it was mandatory. Rather, they were simply ideas to keep myself busy as I passed the time. I wanted to try sushi and go to a concert. I wanted to make a snow angel like I did as a kid. I wanted to kiss someone, one last time. When I had a thought, I'd write it down. I hoped the list would keep me from indulging myself and sleeping away the last few months of my decidedly short life.
Along with my list, I started writing down new ways to take my life as they sprung into my head. Most of them were foolish. Some were considerable. I hadn't decided yet how I wanted to do it this time, so the notes helped me keep track of my options.
I knew it was morbid. I knew it was sick. I knew it was dirty and wrong and dangerous, and that's why the journal was a secret. That's why everything was a secret. I didn't want to get caught this time, especially after being caught the first time. My mother finding me, my wrist butterflied and bloody, was a moment I regretted, but she ended up just delaying the inevitable by coming home early that night.
Nothing changed. I still wanted to die more than ever. I'd have do it right this time.
I decided I would unpack later, or eventually, but for now I had to get myself up and doing something or else I'd root to the room and start growing into the walls like the foreign weed I was. I tucked the worn leather book into the waistline of my jeans, skin to cold, dead skin, then laced my arms into a heavy, wool sweater. The book hid snugly against my hip, concealed under my oversized clothes; with all the meals left skipped or forgotten, I was swimming in my wardrobe lately.
I closed the bedroom door behind me and followed my fingers along the old wallpaper back to the entrance. On the way, I passed the room my grandmother had disappeared into. It seemed she had left, the door remaining ajar. I paused, hearing the monitors again, beeping with heavy, dreadful intention. I placed my palm on the varnished wood of the door, opening the crack a little wider. I saw the crisp sheets of the bed and I froze, then retreated. I only caught my breath again when I was halfway down the stairs.
I stumbled upon my grandmother in the den, doing a cross stitch, her reading glasses balanced on the tip of her nose. She turned her attention to me when I approached the doorway.
"I'm going to take a walk."
She nodded, requiring no further explanation, and I had to conceal my surprise. I'd forgotten how it was to not undergo an interrogation every time I made a move. Just before leaving for the drive up, my mother made me take a shower with the bathroom door open. The lack of trust stifled me more than I realized, and when my grandmother didn't question my intentions or motivations, a small weight lifted off my shoulders.
Would she regret the freedom she was allowing me? Would she wonder if she could have changed something, if she'd only kept watch on me like a jail warden? Like my mother?
I ventured to the stables first, but the barn was locked and boarded up. It seemed the horses, sheep, and goats were sold long ago. The upkeep was probably too expensive, and too tedious, when my grandmother was taking care of it all alone. I wasn't surprised, but found myself disappointed anyway. One of the horses, Marvin, used to nip sweetly at my sweater as I brushed his neck, and I felt a sudden deep regret that I never got to say goodbye to him. Or anyone, really. Last time I was here, I had no idea it was going to be so long before I returned again.
Next, I checked the garden, and I was disappointed a second time. The wrought iron gate was locked with a chain and padlock, both showing the first signs of rust. I climbed up the fence to see inside, but the plants were overgrown and uncared for, so there wasn't much to see. The garden possibly lasted longer than the animals, but it had still been at least a few years since someone tended to it. Weeds overtook the delicate undergrowth, and the hardier plants engulfed the other, more particular ones.
I continued on, heading for the coast, assuring myself the sea had not changed in its luster since I'd been gone. I hiked up to the cliff where my grandfather and I would often eat sandwich lunches, and though it was more gray and cold than I remembered, this location did not let me down.
I sat on a rock, folding my knees up to my chest and sucking in the salty air like I'd been drowning all this time and was finally catching my breath. The ocean was choppy, peaks of white speckled against the dark green. I retrieved my journal and drew the coast as I saw it, then the branches of the maple trees outside the front of the house as I remembered them from earlier. I wrote: Hang from the thickest branch. Jump from the cliff and let the ocean swallow me. I added to my list: Go horseback riding, smell the Newport violets, swim in the ocean, even though I knew the last one was impossible in the time I had left without risking hypothermia. I scratched out the sentence, changing it: Go swimming in December. Let the cold take you.
