Page 16 of Haunt Me

He himself moved to Maine after my grandma died. My dad was born and bred in Boston. But Grandpa had to move away from the memories—and he is now gently suggesting I do the same. I wasn’t prepared for the wave of relief that slams into me at the mere idea of moving away from my hometown. From the memories. From the pain.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell him. “But Dad would want me to go to that school.”

“Your father…” for the first time, Grandpa’s voice shakes. “He would want you to be happy, Zay,” he says softly.

“And I want him.” I sound like I’m two.

“I know, son. I do too.” He sits back. “Take your time, do what you have to do. Are you still playing your music?”

I look him straight in the eye. “Who for?”

He holds my gaze, smiles faintly. “For you, son,” he says quietly. “For you.”

I shrug, looking away. I try to hide my tears, but he sees them.

“For me, too,” he adds quietly. “Look at me, boy. Are you ok?”

“Yeah, she—someone helped me. I wasn’t suffering for long.”

“Good, I’m glad. A classmate of yours?” he asks and I shrug. “Who was she?”

“You know what, I have no idea,” I say.

And I don’t know how it happens, but pretty soon, we’re chuckling together.

…

Back in my room, I think about her. I play a tune on the violin, inspired by her.

I open the metronome app on my phone, which I use to write songs or music in general. Music that no one will ever hear—I am not a composer like James. But this time, the music flows effortlessly as I think about this girl.

It was such a small, insignificant thing I did for her, but for me it was huge. I found out today that I am not as helpless as I thought. The song for her turns into a song about hope. I don’t even know her, will probably never see her again, and yet here I am writing a song about her. About hope.

It will turn out to be one of the most celebrated songs of my career, but I don’t know that yet. All I know is that I am stupid and sad and nothing makes sense in this world without my dad in it.Except for what just happened. What happened made sense in the most not-making sense way ever.

If that makes sense.

I don’t even know what she was crying about. Maybe she is suffering mentally, or has some kind of problem. Or maybe her problem is grief, like mine. But somehow her pain did not seem similar to mine. I know grief, I know crying.

This wasn’t crying. It was drowning.

It’s not uncommon to find weird and broken teens at an expensive boarding school like mine. In fact, they make up the greatest part of the student body. Kids messed up by their rich parents, kids tortured by their own genius minds, kids abandoned here so that they are out of the way… I’m used to weird. I’m used to students randomly bleeding and crying and hiding behind their hair.

But this girl wasn’t a student, she was in the woods. What was she doing there? Who is she? And why can’t I get her out of my head?

All I actually know about her is her name.Eden.

Eden.

Oh. It quietly dawns on me. I know one more thing about her: She felt it too.

She went absolutely still when I touched her. She stopped crying; held her breath. I was so focused on the wave of emotions assaulting me that it barely registered, but now I remember.

She felt it too.

Book Margin

The book:Eden’s copy ofJane EyrebyCharlotte Bronte

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