A Breath of Eyre (24 page)

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Authors: Eve Marie Mont

BOOK: A Breath of Eyre
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My dad started crying again. “Of course I did. But it wasn’t a healthy love. It was all-consuming. She sucked all the life out of me because she needed every ounce of my strength. She drained me of everything I had.”
A line went through my head, Mr. Mason saying of Bertha,
She sucked my blood. She said she’d drain my heart.
Maybe that was what he’d meant, not that she’d physically preyed on him like some monster, some vampire, but that she’d drained him of every ounce of his strength because she so desperately needed it for herself.
“I know you haven’t liked Barbara over the years,” my dad said. “But that’s what attracted me to her. Her strength. She never seemed to need me; she just wanted to be with me.” For the first time, I felt like I understood Barbara a little bit. Like Jane, Barbara had brought sunshine and lightness to a house too long filled with darkness. And like Jane, she’d been competing for my father’s affection with a ghost in the attic.
“Do you love her more than Mom?” I said.
He closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “My love for Barbara is such a different kind of love. It doesn’t consume me. From the first time I met her, I knew she’d do me some good, I knew she’d help me forget.”
I suddenly felt defensive and angry for my mother, for the young woman who had felt so desperate and hopeless that she’d walked into the ocean and drowned herself. Even a new baby could not give her a sense of hope. And now my father sat here talking about the woman who had helped him forget her.
“But, Dad,” I said, “you can’t just forget about Mom. You can’t lock all her stuff in the attic and pretend she never existed. Because she did exist, and you loved her! And I’m her daughter, and I’m still here!”
My dad looked at me, almost in shock, as if just realizing the truth in what I’d said. Yes, I was still here. His wife and his unborn child were gone, but he still had me. He embraced me and sobbed into my shoulder, rocking and hugging me, until we were clinging together for dear life, trying to make each other whole again.
When we got back to the house I asked my dad if I could go up to the attic to look through Mom’s things. To my surprise, he offered to come up and help me. Unearthing relics that had the power to drown us in emotions was a task better tackled with a partner.
My father pulled down the attic stairs, and I followed him up the narrow rungs, emerging into a dark and musty attic with a low-beamed ceiling, a third floor that had been closed off to the world. Walking through aisles of boxes in near-complete darkness and breathing in the stale, dry air gave me the impression of walking through a tomb. As soon as my dad pulled the ceiling chain, a naked blub washed the space in pale yellow light, revealing years of neglect—ceilings fringed with cobwebs, boxes upon boxes of forgotten artifacts, objects leaning against the walls covered in fabric.
At first we went through things slowly, reverently, like we were combing through items in a museum that shouldn’t be touched. There was an oppressive heaviness in the air—guilt, unspoken emotion, grief. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I marched to the far window and cracked it, feeling fresh air invade the space like a tonic.
It was almost as if that burst of fresh air freed us, gave us permission to open boxes with abandon, to open our hearts again. My dad dumped the entire contents of one of the boxes onto the floor, spilling out photo albums, recipes, notebooks. I began opening another frantically, tearing off packing tape, throwing tarps off her old belongings, throwing off the old constraints, the heavy feelings, the things that had weighed us down for so many years.
We sat down in the middle of this maelstrom, studying the space, which looked as though it had been ransacked. It hadn’t been an act of violence that had rent it asunder, but an act of compassion. We were setting free memories, letting them breathe. I sat down in front of one box and took out a leather notebook that was sitting on top. The moment I held it in my hands, I knew. This was my mother’s journal.
I flipped through it breathlessly, reading fragments of poetry and prose, reflections about me and my father, entries capturing the beauty of a sunrise or the darkness of her mind. “Dad, why didn’t you tell me Mom was a writer?” I said.
He looked up from the box he was sorting and cleared his throat. “She was very private about her writing. She rarely showed me anything. I guess I didn’t realize how alike you were in that way.”
“But you did read her journal after she died, right?”
He nodded distractedly.
“So you know she loved us both very much. She wasn’t trying to hurt us. She felt we’d be better off without her.”
“I know,” my father said. “But that wasn’t her choice to make.”
If this was her journal, her suicide note was somewhere in these pages. With my heart in my throat, I flipped through, searching for my mother’s birthday. There on the page in quavering handwriting that looked very much like my own, I read her final journal entry:
My mind is a tomb, empty of all hope and light. My insides are dead, unfit to give new life. Everything I touch withers and dies. I can’t go on with this pain, and I refuse to be a burden. I have taken enough from you. I can only hope you’ll forgive me. Though fate may sever us, parting will not last forever. I will love you always.