After an hour I headed back, not wanting to take too much advantage of the freedom my grandmother allowed me. I cut through the sparse line of woods on the property, taking the same path I used to with my grandfather. After years of neglect, the trail was now colonized by bushes and hanging branches. Because of the overgrowth, I found myself winded once I emerged from the trees to the backyard of the property, fifty yards from the house. I felt out of shape in this environment; New York had broken me like a bridle on a wild horse.
I circled the house to enter back through the front door, but as I turned the corner, a shadow caught my eye. My steps faltered as I checked, catching another glimpse of a dark-haired boy dressed all in black, raking leaves from under the near-naked maple trees.
So far, the property was hauntingly empty and devoid of life, I'd almost forgotten other human beings existed. His presence took me off guard, as did the unwavering stare he sent back at me. I directed my eyes away and hurried forward to the entrance, but snuck a second peek as I closed the door behind me. He had bent down, returning to raking.
My grandmother was in the kitchen making a cup of coffee. As I crossed the threshold, she offered me the mug she held and turned to prepare herself another. I used the mug to warm my chilled fingers, the smell reminding me of quiet, early mornings before heading out with my grandfather.
"Who's the kid?" I asked as subtle as possible. I was still bewildered by his presence, considering the lack of any other people at the estate, and I think it leaked out with my question.
When I visited as a child, there were always lots of people around. My grandparents had a maid for the house, groundskeepers, and stable workers to help with the animals. Now the place was little more than a graveyard, besides that thin boy who looked like he could have simply broken off from the very trees he raked under.
She spooned a bit of sugar into her drink. "Right. He came by a few days ago offering to help tend to the grass. I've given him some money to rake up the leaves, they were becoming a hassle. He's from town I believe. I can't remember the name." She paused her rambling to take a sip from her coffee, then turned towards me with a glint in her gaze. "He's about your age, I think."
I scoffed, and she snickered before leaving the room. I let her believe I was embarrassed by her suggestion, but really that was nowhere near the truth. I had laughed because the thought of conversing with another human being, for romantic purposes or otherwise, was the furthest thing from my mind considering my coming plans.
Nonetheless, I shifted over to the kitchen window and sipped on my coffee while spying on him, pulling the orange and red leaves into neat piles, his movements smooth and willowy like the sway of tree branches above him.
III
I got up with the sun the next morning, having the fleeting motivation to try and battle my oversleeping for once. I knew by the afternoon I'd be desperate for a cup of coffee or a too-long nap, but for now, while the determination struck me, I'd try to seize it. I tucked my journal into the front pocket of my pull-over hoodie and left my borrowed room to greet the day.
On the balls of my bare feet, I crept towards the kitchen, but found myself pausing outside my grandfather's door as I passed. It was closed again, and as I held my breath to listen, I could hear my grandmother on the other side. At first I thought she was humming, but after listening longer, I placed her steady, gentle rhythm: she was reading to him.
Shaking my head, I continued on as quietly as possible. I had no intention of bothering her, so I'd just get a bowl of cereal and mind my own business. As I searched the kitchen I realized there was no cereal in my grandmother's house though. Actually, there wasn't much of anything to have for breakfast, besides coffee. I considered surrendering and starting a brew, cutting to the chase and dosing myself up on caffeine immediately instead of waiting until the inevitable exhaustion set in, but my stomach rumbled fiercely in protest and I knew I'd need to make something.
If I was going to be baking, then I was going to go all out. I pulled out my journal and set it on the counter, flipping through to a recent doodle I'd sketched along with a jotted down note: Make this! The drawing was poorly done—my limbs were still weak from the blood loss at the time—but recognizable: a plate of Belgian waffles stacked up with a spoon of ice cream on top. A replica of the magazine photograph I'd drooled over while at the hospital. When I saw it, I knew I had to have something similar before my birthday.
It was on my list, and I was sure making breakfast would help keep me on my grandmother's good side, so I scratched a line through the words in my journal to check it off. Then I scoured her cookbook collection for one on desserts, managing to uncover an appetizing recipe for Belgian waffles.
As I expected, my grandmother kept a full stock of baking supplies just as she used to; I had everything I needed. About thirty minutes later, when she shuffled into the kitchen in her night robe, I'd already put my dirtied dishes into the washer and was taking the first waffle off of the steaming iron.
