Won't Let Go (3 page)

In the bathroom, signs of my restless night show. My emerald eyes are clouded over, glossy and red tinged. Darkness circles them too. My cheeks are flushed and puffy. Curls of brown hair are frizzed and stick waywardly out of my ponytail. I waste no time splashing cool water on my face in hopes of washing away the horrific dream I had, even leaving it behind to swirl down the sink as I start a new day. I want to ignore what I still believe couldn’t possibly be real.

Dressing in simple distressed and torn jeans, a black Pink Floyd T-shirt and taming my hair into a new ponytail, I skip down the stairs, sneakers in hand. Mom is already bustling around the house, juggling handfuls of books.

“Morning,” I say. My voice startles her.

A few books jump from her hands and thud on the floor. She bends to pick them up. “Don’t scare me like that.” She flashes me her signature smile. It’s wide, toothy and bright white. It’s the first thing people notice about her. Then it’s the bright green eyes. They remind me of gems or the most luscious green grass of summer. And finally, her silky, shiny brown hair—like mine—always flowing down the length of her back and falling in her face. I wish every time I look into the mirror that I had at least half of that beauty. I’m envious of it. “Did you sleep well? I know I sure did.”

I follow her into Dad’s new office. The shelves seem filled to capacity, but Mom takes the books from her clutches and somehow squeezes them in with the others.

Do I tell her the truth?
“I slept like a log,” I say, as I sit in the oversized leather office chair and put my shoes on. I feel a little bad about lying. I’ve done enough of that in the past. I shouldn’t start that same trend here. But the lie is probably safer than admitting the truth.

“That’s great, honey. Why don’t you pass me that other box?”

The ‘other box’ is heavy. I grunt as I lift it from the floor to the desk. Opening it, I find Dad’s aforementioned
I’m a brilliant doctor
plaques. Each one is thick wood, gold plated and fancy. They also prove he spent a whole lot of years and money becoming one of the best medical surgeons in the country. It’s still a wonder why we’re here and not somewhere more prestigious, like New York. I suppose if you want to be chief of surgery, you go where they want you, even if that’s Willard Grove, Oregon.

Mom takes one of the over-priced plaques from my hand as she says, “So what are your plans for today? Have you started unpacking your room yet?”

I groan.
The last place I want to be is in that room
. “No. I thought I might help you?”

“Well, honey, I’ve been up since dawn. Most of this stuff down here is done. You could go to the store and pick up a few things for me. I don’t think we want pizza two nights in a row.”

I think back to last night’s pizza, and my stomach gurgles. “It was good but definitely not. Besides, I’ve got a hankering for Apple O's.”

Another plaque finds its way out of the box. “There’s money in my purse. Just grab a few bucks. Don’t forget some milk and something nutritious, besides that sugary cereal.”

I pull her into a hug. “Thanks, Mom. Is Dad already at work?”

“Sure is. He couldn’t wait to check out his new hospital. Said he’d be home for dinner though.”

And that’s Dad for ya. I think he’s spent more time working—than not.

Willard Grove doesn’t have a Starbucks, and you won’t find a Macy’s or even a Costco. Apparently, all eight thousand people gets you is a Wal-Mart, a no-name doughnut shop and an Applebee’s. So, I’m not surprised when the grocery store isn’t stocked full of organic fruits and vegetables. The lack of cow manure smell must mean nothing’s home grown. I settle on a few things, load my basket, not forgetting the Apple O's, and head to the till.

I’d have thought that even being new—the size of the city would mean I wouldn’t hear, “Hey, you must be new around here.”

There goes blending into the crowd.

Placing the last of my basket contents onto the counter, I say, “Is it that obvious?”

The clerk, who is young, blonde haired and blue eyed, manhandles my produce and shoves it in a plastic bag. “Sure. I’ve been here all my life, and besides, you have a nice tan.”

I give my bare arms a once over. California will do that to you, whether you like it or not. “Well then, I’m new here.” I smile.