Where had I heard those lines before?
Though fate may sever us, parting will not last forever.
They were the lyrics of a song. A lullaby. The one my mother had sung to me as a child. The one Bertha sang to me the night after I helped her escape, the night we slept in the heather under the stars. My mother had been trying to tell me something after all.
My mother had killed herself, that much was clear. But she hadn’t killed her baby. My father had gotten it wrong. My mother had had a miscarriage. That’s why the note said her insides were dead, unfit to give new life. Her baby had already withered and died inside her. And just like Bertha, the loss had destroyed her.
I looked up at my father, tears stinging my eyes. “What, Emma?” he said. “What is it?”
“It’s the note,” I said through sobs. “Her suicide note.”
“Oh, Em, this is why I didn’t want you to come up here.”
“No, Dad. She didn’t kill her baby.” I took the journal over to him and crouched down beside him, shoving the journal into his hands. “Look. She would never have willingly killed her baby. She loved us too much. Can’t you see? She had a miscarriage.”
I ran my finger along the lines as my father read the words to himself. The look on his face showed that he believed me. That he suddenly understood.
We wouldn’t talk about that day again for a very long time, but I knew that was the moment my father forgave my mother, and more important, forgave himself. The knowledge freed him to love her again. And as we went through the rest of her things that afternoon, I couldn’t help but think that my mother was right there with us, that in some way, we’d freed her, too.
C
HAPTER
24
T
hat night I dreamt of the fire. My skin singed, and my eyes burned until I couldn’t see, could only hear the horses’ whinnies and cries, their panicked stomps. I walked through the smoke until I came to Curry’s pen, but it was empty. Numb to the heat, I ran through the stables looking for him, feeling a stampede of hooves all around me. I followed the cavalcade until I was outside, looking up at a sky lit up with flame, billowing with smoke. My feet took me to the tree by the Commons, and I saw something lying at its roots. As I approached, my heart wrenched in my chest as recognition hit me. Curry’s dead body lay on its side, his body scorched, his eyes open and lifeless, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.
Shrieking, I collapsed onto his body, tugging at his mane, screaming his name, trying to get him to wake, to come back to life. And then my father was above me, shaking my shoulders, pleading with me to wake up. Several seconds passed as he tried to convince me it had only been a nightmare, that Curry was alive and well, that my actions had saved him.
Sweat poured from my face as my father consoled me, my father who hadn’t touched me in years. His arms were tight around me for the second time that day, and I knew somehow that my mother was responsible for this miracle, too. Just as she’d saved my life at the beach, now she was saving the two of us.
When Gray took me back to school the next day, I made him drive me down to the stables so I could revisit the scene. Even though I knew the horses had been taken to a local farm for safekeeping, when I caught sight of their pens, now reduced to a pile of black wood and cinders, I heard their terror all over again. Gray came up behind me and wrapped me in a bear hug. I didn’t want him to leave me. I didn’t want to face my classmates and their questions. I especially didn’t want to face Michelle.
I needn’t have worried about Michelle because when I got up to my room, she wasn’t there. The room felt empty, bereft of her presence. Her things were still there—posters and pictures, clothes still in the closet—but her presence was missing.
I quickly discovered through the gossip mill that Michelle had been suspended, and that they’d taken my journal as evidence. There was going to be an expulsion hearing in three weeks. Even more astounding was that Michelle had gone to the Disciplinary Committee last week and implicated Elise Fairchild by telling them that Elise and her friends sometimes smoked pot down at the stables and that they probably started the fire. Her accusation unleashed a firestorm, and now Elise’s parents were threatening to sue the school.
So that’s why Michelle hadn’t come to see me at the hospital. She’d been dealing with this arson investigation nonsense. And it was nonsense. There was no way Michelle had started the fire. She loved those horses more than anything. Yet with Overbrook heading the Disciplinary Committee, Michelle didn’t stand much of a chance. Add to that the fact that Elise’s parents probably had an arsenal of lawyers waiting in the wings to pounce on anybody who dared suggest that their dear, sweet, perfect daughter could have been smoking pot, and you had a recipe for disaster.
I called Michelle’s cell phone several times, but kept getting bounced to her voicemail. I decided to call Owen to find out what I could from him. He sounded relieved to hear from me.
“Oh my God, Emma. How are you?” he said.
“I’m okay.”
“I’m so sorry I didn’t make it to the hospital again. This week’s been crazy. I’ve been trying to run damage control with Michelle. You heard what happened?”
“Yeah. How is she?”
“Awful. She’s won’t talk to anyone, not even me. She’s been acting crazy.”
