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Authors: Eve Marie Mont

BOOK: A Breath of Eyre
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Michelle shook her head and knitted her brow. “That was weird,” she said.
“But nice,” I added.
“Mostly weird.”
“Weird or not, let’s go celebrate,” said Owen. “I’m taking you guys out!”
We loaded into Owen’s Prius, and he turned up his stereo, blasting out some celebratory Beatles. Owen asked Michelle where she wanted to go, and we were both shocked by the answer: Bec d’Or.
“You sure you want to tell Darlene about this?” I said. Michelle smiled crookedly. “She’s the only family I’ve got.”
The next ninety minutes, we drove from Springfield to Boston with Owen’s stereo cranked to full blast. Michelle was clearly on a high—I couldn’t remember having seen her this happy for months. Now that the competition was over, her happiness seemed to have so much less to do with beating Elise Fairchild than we’d all thought. It was something personal, something Michelle had to prove to herself.
By the time we got to the bakery, it was almost six o’clock and the place was packed. Michelle walked around to the back of the counter, and as soon as Darlene spotted her, Michelle broke into tears.
“What’s the matter, child?” Darlene said. But Michelle couldn’t stop crying long enough to tell her.
Owen and I tentatively explained about the competition, worried Darlene was going to be angry. But Darlene just took Michelle into her arms. “Baby girl, you should have told me. It being your birthday and all.”
“Her birthday?” Owen said, looking at me for confirmation.
“I didn’t know either. Why didn’t you tell us?” Michelle was bawling now, Darlene holding her tight against her chest, rocking her back and forth.
When she finally stopped crying, Owen approached her and wiped the tears from her face, then kissed her sweetly on the forehead. “Happy birthday, Michelle.”
“Hey, everyone!” Darlene shouted from behind the counter. “It’s my niece’s sixteenth birthday. And she just won a horseback-riding championship. Isn’t she something?”
Suddenly all the customers rallied around us, wishing Michelle a happy birthday and saying wasn’t it wonderful, and shouldn’t we celebrate by making Cremas and a fresh batch of banana fritters? And then Darlene was talking and baking so quickly one would never have guessed she might have been upset that Michelle was riding again. There was only joy and pride in her face, not a trace of fear.
We sat down at an ice cream parlor–style table, and Michelle officially introduced Owen to Darlene as “her boyfriend.”
“As if I couldn’t have guessed,” Darlene said. “So you’re the one who’s been callin’ the house at all hours?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Owen said.
“Michelle’s been brooding over you all winter long,” she said, making Owen blush.
“Aunt Dar,” Michelle said. “Do you have to tell him everything?”
“And what about you, Miss Emma?” Darlene said. “Where’s that boy Michelle’s been telling me about?” Michelle shook her head and laughed as if she had no idea what her aunt was talking about. “You know,” Darlene went on, “the silent swimmer?” Michelle shushed her aunt and continued laughing.
“Is that what you call him?” I said to Michelle. “The silent swimmer?”
“I might have mentioned Gray to my aunt once or twice,” she admitted.
“Gray?” Darlene said. “That’s his name? I thought that was a color.” She laughed at herself, then gave me a conspiratorial look. “Gray and Emma. Two good, old-fashioned names. The names of people who will grow old together.” I tried to smile at her comment, but it only made me sad. “Child, a shadow just crept right over your face,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
I clenched my jaw. The last thing I wanted to do right now was cry in front of Michelle and Owen. “Things with Gray are ... complicated.”
Darlene clicked her teeth. “Oh, you young ones complicate things that don’t need complicating. You love the boy, don’t you?” she said, and I felt my cheeks flush. Darlene had a way of seeing right through me.
“Why don’t you call him?” Owen said.
“He doesn’t want to see me now, believe me,” I said. “That’s why he hasn’t called me.”
“He just needs time to cool down,” Owen said.
I had said these same words to Owen about Michelle. But now I shook my head. I knew Gray. He didn’t bounce back as easily as some. “I know you’re all just trying to help, but can we please change the subject?” I pleaded. They pouted in sympathy but complied.
Later, as we made our good-byes, Darlene came over to hug me. She pulled me close confidingly and whispered, “He doesn’t need cooling down, child. He needs you.” Tears sprang to my eyes because I so desperately wanted to believe this.
C
HAPTER
30
T
hat next week, it rained endlessly. Teachers were reviewing for final exams, but all I could do was stare out the window and watch rain batter the buildings. The wind blew the rain in sheets that followed one another in quick succession, looking like a row of dominoes collapsing. It felt like the whole world was falling apart.