 “My name’s Allison. Are you starting at the high school next week? ’Cause I go there. I know
all
the right people.” She giggles, smoothing the wrinkles from her designer peasant top thing before she goes back to scanning and bagging

Doesn’t she know you’re not supposed to put cleaning products in the same bag as food?
I glare at the sanitizing aides —you can never have enough of them—poking out of the bag with my Apple O's and blueberry muffins. I’m sure they’re just waiting to contaminate my food with sterilization power. “Yeah. I’m a senior,” I say, wanting to hop over the counter and show her how to properly bag my groceries.

Deep breaths
, I tell myself. It’s just some groceries. Nothing to freak out over. You’re a new person. In a new town. First impressions matter.

“Let me give you my number. I can show you around town whenever you want.” She grabs a pen, coughs on it
and
her hand, and scrawls on the piece of paper. Then she lets it hang from her fingertips.

I glare at the paper for a second before I reach out and grab it. Quickly, I shove it in my pocket, already feeling the microbes seeping into my pores.
Nothing a little hand-sanitizer can’t fix.
“Thanks. I’m happy I know someone in town now.” I pass her the money, accept my change and hightail it out of there.

“Call me any time...Hey, wait. What’s your name?” She calls out.

I stop.

I have to.

She’s been nice, even sharing her germs and all with me. I remember what my mom said about nice friends. I heave a sigh. “Alex, Alex Stone,” I say and walk through the automatic doors.

Sitting at the kitchen island, bowl of Apple O's and milk in front of me, I methodically take bites. With each spoonful, a burst of apple and cinnamon awakens my taste buds. It’s like eating pie without the mess and effort.

As I spoon another bite, Mom dances into the kitchen, paper towel and wood polish in hand. “Hey, I didn’t hear you come in. I’ve made huge strides in that room of yours.” She smiles, setting down the aerosol can.

I nearly choke on my mouthful of cereal. “You—you were in my room?” I ask, looking at her incredulously. Then I try to focus on something other than her green eyes. I look at the stains on her housework clothes—they consists of a shirt, worn around the collar and blue jeans with paint splattered up and down her thighs.

She shrugs. “Well, yeah. Someone had to clean it up. Besides, now it’s clean. You can stop procrastinating and unpack.”

“Did you...I don’t know—notice anything
off
about the room?”

 
Maybe, have books, clothes and boxes whipped at your head. Hell, seen the Ghost of Christmas Past, perhaps?

Mom seems to consider this for a minute as she pulls her fingers through her tangled brown hair, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Should I have noticed anything strange? Off?”

I shove another spoonful into my mouth. “No.” I've probably just given her the wrong impression, like I've got something to hide.
Stupid.

“Then no, besides a bunch of boxes waiting to be unpacked. I’d like you to hop to it, once you’re done eating.”

I sigh with defeat. “Fine.” Pushing the empty bowl of cereal away, I reach into my pocket and pull out the germ infested paper. “I met a
nice
girl today. She offered to show me around town,” I say, sliding the paper over to where she leans against the marble island.

Her face lights up. “Oh that’s great, honey. I knew you would. Are you going to call—” Mom looks down at the crumpled paper. “Allison?”

I think about this for a moment. She was nice, I mean giving her number to a total stranger. “I might. We’ll see. I figure I might hold out for someone less
nice
.” I clamp my mouth shut. I shouldn’t have said that but it just came out. It was totally uncalled for. My
nice
friends, weren’t really so nice, but I shouldn’t punish Mom for that. It was my own fault.

Thankfully, Mom doesn’t take the bait I tossed out. Instead of chastising me, she scoops up the paper towel and polish and heads out of the kitchen. “I expect you to start unpacking. Make an honest effort of it,” she throws over her shoulder.

I’m standing outside of my room, I’ve got my hand on the crystal knob, taking deep, calming breaths. I’m still going with
it was all a dream or more honestly, a nightmare
. That everything that’s happened, the shadows, the moving curtain and the chaos of last night was purely an overactive imagination due to lack of sleep and the stress of moving halfway across the country. If I tell myself that enough, I know I’ll have to start
really
believing it, right? Then again, who am I kidding?

