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Authors: Eve Marie Mont

BOOK: A Breath of Eyre
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He looked out to the water, squinting. “I don’t know. I guess I felt like I had no right.”
“No right? You’ve known me your entire life. If anyone had the right, it was you.”
He nodded glumly. “And then I saw you again. On Halloween.”
“Another fond memory. Actually, it’s not even a memory. I can barely remember that night.” I drew a circle in the sand with my finger, feeling a fresh wave of humiliation.
“You really don’t remember anything?”
“Only what people have told me,” I lied, tugging on my necklace. “Why, what’s your version?”
He inhaled deeply. “Well, you came to the bonfire with your friend Michelle, and you guys were hanging out with some Braeburn hippies.”
I laughed. “And ... ?”
“And then you and I went for a walk... .”
“And ... ?”
He looked over at me, and for the first time, Gray Newman seemed a little flustered. He bit the inside of his cheek. “And then, nothing,” he said. “You told me you wanted to leave, and then you went running back to that Owen guy.”
“He’s not ‘that Owen guy,’ and I’m pretty sure I didn’t go running back to anyone.”
“You kind of did. You guys seemed pretty tight that night.”
“We’re friends, that’s all. And he’s not a hippie. He’s a really nice guy.”
“I’m sure he is,” he said, irritation in his voice.
“You’d like him if you got to know him.” Gray didn’t respond to this, just looked straight ahead grinding his teeth.
Then he said, “Is he taking you to the Snow Ball?” and I almost choked.
Gray Newman knows about the Snow Ball?
“No. Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. Seeing as he’s such a nice guy and all.”
“Like I said, we’re just friends. Besides, he’s got a thing for Michelle.”
Gray rubbed his hands together and blew warm air onto them. It had gotten colder in the last half hour, and my legs were feeling damp from the sand. “It’s just, I thought I might see you there. I’m going with Elise.”
“Elise?” My voice had gone high and cartoon-like again. I adjusted it and said very calmly, “I thought you two broke up.”
“We did. We’re just going
as friends
.” He emphasized those last words, teasing me.
“Well, good for you.”
“Really?” he said, looking disappointed.
“Yeah. It’s good that you can be mature about these things.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. The whole ‘going as friends’ thing is tricky.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, once you’ve been with someone, it’s almost impossible to think of them as just a friend.”
“Oh, right,” I said.
Once you’ve been with someone.
What did that mean anyway? Had Gray slept with Elise? The thought made me nauseous.
All I could imagine was Gray dancing with Elise at the Snow Ball, her head on his shoulder, his hands running through her hair, any thoughts of being “just friends” a distant memory for them both.
“It’s getting cold,” I said. “We should be getting back.”
“Already?” He looked surprised. Then his jovial mood disappeared entirely. “Where’s Anna?” His voice was deep and urgent.
“I don’t know. She was here just a minute ago.”
He bolted up from the sand and spun around. I scrambled onto my crutches and watched as he ran to the water’s edge, peering out in all directions. Frantically, he began calling her name, scanning the beach for any sign of her. I was searching, too, but a misty haze had settled over the beach, obscuring our vision.
Gray’s face went pale. He was sick with worry. “Anna!” he was screaming. “Anna!”
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to reassure him. “She can’t have gone far. We’ll find her.”
At that moment, I saw a flicker of pink far down the beach. Gray ran toward the form, and I followed behind as quickly as I could move. When Anna reached us, she was obviously upset and completely out of breath. Gray lit into her like I’d never seen him.
“Goddammit, Anna!” he shouted. “Don’t you ever walk off like that again! You scared the hell out of me.”
Anna looked like she was about to cry. I took her under my arm and hugged her. “It’s okay,” I said, patting her back.
“I was chasing a dog,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t know I went so far. And then I didn’t see you, and I got scared.”
“It’s all right, you’re here now,” I said.
Gray’s eyes were burning. Anna looked up at me, her lower lip quivering. We watched as Gray stalked off the beach, muttering to himself, and followed him at a safe distance. Anna’s disappearance had cast a pall over the entire afternoon, and Gray’s fleeting happy mood seemed to vanish along with the last of the sunshine.