Maybe I had been unfair to Gray. Perhaps I had taken his words and twisted them in my mind because I couldn’t believe someone like Gray could love me. He’d told me the truth, and I’d rejected him when he needed me most. And now that his secret had been broadcast throughout our little corner of the world, Gray would blame me. I was certain of it.
On Wednesday I was making a futile attempt to organize my European History notes when Simona called. If I had recognized her number, I might not have answered. I felt guilty just hearing her voice.
After making some polite chitchat, she asked, “Did something happen between you and Gray?”
My shoulders stiffened and my gut wrenched. “Sort of,” I said, my voice sounding strained.
“I thought something might have. Oh, Emma, I just don’t know what to do anymore. He won’t talk to anyone. Not to me, not his father. Not even to Anna. Will you please come talk to him?”
“I don’t think he wants to talk to me right now,” I said.
“Honey, I don’t know what happened between you two, but he needs to talk to someone, and I’m at my wit’s end. What if I picked you up Friday after your classes? Would you be willing to come to the house and try to talk some sense into him?”
I froze, hedging. What could I possibly say to him that would make any difference? And would he even agree to see me? Regardless, I felt like I owed it to him to try.
The Newmans lived on a historic estate in a home built from glacial boulders. I hadn’t been to the house in years, but as soon as we stepped inside, I remembered coming here as a child. The house had reminded me then of a giant tree house perched on a hill with pale wood walls, tall banks of windows, and a central spiral staircase that seemed like something out of a fairy tale. Now, hovering in the shadow of the storm, it looked more like a tiny cathedral, its vast ceiling pierced by stained-glass windows and its dark recesses broken by shafts of eerie light.
Simona led me up the central staircase and along the atrium gallery and back hallway to Gray’s bedroom, which was built inside the round stone turret.
“I’m not sure what he’s going to be like,” she said. “I didn’t tell him you were coming.” My heart seized, but I knew it was too late to run. She knocked lightly on his door, and I heard a gruff voice mumble.
“It’s me, honey,” Simona said. “You have a visitor.”
When she opened the door, Gray was lying on his back in bed, his face toward the wall. When he turned and saw me, he shot up too fast and hit his head on the low ceiling of the peaked roof.
“Damn it,” he said, rubbing his head. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see how you were.”
He laughed bitterly. “I’m fantastic.”
Simona gave me an apologetic look, then closed the door behind her, abandoning me to my fate, whatever that might be. I had never been inside Gray’s room before. It was surprisingly tidy and oddly impersonal, like the room of someone who thought he was only going to be staying temporarily. On the rounded walls were some posters of Michael Phelps, a few album covers, and a map of the world that was so large it wrapped around half the room. Opposite Gray’s bed was a desk with a computer and a neat stack of books. On the far right was a door that led to a small balcony, a pair of crossed oars perched above the door frame.
I glanced from the balcony back to the bed. Gray looked like a shell of himself, and his voice was flat and lifeless. “Why did you really come? Did my mom make you?”
“I was worried about you.”
“Since when?” He stared out the window at the gloom, refusing to meet my eyes. “You should probably just go. It was stupid of my mom to bring you here.”
“Gray, I’m so sorry. I know you must be angry with me for testifying, but you have to know, I didn’t think Elise would really do it.” I waited for him to say something—anything—but he wouldn’t look at me. “Gray, what I said to you that night. Under the bridge—”
“Don’t, Emma.”
“Don’t what?”
“Apologize.”
“But I overreacted. It’s just, I was too insecure to believe you could really like me.” I moved his desk chair to his bed and tried to take hold of his hand, but he jerked away. “Why are you punishing me?” I said.
“Punishing
you?
” he said, glaring at me, his eyes dark and unreflective, like there was no light in them anymore. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m punishing myself.” He lay back down and turned his face toward the wall.
“Gray, please don’t do this. Don’t shut me out. I can help you.” I watched his back as he breathed, wondering what he could possibly be thinking. “Gray, what happened to Sam in Jamaica was an accident,” I said. “It could have happened to anyone.”
“No, Emma!” he said, sitting up to face me now, his eyes wild with anguish. “I was a lifeguard! And Dan’s best friend. I should have been looking out for her. She was my responsibility.”
“No, she wasn’t. It’s not your fault.”
“It is my fault! Why won’t you stop trying to help? Why won’t you leave me alone?” he shouted, sounding almost delirious. “I just want it to go away.”
“But you can’t just hide out in your room and make it go away.”