I twist the knob slowly. I can’t hide. I can’t stand out here forever, not facing this room, this place. No matter what lies beyond this door, it’s a part of my life now. Somehow I’ll deal with it. I’ll either realize it’s nothing, or realize I am going crazy.

But I will not let this change me.

I will not be tormented and terrified.

Because, there are no such things as ghosts.

They
do not
exist.

As I push open the door, all sense of reason flies out the window.

All the ideas I’d built up in my head this morning, and the pep talk I gave myself a second ago about how things are, what exists and what doesn’t are bullshit.

My room is like hurricane central,
again
. The boxes are flipped over, contents strewn about. Clothes and shoes cover most every inch of the floor. There are only small, tiny bits of freshly polished wood shining through the books, the papers and the photos torn from their album.
There’s no way Mom missed this
. Or, it wasn’t like this when she was here.

Irritated, I take strategic steps into the room, dodging the mess as best I can. My entire life has been thrown around like it’s garbage, and I’m pissed off. How can I dream this shit up? How is this—this mess, not real!

“I’m not leaving,” I say to the room. “You hear me? I’m not leaving!”

I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. For a moment, I feel empowered.

I sure told him how it is!

A weight has been lifted off my shoulders as I bend down, start picking up the balled up socks and thongs from the floor and put them in my freshly polished oak dresser. Soon pants and shirts get shoved in other drawers, too. One of the only two dresses I own gets hung up in the closet before I start on the books. Delicately, I pick them up and stack them on my nightstand and the floor beside it. And despite the gale force winds of last night, and the mess of right now, my Betty Boop lamp is still intact and finds a home beside the books on my nightstand.

As I arrange the last of the photos into my album a chill runs down my spine. A brush of cold air envelopes me. I stop what I’m doing and stand up straight. I expect imaginary winds to pick up and tear apart the last hour’s worth of work. I’m bracing myself for it. Only it doesn’t come.

“Get out. Get out.” The voice is a whisper, but harsh, like getting reprimanded by a librarian.

I shake it off. It’s not really there.

Looking out the window, the trees sway in the breeze. That’s what it is, just the sound of the trees.

Only the voice comes at me again from over my shoulder. “Get out!” I spin and hear it again, and again it’s over my shoulder coming at me from behind.

I don’t know why, but the first thing that comes to my mind and spills through my parted lips is, “No! You get out! Seriously, I will...douse you in bleach and light a match!”

Then, as if the voice is standing right next to me, breathing cold air on my neck, in my ear I hear, “But they’re coming back.”

Without the anger or the loudness, this voice, male, is no longer confident but unsure.

Try and ignore it
. But my gut is telling me to reply. “Who’s coming back?” My own voice is equally unsure, until I remember something important. “You’re—you’re not real.”
You’re a figment of my imagination
. Some delusional person I’ve made up to make myself feel something.

“If I’m not real, how can you hear me?”

I suck in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cool air surrounding me, and let it out. “Because, you’re inside my head,” I try to rationalize.

A
tapping
sound echoes through the room. It starts close, and then recedes slightly as it makes its way to the small desk in the corner of my room by the closet door. I’ve had the desk forever. It’s oak too, but is covered in scratches and scrapes, multicolored stickers and pen. It’s where I sit and do my homework, scan the web, or just waste time in general.

As if attached to invisible strings, the photo album which I just spent numerous minutes organizing photos into
opens
. Each thick page flips over, at first one at a time, and then faster and faster until it looks like a fan of blurry faces and landscapes.

“If I’m inside your head,” the voice says, “how can I do this?” The album slams shut with a
thud
.

Tip-tap, tip-tap
and the closet door creaks open and slams closed with
bang!

I stiffen. Point proven.

But I’m not convinced.

This is inconceivable. “If you’re real...then—then let me see you?”

A gruff, throat clearing happens. The tip-tap starts up again until it stops, right in front of me. The chill of winter’s breeze is back. I stand motionless, waiting for something to happen and almost hoping for nothing instead.

Before me, a swirl of color forms. Millions of tiny grains of every shade are concentrated in front of me. Sucking together, they begin to take shape. I can make out the blue of jeans, the grey of a shirt, until standing inches away from me is a teenaged guy.