The Newmans didn’t stay long after that; the forecast was predicting snow, and Simona wanted to get a jump on the storm. From my bedroom window, I watched the snow fall—first in flurries, then in fat flakes that stuck to the ground. By ten o’clock, there were four inches on the ground. The world outside looked like a giant snow globe.
And I was the tiny figure stuck inside, waiting for my moment to escape.
C
HAPTER
15
A
fter winter break, my dad and I picked up Michelle at her aunt’s place on our way back to Lockwood. Michelle’s aunt Darlene lived in a section of Boston that was sort of a “Little Haiti”—lots of Haitian restaurants and churches and businesses. Darlene invited us up to her apartment for coffee and put out an elaborate tray of pastries from Bec d’Or. Pronounced like “back door,” Bec d’Or was Darlene’s bakery, named for the golden sweet potato rolls she baked in the shape of birds’ beaks. The name was also a play on words because to enter the shop, you had to walk down an alley to get to the back door.
We all sat down in the living room, and Darlene put out a rich butter cake made with rum, pineapples, and pecans, along with a tray of sweet potato crepes that were so good I couldn’t stop eating them. Since my crutches were in plain view, conversation inevitably turned to my accident, and my father filled in Darlene on all the gory details.
“You’re lucky to be alive, child,” she said. And then she squinted at me. “You wear a dragonfly on your neck?”
My eyes dropped to my chest. “Oh, yeah. It was my mother’s.” I pulled the pendant out to show her.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “You know, the dragonfly is the essence of the crossroads.”
“The crossroads?”
She nodded. “The dragonfly lives in two realms. It lives underwater first, then it climbs out of the sea and takes flight. Some say it contains the spirit of our loved ones.” Darlene moved closer to inspect the design. “It looks like Papa Legba’s vévé, no?” she said to Michelle.
Michelle rolled her eyes. “Aunt Dar, Emma doesn’t believe in voodoo.”
“Voodoo?” my father said, looking half-alarmed, half-amused.
“My aunt practices Haitian folk magic,” Michelle said.
“Not magic,” Darlene said. “Religion.”
“If you say so,” Michelle said.
“What’s a vay vay?” I asked.
“Vévé,” Darlene corrected me. “It’s a symbol used to attract the loa, or the spirits, back to earth. It acts as a beacon. Your dragonfly looks like Papa Legba’s vévé. Papa Legba stands at the spiritual crossroads. He speaks all human language, and he opens and closes the doorway to the dead.”
“So he’s like a god?” I said.
“More a spirit guide. But you’ll know him if you see him. He wears a brimmed hat and carries a cane, and he always has his dog with him. Legba loves his dog.” She issued a deep, throaty laugh, like she was remembering an old family friend who amused her.
Michelle frowned at my dad and me apologetically. “My aunt believes Papa Legba can communicate with the dead and bring us in touch with our ancestors. She claims to have spoken to my mother through him.”
“I have,” Darlene said, clicking her tongue. “Michelle has no faith. That’s why she never sees her mama. But I see Marie. I talk with her all the time.”
“Yeah,” Michelle said, rolling her eyes. “Apparently they fight about me.”
Darlene rolled her eyes in the same way Michelle had. “Her mama wants her to ride again, but I say no. I already lost a sister to the horses. I don’t want to lose you, too.”
“But you always said Mama watches over me,” Michelle said, challenging her aunt.
“And she does. But she can only protect you from the evil things of her world, not of this one. I’ll bet Emma’s mama gives her protection from the evil things, too. Were you wearing that necklace when you had your accident?”
I looked up, surprised that the conversation had shifted back to me. “Oh, you mean when I got struck by lightning? Yeah, I was.”
“See, that’s your mama’s way of protecting you,” she said. “It wasn’t your time to die. You keep that necklace close, you hear?”
When we left Darlene’s apartment, Michelle apologized again, embarrassed by her aunt’s superstitions. My dad seemed mildly unsettled by the whole discussion, but I was fascinated.
“So you don’t believe any of it?” I asked Michelle.
“It’s just a lot of hocus pocus about gods and spirits. You know I’m not a religious person. Science is my religion.”