"I didn't expect you up so early. Aren't kids your age supposed to be awake all night and asleep all day?" She shifted past me and filled the kettle with some water; it was tea for her in the mornings, it seemed.
"How do you know I've even gone to bed yet?" I joked, ushering her to a seat at the bay window and placing the waffle and a fork in front of her. "Let me know if it's good."
"Oh dear. Dessert is not for breakfast." Her words objected but she raised her fork and cut off a corner to taste it regardless. "Get me the honey, would you, Flower?"
I had already turned to gather it for her before she asked, but I paused when my old pet name escaped from her lips; it had been so long since someone called me that. I thought perhaps she'd forgotten all together. She pretended as if she didn't noticed what she said, but when I handed her the honey she smiled and something in my chest fluttered, just barely.
"Who taught you to bake?" she asked. She could never admit it was good, that was not the style of the women in our family. I knew the question was her way of confirming it was delicious though.
I made sure to conceal my smugness, returning to the iron to start my own waffle. "You did."
"Oh yes. That's right. It certainly wasn't your mother."
I snorted at her sass.
When the kettle whistle assaulted the silence, I retrieved her tea for her and then settled down across the table. She was nearly done with her plate and had unfolded the newspaper to start doing the crossword as she finished. The lull between us made me thoughtful, and as I watched her read over the paper, I recalled her voice reading to my grandfather only a little while before.
"When I got up earlier, I heard you reading to Grampie," I noted through a bite of delicious waffle, swirling my fork through the whip cream on top as I let the comment sit briefly. "Why do you talk to him?"
She tensed, and I was worried I offended her. I knew my grandfather was still a sore subject for her, especially when neither my mother nor I came to visit when he first fell into a coma. She took a sip of her tea and let her shoulders relax again, settling her eyes back down to the paper before answering.
"The doctors say it's good for him. They say he can hear everything still, so it's good to keep him stimulated. That it might help."
I nodded, leaving it there. I didn't want to prod further when I realized how careless I'd been with my first question. Next time, I'd tread lighter. She finished her waffle and dismissed herself shortly after, bringing her tea and the newspaper with her to the den. When she left, I retrieved my journal again to add to my list: Talk to Grampie.
***
My grandmother entered my room later in the afternoon while I was unpacking, asking if I needed anything from the grocer. I requested only cereal and milk, not wanting to be too much of a bother. She took note, then explained that she would be back in a hour, and drove off in my grandfather's beat up old farm truck, allowing me to be alone again for the second time since arriving, and since the "accident."
The house was too quiet. In the way that a graveyard is hauntingly silent despite the countless bodies. Or like a hospital room, when everyone's trying to avoid talking about the elephant between them. I could hear the old radiators clicking as they warmed up, the ticking of the big grandfather clock in the entryway, and the distant beeps of the monitors, confirming there was still life besides myself there.
I played with the zipper on my sweater, up and down, just to hear a noise, to overpower the beep, beep, beeping. It didn't work though. The sound consumed me. I took a deep breath, exiting into the hallway.
Talk to Grampie, I had written. What better time than now, when I was given some privacy? I followed my hand along the wall to the other end of the hallway. The door was ajar again, the stale-air smell growing stronger the closer I got. It reminded me of sterile linens and bandages and stitches. It reminded me of coming back to life. I picked uncomfortably at the wrap around my wrist before stretching my hand out and placing it flat on the wood of the door.
The door creaked as it parted from the threshold, slowly, and I saw the corner of the bed, and then the blankets covering stiff feet, and then the monitor screen, blinking and refreshing with each tonal heart beat. I could hear mine in my ears now, wet and alive, deafening. I took a deep breath and inched the opening wider.
He slid into view; I saw the tubes wrapped around him, in his nose and arms, his skin gray like a corpse, and I felt the panic grab at my lungs, a pair of hands, crushing the wind from me. I retreated, my back hitting the opposite wall hard, before I ran down the stairs to the entryway and then out the front door. I was suffocating, drowning when I wasn't even underwater. The cool October air shocked my lungs into working again, and after escaping from the house I was able to catch a hard, painful breath.