“No, you’re right, Emma! I can’t hide from what I did. It’s something I have to live with for the rest of my life. Do you know what that’s like?” He looked so beaten and anguished that all I wanted to do was reach out and touch his face. “And I don’t know if I can live with it anymore. So before I give up on myself completely, I’m going to do something right for a change. I’m going to leave.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m joining the Coast Guard.” My eyes roamed his face, searching for answers. “Emma, all I’ve ever wanted was to do something that matters. Maybe if I can save someone... .” His voice trailed off like he was incapable of thinking anymore. I gripped his shoulder, and he flinched like he was in pain. “I tried to save you once,” he said.
“You did save me,” I reminded him. “You dragged me out of a burning barn.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the day of your birthday party. I followed you to the beach that day. And when I saw all those people waving and calling at the point, I knew you were in trouble. I raced down to the water, and when I got close, I just froze. I kept flashing back to that awful night in Jamaica. All I could do was call your name.”
“That was you?” I said, remembering so clearly that voice that had called to me, that silhouette with the halo around it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What, admit that I stood there and did nothing while you almost drowned?”
“Gray, I heard you calling me. I swam toward your voice.”
“No, you didn’t, Emma. Don’t try to make me feel better.”
“I’m not, Gray! I did hear you. Your voice pulled me out, just like it pulled me out of the coma. I don’t know how else to explain it, Gray, but you and I are connected somehow.”
He shook his head fiercely like he was shaking a nightmare away. “Emma, you don’t want to be connected to me. Everything I touch gets ruined. That’s why I need to get away. From you. From everyone.”
I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I wanted him near, how much his leaving would devastate me. “Don’t leave, Gray,” I said, hearing the desperation in my voice. “Not because of this. Let me help you.”
“You can’t help me!” he shouted. “No one can.” The room went very still, and I sat there momentarily, staring into his sad, beautiful eyes, feeling helpless. I understood this need to push people away and refuse all help, even from those who loved you the most.
“I’m sorry,” I said, finally, placing my hand gently on his temple and running my fingers softly across his cheek. “For what it’s worth, I forgive you.”
His jaw was set, like he was using all his willpower not to let my touch melt his defenses. Then he shut his eyes tightly and turned his body so he seemed irrevocably out of reach.
C
HAPTER
31
O
ver the next few weeks, I did everything mechanically. I got up, showered, went to class, ate dinner, studied for finals, went to bed, tried to sleep. I was an automaton, going through the motions numbly for fear if I let my guard down, I might disintegrate on the spot. At night when I was finally able to remove my armor, I felt raw, like all of my organs had somehow migrated outside of my body. When I sat in front of my journal, I couldn’t write a single word. My future seemed like an awful blank page, the way the world might look after being wiped clean in a flood.
On the Saturday morning before the essay symposium, Michelle stood behind me examining the outfit I’d chosen. It was gray and somber to match my mood.
“Looks a little boring,” she said. “Want to borrow something of mine?” She whipped out a red blazer and held it up in front of her.
“I look terrible in red,” I said, halfheartedly riffling through my own closet.
And then I spotted the outfit Barbara had bought me over Easter break, the turquoise blouse and the black skirt with ribbons running through it. I held the blouse to my face, and the color looked vibrant against my still-winter-pale skin.
“That’s pretty,” Michelle said. “Have I seen that before?”
“No. I’ve never worn it.”
I quickly put it on, and then we went outside to wait for my dad and Barbara, who had picked up Grandma Mackie along the way. On the car ride to Middlebury, I practiced my essay from the backseat while Michelle and my grandma talked over me.
“Hey,” Michelle said when we pulled into the parking lot of the college. “Overbrook’s here.”
I tore my eyes from my essay to see Overbrook, and a woman I could only assume was his wife, walking arm in arm to the auditorium.
“Who’s Overbrook?” my grandmother asked.
“The repulsive headmaster of our school,” Michelle told her.
“Oh, is he the one who—?” My father stopped short.
“Yeah, he’s the one,” I said.
“And isn’t that—?” Michelle said.
She pointed in the direction of Mr. Gallagher. Any confidence I’d had shattered on the spot. How was I supposed to get onstage and read my essay in front of the two men who had questioned my motives, doubted my honesty, and mocked my words all year? How was I supposed to make my voice sing when all I wanted was to be swallowed up by the velvet curtains and sucked down the trapdoor?