I wasn’t a religious person either, but I wanted to believe.
The next two months at Lockwood crawled at the pace of a prison sentence. Things felt strained between Michelle and me, almost like they had at the beginning of the year. But we both kept busy, Michelle with her equestrian training and community service at the shelter, me with my schoolwork.
But school was a huge adjustment for me. Everything on campus seemed too intense, the colors too saturated, the noises too amplified. My thoughts were drowned out in a constant barrage of TV, radio, and inane chitchat over cell phones. I was in a constant state of sensory overload. I longed to get away from the teeming hallways, the crowded classrooms, the competition and cattiness. But of course, I couldn’t walk, and therefore, couldn’t escape.
Somehow, I managed to finish a draft of the
Jane Eyre
essay for the symposium and e-mailed it to Mr. Gallagher for feedback. And while I thought the paper had achieved the voice Gallagher was looking for, I wasn’t entirely happy with my thesis. Yes, Jane was a strong female role model, a heroine to be admired for her character and integrity. But something about the ending of the novel wasn’t sitting right with me. Jane and Rochester got their happy ending, but it came at the expense of several other characters. I couldn’t help but think that if I’d been in Jane’s place, I might have done things differently.
As the weeks went on, I couldn’t get
Jane Eyre
out of my head. Thornfield haunted my dreams. At night, I walked the moors, seeking solitude. Pilot followed me down dark hallways, and Mrs. Fairfax hovered over her sewing by the firelight. Adèle joked with me in French, and Mr. Rochester called to me like a lover. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, sweat-soaked and agitated, feeling the dream ebb away from me and missing it profoundly, wishing I could live in that world instead of my own.
One day in French class, we were reading excerpts from Baudelaire’s poetry, and Madame Favier asked if anyone would like to read “L’albatros” aloud to the class. Before any other hands went up, I got the strongest conviction that I could do it.
Madame and the rest of the class stared at me in astonishment when I volunteered and continued gaping as I read the lines flawlessly,
in French
. Not only was my pronunciation perfect, but I understood every word. The poem was about an albatross caught by some sailors who made fun of him because his wings were too large to allow him to walk properly. Baudelaire compared the albatross to the poet, once elevated by his own ideas and words, now exiled on earth as an object of ridicule and scorn.
Madame stood silent for several moments after I finished reading, then clapped her hands. “Incroyable!” she said. “C’est presque parfait.”
Almost perfect
.
But as my mental agility was surging, my physical agility was plunging. The weather had turned bitterly cold, and the campus was icy. I felt so unsure of myself on my crutches, like a newborn foal getting used to its legs. At times, it seemed like I didn’t belong in my own skin, like I was wearing a body that didn’t fit me anymore.
On my way to English class on Wednesday, I slipped on a patch of ice. I was struggling to right myself when a large shadow appeared overhead. I looked up to see Mr. Gallagher’s figure looming above me.
“I fell,” I said, stupidly stating the obvious.
“I can see that,” he said, stooping down to help me up. “Where’s your other half to help you?”
“Michelle? She’s coming from gym.” Our phys ed elective had switched from equestrian studies to swimming for second term. Thankfully, I was being excused on account of my legs. That, and the fact that I didn’t know if I’d ever swim again.
“Let me carry your book bag,” he said, smiling, as we walked together to class. “How are you adjusting back to school, Emma?”
“Fine,” I lied.
He reached down and drew something out of his messenger bag. “I had a chance to read your essay,” he said, tapping the front page. “Very impressive.”
“Really?”
“It surprised me, actually. Almost like it had come from a different place inside you. You usually sit so quietly in class, never speaking. But here, in your essay, there’s this powerful voice. There is
life
.”
When he punched that last word, I got the strongest sense of déjà vu, so powerful that I stopped in my tracks. “Is everything okay?” he said, pausing on the path beside me.
Where had I heard those words before?
There you sit, so small and sedate, so mouselike and quiet. But here, on the page, there is life.
I examined Gallagher’s face—the noble brow, the dark eyes, the wild hair. Oh my God.
A blast of icy wind roared past me, and my time at Thornfield came back to me in one wild rush. I almost lost my balance from the torrent of memories. “Emma, are you okay?”