I braced my hands on my own knees as I tried to work past the anxiety attack that assaulted me, willing myself not to faint, negotiating my wild heartbeat down to just a jackhammer. This was not a new experience for me, but the attacks weren't often this bad. I had medication I was supposed to be taking for them, but the pills made me feel even more suicidal than the depression and anxiety did.
The tunnel vision faded away and I was able to stand up straight again, feeling as though I'd just ran a marathon. I combed my fringe back from my forehead, damp with a cold sweat, and scanned the area with clear, albeit sensitive eyes for the first time since leaving the house, only to find a shadow across from me.
I caught the gangly boy's gaze as he watched, standing perfectly still a few yards away. The panic grasped my throat again as I realized he must have been there for my whole, dramatic scene.
The overwhelming embarrassment froze me solid in a silent stand-off with him, until he shifted to take a step forward. I bolted like a scared animal, swiftly turning back to the house and escaping behind a locked door.
Once I determined it was safe, I peered through the frosted glass detail on the entrance. He stared after me for a moment, before reaching up and tossing his hood over his hair, going back to tending to the leaves.
IV
That evening I picked a book from my grandfather's dusty library and joined my grandmother in the den as she worked on her cross stitch. I thought it might be awkward, sitting quietly with her, and it almost kept me from coming down from my room. With my mother it was always uncomfortable, like she couldn't help but fill the silence with words, complaints, or judgements, overstimulating my already wild brain and forcing me towards solitude.
My grandmother was not my mother though. She was exactly how I remembered, sans the additional stress that wore on her features in the lines under her eyes and the droop at the corners of her mouth. She appeared older than she was, but her nimble fingers stayed young. She was already nearly finished with the project she started the day before.
It was as comfortable as it used to be when I was a child. I remembered staying up late, enjoying the cool summer evenings, so still I could hear the wash of the ocean waves in the far distance, beyond the moan of the old house flexing and the taps of the needle against my grandmother's thimble. It was the same now, only I was older and my heart beat a different rhythm; the stitches on my wrist itched when I turned the pages, and the wind screamed as it billowed around the aging house.
"Your mother called me today."
My grandmother interrupted the silence as I started chapter eight. I flinched, the metaphorical walls springing up around me at the mere mention of my mother. Obviously, right when I'd let myself be vulnerable.
I tried to act like I wasn't already in a panic, turning a page I hadn't read. "Checking if I was still alive?" I considered waiting until my mother came to pick me up to try and kill myself again, just so maybe she'd realize it was mostly her presence that made me wish I didn't exist.
"She seems worried about you," my grandmother responded, trying to hide her skepticism. I mirrored it with a sarcastic hum.
"She wasn't concerned about me until I 'made a scene.'"
I rolled my eyes, then placed them back on the pages of the book, but I couldn't return to reading. My throat was tight with frustration and I had to focus hard just to keep breathing normally.
A heavy silence lingered as my grandmother considered her words. She started speaking again, more careful this time. "I wasn't sure about having you here at first. I was worried I couldn't give you what you needed. We haven't seen each other for so long and... I don't fully understand what you did. Why you did it. I can't comprehend, with so much life ahead of you..."
She stopped. Maybe she felt my guilt in the air and thought it best to leave her further judgements silent rather than vocalized. I didn't blame her for not understanding. I barely understood myself. At the time it felt like the only thing left to do. Like there was nothing else. No other option.
Instead of continuing, she tried to insert some positivity. "Maybe this place is a better environment for you, though. For now at least. Maybe with a change of scenery, you can leave the dysfunction behind." With a sigh, she put her cross stitch down and stood, coming over to set a hand on my shoulder and place a kiss in my hair.
I didn't know what to say in response, but I tried to smile as she left the room, heading back to my grandfather. My heart fluttered again in that weird way, like when she had used my nickname over breakfast, or when the paramedics had resuscitated it with an electric shock in the back of a speeding ambulance.
It wouldn't change anything, but it sounded nice regardless.
***
My grandmother needed to go out again the next day. When I pried, she seemed apprehensive to share, but explained that she needed to pick up some supplies for my grandfather. She was a retired nurse, which was why she was able to tend to my grandfather on her own, but despite saving money on paying for in-home care, she still had to pay for the expenses of his life support, which were clearly adding up from the state of the aging house.