Everyone took their seats in the auditorium while I went backstage to wait with the other participants. I sat in an uncomfortable folding chair, playing with the pieces of ribbon woven into my skirt. I didn’t know a soul there, but Elise seemed to know several of the other girls and chatted casually with them like she was hanging out at a coffee shop. When her name was called, she shot me a toxic look that made me break out in a sweat. I sat among the remaining strangers and listened to her honeyed voice read her flawless essay with flawless poise.
Just as the applause died down, someone called my name. My skin crawled with nerves, and my tongue went dry. For a moment, I thought I wasn’t going to be able to get up. I’d just stay there in that cold metal folding chair until the whole thing was over. In sheer terror, I gripped the bottom of that chair like it was my best friend, thinking to myself or to God or to Papa Legba,
Please don’t make me do this! Set the fire alarm off. Send a rat scurrying down the aisle. Do anything, but don’t make me walk out on that stage and read my words to a sea of scary people.
And then, it was as if a warm blanket was thrown over my shoulders. Suddenly I heard a soft and soothing murmur in my head, a familiar voice urging me on, telling me to trust myself, to trust what I had to say. And I knew it was my mother, just as I’d known it in the dream when Bertha crawled out from that corner and showed me her face. Now her voice came to me, so clear and reassuring, almost like the lullaby she’d sung to me in Jane’s world.
Emma,
she seemed to say,
the sign of a true woman isn’t the ability to recite French poetry or play the pianoforte or cook chateaubriand. The sign of a true woman is learning to listen to her own voice even when society does its best to drown it out.
I summoned all of my strength and courage and walked out to the podium, placing my essay in front of me and gripping the sides for balance. It was a good thing the lights were so bright that I couldn’t see anyone in the audience. If my eyes had fallen on Overbrook or Gallagher, I might have lost my nerve. Slowly and in a quivering voice, I read the first lines of my essay. But as I listened to myself making bold and controversial statements about characters I had come to know intimately, I knew that I had something important to say and that I deserved to be heard. My words were honest and heartfelt, and the conviction and confidence behind those words—my voice—was strong and true.
I took one last deep breath and finished my final sentences: “To readers of
Jane Eyre,
Bertha Mason may just be the ghost in the attic, but only because society has made her invisible. Whether Charlotte Brontë intended it or not, Bertha represents every woman’s unsung dreams, every girl’s repressed emotions and squandered talents. She is the little girl lost, the woman drowning under society’s expectations, the mother, the wife, the daughter—anyone who’s ever been defined and limited by her role in society. She is even, on occasion, me.”
When I finished reading, there was a moment of silence before the applause. Michelle let out a “Woot woot!” and I started laughing right there on the stage in front of the entire crowd. It didn’t matter anymore; I had done it.
There was one more essay to be read after mine, so I walked into the wings and found a dressing room off a back hallway to wait in while the judges tallied the scores. When I heard applause again, I made my way out to the auditorium and found my family and Michelle. My dad gave me an uncharacteristic hug.
“You were fantastic!” he said. “I got a little choked up. My daughter, the scholar.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, blushing beneath my smile. I looked around and saw Elise basking in her family’s adulation. Overbrook was there, too, no doubt kissing some blueblood tail. Gallagher must have slipped out early because I didn’t see him.
Barbara took hold of both my elbows and shook them. “You were so calm up there. I would have been shaking in my shoes. Your mother would be so proud.”
Grandma Mackie came over and hugged me as we waited to hear the winners, and Michelle held my hand as the head judge went to the podium. Two strangers’ names were called for third and second place, and I held my breath as the first-place winner was declared.
“In first place, for her essay entitled ‘Missteps and Mistakes: The Perils of Social Climbing in
Vanity Fair,
’ Ms. Elise Fairchild from Lockwood Preparatory School!”
Disappointment bloomed on my face. I hadn’t really thought I’d win, but I sort of thought I’d place. Elise glided to the stage and accepted her check for $500, along with a thick copy of
The Oxford Shakespeare
. My father put an arm around me and pulled me close. He’d heard me rail against Elise before, but the truth was, I wasn’t as angry or jealous as I’d thought I’d be. I was far happier that Michelle had beaten Elise in the equestrian competition. My battle had not been with her anyway.
“Your essay should have won,” Grandma Mackie said. “The others were so boring, I almost fell asleep. Come on, let’s get out of here. I need a drink.”
In the parking lot walking back to the car, I heard a familiar voice call my name. I knew who it was even with my back to him. Slowly, I turned around to face Gallagher. Michelle raised an eyebrow, then stepped away to let us have a moment.