“What?” I said, shaking my head.
“Maybe I should take you to the infirmary. You look unwell.”
“No, I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said. “I’ve already missed too much class.”
He took my arm and helped get me going on my crutches again, and I limped beside him in a daze. All the memories were suddenly back—my stunned arrival in the stables, meeting Adèle and Mrs. Fairfax, the strange laughter on the third floor, the party with Miss Ingram, the fire, Mr. Mason. And of course, Mr. Rochester. Standing next to me now was my Mr. Rochester, in the flesh.
“Here we are,” Mr. Gallagher said as we arrived at the classroom.
“Thanks,” I muttered, still feeling rattled.
“My pleasure.” He took my hand in his and held it for a few seconds—gripped it, actually—then released.
I hopped to my seat, placed my crutches on the floor beneath my desk, and tried to catch my breath. Michelle arrived about ten minutes late. Elise glared at her as she slipped into the seat next to me. I handed Michelle my notebook so she could see the notes she’d missed. Gallagher was introducing a new unit today.
“The Gothic novel,” he said, “aims to evoke terror through its use of an eerie setting and supernatural occurrences. A classic example would be Ann Radcliffe’s
The Mysteries of Udolpho
. Radcliffe introduces readers to the Byronic hero, a brooding male character with a mysterious past who plays foil to the shy, respectable heroine. Another example is Charlotte Brontë’s
Jane Eyre
. Emma is reading it for her research paper. Do you want to tell the class how it fits the Gothic mode?” he asked, staring directly at me.
“Sure,” I said, spurred on by a newfound confidence. “
Jane Eyre
is about a young, penniless orphan who becomes a governess for a mysterious man named Rochester. She moves into his mansion on the moors and falls in love with him. But she doesn’t know that he hides a terrible secret on the third floor.” Some of the girls snickered at the dramatic premise. “The novel is full of eerie settings, evil omens, hidden secrets and terrors, all conventions of Gothic literature.”
“Thank you, Emma,” he said, winking at me. I was surprised he’d called me Emma and not Ms. Townsend. “Probably the most famous Gothic novel is the one we’re about to begin today: Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
.” Muffled groans filled the classroom. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re picturing some tall green monster with bolts through his neck, grunting ‘Fire bad, fire bad!’” A few girls laughed. “But Frankenstein isn’t a monster; he’s a scientist who makes a creature out of used body parts, all in an effort to push the limits of science. Dr. Frankenstein believed he could bring the dead back to life.
Frankenstein
is essentially a novel about the dangers of excessive pride in the face of nature.
“Now, Mary Shelley came up with the idea while on vacation with some friends in Switzerland. Lord Byron challenged each guest to write a ghost story, and
Frankenstein
was Shelley’s contribution. We know Shelley was inspired by the experiments of Galvani, who used artificial electricity to reanimate a frog’s body parts. Shelley had surely read Galvani’s treatise and thought it might be possible to use electricity to reanimate the human body and bring the dead back to life. Sounds implausible, I know, but who among us knows what’s truly possible?”
He paused just long enough for Elise to say, “Why don’t you ask Emma? She’s come back from the dead.” I waited for the inevitable laughter, the cowardly encouragement from her peers, but when I looked around, nobody seemed to think it was very funny.
“Ms. Fairchild—” Mr. Gallagher began, about to caution her.
“No, it’s okay,” I said, turning to face Elise directly. “I think some form of reanimation might be possible. We all know doctors use defibrillators to jump-start a heart when it stalls. So why couldn’t a giant dose of electricity have other supernatural effects? I don’t necessarily believe in reanimating the body like Dr. Frankenstein does, but I do believe death isn’t the end. Nature doesn’t destroy matter, so why would it destroy the soul? It must go on in some other form.”
Mr. Gallagher got a philosophical twinkle in his eye. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” he said, winking at me again.
What was that about?
Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I glanced to my left to see if Michelle had caught it. “In the end, Shelley was dealing with some universal questions about humankind’s place in the universe. Man often believes in his dominion over nature and all of creation. But every once in a while, nature has to kick our ass to show us who’s boss.”

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