She didn't go into details, and I didn't ask further, knowing I was already treading in sensitive territory. I couldn't help but wonder about how much money was already spent on my grandfather's care though. He'd been in a coma for almost three years now. Was my grandmother in debt yet? I remembered hearing my mother argue on the phone with her years ago, about expenses. Grampie's accident had put an even bigger splinter in their relationship.
I knew my mother would never say it, but she had already mourned her father and wanted to end things cleanly. My grandmother adamantly refused when the decision to stop life support first came though. My mother didn't understand why my grandmother put herself through the suffering of caring for him, but then again, she didn't understand a number of things. The women of our family had a lot in common, but empathy was never something my mother excelled at.
I think I knew why my grandmother held on. It was because sometimes the pain reminded her she was still alive. She was in that room every day, seeing him lying there, and her heart ached, but at least she felt something. I imagined being alone in this house, which had once been a home always filled with my grandfather's warm laughter, eventually made my grandmother feel like she was the one who died. The one lingering where she didn't belong. A ghost in a place long since dead.
I wondered, if she could understand better what I did, if she knew that was the existence I was trying to escape. A never-ending nightmare of barely existing. I knew too well how it felt, because I had been there also.
Maybe I still was.
Maybe I was so scared to go in my grandfather's room and see him because I might feel something too. I'd grown used to being a walking corpse, avoiding reminders of my autonomy like the plague. I wasn't sure how it would be to feel alive again. The thought itself scared me. Like coming back to life.
I opened my journal, taking the cap of my pen with my teeth and underlining, three times: Talk to Grampie.
Before she left for town to get the supplies, she took out some cash from her purse. Two fifty dollar bills. "Can you pay the boy today? Fifty for him. The other one is for you. You can go into town and see a movie sometime if you'd like. Or buy yourself some new clothes. If you need more, let me know."
She was being too sweet, a glint in her eye; I knew what she was doing. Setting me up to talk to the living was a sneaky move fit for my mother. There was something different about the way she did it though. I knew her actions were for my own good, rather than her comfort and reputation.
I pretended to be annoyed, but I couldn't muster the emotion convincingly. I knew her intentions were honest and I couldn't be mad. She didn't realize what handing off that money meant for me though. I had, after all, thoroughly embarrassed myself in front of him just the day before.
I watched out the kitchen window as my grandmother left, disappearing into the desaturation, leaving me alone again. Since arriving the atmosphere seemed to only get more gray, and I wondered what happened to the sun that shined so bright here when I was younger. Had it forgotten about Newport as I almost did?
He arrived not long after. I didn't notice him walking down the path to the house. It was as if he just appeared, trimmer in hand as he got to work clipping the shaped hedges around the perimeter of the house.
I zipped my sweater up and slipped my flats on, realizing immediately upon stepping out that they wouldn't be appropriate footwear for the Newport winter. The wind confirmed my thought, its bitter chill as I exited the house hinting towards the frigidness of the coming season. Maybe I'd ask my grandmother if I could buy a pair of nice boots.
I approached him, trying to muster an indifferent expression even though I could tell a flush was already warming my ears. He turned to greet me with nothing more than mild curiosity. His eyes were a stormy gray, like the sky since I'd arrived; the heat grew unbearable under my collar.
I buried a hand into my pocket and withdrew with one of the bills. "My grandmother told me to give you this."
He glanced down, then smiled politely, straight teeth peeking out from behind his lips. "I don't need payment. I'm—"
"Listen, I don't need to hear your good samaritan excuse. Let's stop beating around the bush here. Just take it and say thank you and we can get on with life." My overwhelming embarrassment came out as hostility, and I threw my gaze to the ground to avoid his reaction, and so he couldn't see me mentally kicking myself.
He didn't say anything else. Instead he reached out and took the bill, folding it up and putting it in his back pocket. With my obligatory errand dealt with, I turned on my heels to retreat.
He called after me. "Are you alright?"
I stopped, glancing back at him over my shoulder, wearing a questioning scowl.