“Emma,” he said, a little breathlessly. “I just wanted to congratulate you.”
I scrunched my brow. “Why? I didn’t win.”
“No, but you did something more important. You found your voice.” I shouldn’t have been so pleased to hear him say this—I was still nursing some serious wounds, not to mention harboring a massive grudge—but I couldn’t help but smile. “I talked to one of the judges afterward to see why yours didn’t place. He said he’d voted for yours but that some of the other judges thought the essay didn’t demonstrate enough control. It seemed a little too risky.”
“I wrote this one from the heart, not the head.”
“Well, it showed. And I thought your essay was very ... moving. And brave. Well done.” He nodded humbly, then turned around and went to his car.
Michelle ran over to me. “What was that about?”
“He told me he liked my essay.”
“Liked your essay? Man, I thought he was going to lean in and kiss you, that was so intense.”
I blushed furiously and gave her a disbelieving snort. “Yeah, right,” I said.
We all piled into the car and went to an Italian restaurant in town to celebrate my non-win, and then Barbara invited Michelle and Grandma to spend the night at our house. When we got home, I made up the pullout couch in the den for Grandma, and we stayed there to watch
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
with her.
We all laughed and talked and ate a vat of buttered popcorn. After the movie, Michelle and I went up to my room. I let Michelle have my bed, placing a sleeping bag on the floor beside her. Michelle got all nestled into my comforter while I squirmed in the sleeping bag below, feeling like a moth trapped inside a cocoon.
Eventually, I nodded off for a while, but my eyes opened suddenly in the middle of the night. I bolted upright, listening closely for the sound that had woken me. All the house seemed still. Moonlight was streaming through my bedroom window, and I could see Michelle’s sleeping profile. Her breathing was deep and rhythmic.
I lay there, unable to sleep, feeling my heart and mind race. Something in my chest clenched, as if my heart had made a fist. For a moment, I thought I was having a heart attack. And then it felt as though my heart stood still for just a second, like an electric current had shot through it, radiating outward toward my extremities. Blood raced cold through my veins, and my muscles tightened along the bones. Something seemed to snap inside me like a whip, and I felt an almost physical tugging, pulling me out of bed.
Adrenaline and instinct propelled me from the floor, and I threw on my robe and ran downstairs to the den. As silently as I could, I opened the door and recoiled in surprise when I saw a figure on the other side of it, hovering in a white nightgown.
The apparition jumped backward and gasped. I stumbled and searched the wall for the light switch and heard my grandmother cursing. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What are you trying to do, Emma, give your grandmother a heart attack?”
“Sorry,” I muttered, out of breath. “I was just coming to check on you.”
“Did you think I’d died?”
“No, no. I just got a funny feeling. Go back to bed. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“You didn’t wake me. I was up already,” she said.
“Oh, right.” I stood staring blankly at her, that strange panic still tugging at my insides.
“What is it, Emma?” she said. “You seem upset.”
“I must have had a bad dream or something.”
She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and put on her robe. “Well, since we’re both up anyway,” she said, “why don’t you let me make you a cup of tea?”
I nodded blearily. Something about my grandma offering to make tea was infinitely soothing. She sat me down at the kitchen table while she put the kettle on and poured herself a shot of whiskey. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible had happened or was about to happen. It was almost as if someone had reached out from some other place and jolted me with a lightning rod.
My grandma took a sip of her drink, then pushed it in front of me. “Here, sweetheart. You need this more than I do.”
I took a tiny sip and winced as the liquor burned down my throat. “Grandma,” I said, my voice shaking. “Did you ever experience something you couldn’t explain?”
Grandma laughed. “You mean, like Twitter? Or those plastic ventilated shoes I see people wearing. What are they called?”
“Crocs, Grandma,” I said, smiling. “No, I mean something stranger than that. Like, did you ever feel like someone was calling out to you? Someone far away whose voice shouldn’t be able to reach you, but does?”
My grandmother slung the rest of her drink back and stared across the table at me, unblinking. “As a matter of fact, I have.”
Relief surged through me. “Really?”
“Everyone thought I was crazy,” she said, “but your mother called out to me the night she died. I don’t know how, but somehow, her voice reached me.”
“You knew she’d died?”
“Even before your father came to my apartment the next day and told me. And it’s time you knew the truth, Emma. Your mother didn’t die of a bad heart; she walked into the bloody ocean.”
I drew in a sharp breath; it was a shock hearing her say it aloud. “I know. Dad told me.”
“Well, it’s about time.”
“So you knew she had died, even before?”

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