"I meant, after yesterday. You seemed shook up about something. I was just wondering if you were ok," he clarified, eyes shining with a sincere curiosity.
I wanted to be annoyed, wanted to say it was none of his business and that he should mind his own. I couldn't be angry when he looked so innocent though.
"I'm fine," I replied sharply, hurrying back to the house to avoid further interrogation.
V
It was a phone call with my mother that brought me out to the seaside the next evening as the sun was beginning to go down. After talking to her I always felt stifled, more so than ever now, since getting a glimpse of what it was like to breathe again while being away from her.
"You're tending to the stitches?"
"Yes, Mom."
"Make sure to get some cocoa butter. You know you're prone to scars."
"It's not even healed yet."
"It's good to use it early. It'll help. How are you sleeping?"
"Fine."
"You're not oversleeping anymore, are you? It's not good for you."
"I know."
"You really need to start trying, Vi. How's Nan?"
"She's fine."
"You should talk to her about Grampie if you get the chance."
"I don't have anything to say to her about Grampie."
"You know what I mean. This has gone on too long. Just try and make her see some reason. You understand."
"I have to go, Mom."
"I'll see you on your birthday."
"Sure."
My throat was tight, painful, and choking, a knot in my esophagus that throbbed with every pound of my pulse. I escaped the house to try and breathe again, and my wandering feet followed the pull of my aching heart, like a bird drawn to migrate south without a sense of why.
The stormy waves frothed foamy white far out in the violent waters, but calmed as they approached the coast, reaching out to caress the sand like a lover's fingers across a cheek, then pulling away. A forever unsatisfying romance between the water and the land. I could taste their romance in the air, misty and moist, salt on my tongue and tangled through my hair.
I sat there for hours, letting the sound of their love calm me. The clenching in my throat released as the sun dipped under the gray clouds and touched the horizon. A chill set in when the rising water threatened to kiss my feet; I shivered and wrapped my sweater tighter around me, wondering what it would be like to keep sitting there and let the ocean take me away with it as the tide retreated again in a few hours.
I stood, watching the waves approach my toes, teasing close then drawing away, a curled finger beckoning me to follow. I kicked off my runners and discarded my socks, then took a step forward, meeting the water with its next approach.
It was freezing, biting at my bare skin like knives. The pain only lasted a moment though, then my feet were numb and the caress became bearable. Is this how it felt to disappear into the water's embrace? Briefly painful, but with a blissfully numb conclusion? It seemed nice. Tolerable. I gripped my bandaged wrist, squeezing and making the wound ache. Slitting my wrist had hurt more than I anticipated. I knew I didn't want to do it that way again.
I stood there until the ocean's frigid advance wrapped around my ankles and soaked the hem of my jeans. I stood there until I couldn't feel my toes any longer, digging them into the sand to test them. I stood there until the soft lullaby of the sweeping waves was interrupted by the assaulting noise of someone clearing their throat.
I twisted towards the sound, stricken with panic, pin pricks over my hot skin, which dissipated into annoyance and embarrassment as I found a familiar shadow behind me.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Profanity unintentionally escaped with my surprise. I thought to apologize, but my offense from his intrusion kept me silently scowling instead.
He let his hood down and swept his black fringe back out of his vision. The low light casted shade on the contours of his face, making the lines of his cheeks and jaw skeletal. His gray eyes flicked down to my bare feet, submerged in the water.
"I could ask the same thing."
I shot a glare at him as cold as the water I stood in, then turned away, determined to ignore both him and his question. It wasn't any of his business anyway.
When I didn't answer I heard him shift and I peered from my peripherals as he bent over to roll up his jeans and untie his boots. In no time he was barefooted also, and I stared at him unabashed as he stepped towards me.
His expression stayed smooth and emotionless, even as he stepped ankle-deep into the freezing waves with me. I was far less discreet with my reaction, and when I continued to gawk, he answered with a curious look.
"What are you doing?" I asked sharply, when I was finally able to shake off my confusion and find annoyance again.
He shrugged, admiring the brightly painted horizon. "You tell me."
"I came here to be alone." I deflected the question again. I didn't like the idea of admitting to some weird, skeleton kid that I was indulging in fantasies of killing myself. "Did my grandmother send you?"
He shrugged again.
"Are you stalking me?"
This garnered a response from him, but it was nothing more than a grin in my direction. Then, he put his hands in the pockets of his jacket, letting his shoulders fall into a relaxed posture.
"Fine. I was just leaving anyway," I said, stomping my wet, frozen feet out of the water and back to my shoes. I dusted off my soles messily and threw on a sock, not caring about the wetness making sand stick between my toes. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.
Before I had my second sock on, he was following my lead and returning to his footwear. I glared at him again, but he just smiled sweetly back at me.
I knew he meant to come with me, so I fled to the woods, thinking to lose him on a path he was unfamiliar with. Unfortunately for me, I misjudged the amount of sun left, and as I reached the dense tree line, barely any light made it through to me. I tripped over roots and stones, unable to properly see where I stepped. It slowed my pace significantly, and he caught up to me in a matter of moments.
While trying to keep my pace to lose him, I stumbled, going over on my ankle and collapsing. It wasn't a necessarily rough fall, but it was enough to make me admit defeat to the battle I was fighting. I sighed and sat on the ground until he covered the few yards between us, carefully avoiding the obstacles I had so much trouble with.
He reached into his jacket to retrieve a small pen light as he approached, shining it on the ground near me to help give us both some vision. He didn't say anything in reply to my sheepish embarrassment. Instead, he simply held out a hand and helped me get back on my feet.
He directed the light to the ground in front of me so I could see where I was stepping and we continued at a slower pace. I refused to speak to him, and he seemed fine with not talking, so the walk was filled with a silence that was only awkward from one side. It gave me time for my previous frustrations to dissolve though, so when we finally exited the woods, I felt slightly more humbled.
When we approached the entrance to my grandparents' estate, I lingered with my hand on the doorknob. "Thanks for helping me back."
He smiled again, nodding once. "Bring a flashlight next time."
His inflection never changed, but I could tell he was teasing me. Despite myself, a grin of my own twisted at the corner of my lips as I entered the house, closing the door behind me.
My grandmother was hanging up the phone as I entered the kitchen, stress causing her frown lines to harden. "There you are. I just about had the police coming out to look for you. Your mother told me you spoke today. I was concerned."
I lowered my gaze in shame. It was the first time in a long time that I hadn't meant to make someone worry. "Sorry, Nan. I was down at the water."
"I don't want to demand you tell me where you are at all times, you're almost a grown woman. But you need to at least tell me where you're going, when you'll be back. For the sake of my already high blood pressure."
My grandmother seemed genuinely concerned by my disappearance, and it made me feel even more disappointed with myself. My mother always bickered at me when I ran off alone, maybe because she assumed I was going off to hurt myself, but my grandmother didn't react as such. It was as if she was simply aware that any number of things could happen to me, and she was concerned for all of them, not just worried about what I'd do to myself.
"It won't happen again. I promise," I said, bringing my eyes up from the floor to make the oath to her.
She sighed, not in frustration but in relief, and bridged the space between us to give me a gentle hug. The tenseness in my muscles, put there by my mother and lingered in my joints all day, released as she held me. It had been so long, I almost forgot that I had a body, that I wasn't just a ghost.
I sighed also.
As she withdrew, I tried to loosen the knot in my throat with some lightheartedness. "And besides, even if it does happen again, you can always send that kid after me again. He did a pretty good job of finding me."
She screwed up her nose. "The boy? I never told him I was looking for you." Sensing my confusion, my grandmother smirked. "Maybe he followed you. Maybe you have an admirer."
I grimaced. "Stalker. That's what we call it nowadays, Nan."
She scoffed playfully at me.
***
With my feet still frozen, I wore three pairs of socks to bed that night and sat up with a lamp and my journal, a cocoon of blankets wrapped around me. I spent a while reading over the things I already had written. I added a few notes to my list: Go to the movie theater. Watch the stars. Stay up all night to see the sun rise.
I looked at my drawings from the days before, what I'd jotted down, my list of ways to kill myself. Go swimming in December. Let the cold take you. I scratched out December and substituted January, then marked a star next to the sentence, for future reference.
I fell asleep drawing the way the fiery sunset had chiseled into his features.
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