“Well, you can’t really blame her. The situation is ridiculous.”
“But you know Michelle. She’s usually such a fighter, but now ... it seems like she’s given up. She’s totally shut down. She even told me she’s dropping out of the equestrian competition.”
“Is she at home with her aunt?”
“I think so, but when I tried to go see her, her aunt wouldn’t let me in.”
“Don’t give up,” I said. “Michelle needs you, even if she’s pushing you away right now. She just needs some time.” Owen promised to keep trying, and I got off the phone feeling a little better. Of course, without Michelle there, I felt entirely alone, too.
The next day was one of the worst days of my high school memory. Everyone was talking about the impending hearing, and my sudden reappearance made me the subject of much speculation. How was I involved in all of this? Did I remember what had happened the night of the fire? Would I be testifying against Elise?
Elise and her crew glared at me all day while I sat through lecture after lecture. But my heart and mind were not focused on school. I was too busy worrying about Michelle, about my father, about the essay contest, about Gray. That night, I skulked back to my room, threw on some sweats, and had a dinner of Pop-Tarts and ramen noodles so I wouldn’t have to go to the dining hall.
The next day I stayed after English class to talk to Mr. Gallagher about the expulsion hearing. It was incredible, but standing next to him alone in the classroom had absolutely no effect on me. It was like I’d suddenly woken up and realized the falseness in everything I’d dreamed. Mr. Gallagher was just a man, and an aging one at that. His hair had gotten grayer at the temples, and he’d even started to grow a little gut.
“How are you feeling, Emma?” Mr. Gallagher asked kindly, giving me the penetrating stare that used to leave me breathless. But I wasn’t feeling it. And I didn’t want to talk about me, not when my best friend’s future was hanging in the balance. Ignoring his question, I said, “Mr. Gallagher, I have to talk to you and the Disciplinary Committee. I have some information that might be relevant.”
“What is it?”
“It’s about the poem.”
“The poem?”
“You know, the one about revenge and burning? The one the committee is using as evidence? See, the thing is, I wrote it, not Michelle.”
“You wrote it?”
“Yes.”
He removed his glasses and began cleaning them with his handkerchief. “It’s awfully noble of you to try to take the fall for your friend—”
“No, honestly, Mr. Gallagher. I’m not trying to take the fall. I actually wrote all the poems. The journal’s mine.”
He gave me a skeptical look and then sighed. “Even if it is yours, the poem is not the reason she’s being suspended. It’s just one piece of evidence. Her behavior toward the Disciplinary Committee has been entirely unacceptable.”
“Please, let me talk to the committee. Ask Overbrook if he’ll give me an audience.”
He paused for a long time, then replaced his glasses and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Because it’s you, Emma, I’ll try.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gallagher. Really, thank you.”
Gallagher was able to get me an appointment with Overbrook for that Thursday afternoon. I sprinted back to my room after class and changed into a nice blouse and skirt. When I arrived at the boardroom, Mr. Gallagher and Dr. Overbrook were seated at a long table at the front of the room, flanked by two board members. I had never addressed a group such as this, not even when I had interviewed for the scholarship. Even Mr. Gallagher looked harsh and unyielding. He resembled Rochester more than ever, but instead of inspiring my admiration and fear, he provoked only a cold resentment in me now.
I walked up the aisle of the boardroom, listening to my heels clack along the hardwood floor, and stood at a podium in front of their table. This room seemed designed to inspire terror in the presenter.
Come on, Jane, don’t fail me now.
I cleared my throat, about to speak, when Dr. Overbrook held out a peremptory palm. “Ms. Townsend, we appreciate the spirit in which you have come here today in an effort to provide information that may be useful to our investigation. Before we begin, let me remind you that you stand before members of the Disciplinary Committee. This board will serve as jury during Michelle’s hearing, so anything you tell us today will become a part of our records.”
Sweat was already beading along my forehead, my mouth was getting pasty, and I could feel the dampness under my armpits staining my blouse. “I understand, sir,” I said. “I came here today because you have a journal with a poem that seems to implicate Michelle in the stable fire. But the journal is mine, not Michelle’s.”
I expected for the waters to part, for murmurs of relief to buzz through the boardroom as they realized they had accused the wrong person. But Dr. Overbrook simply said, “Yes, Mr. Gallagher has apprised us of your contention that the journal is yours. The fact of the matter is, the message in the poem is consistent with other behaviors observed in Ms. Dominguez throughout the year, and we feel your attempt to clear her name, while well-intentioned, is misguided.”
“No, sir. I’m serious. The journal is mine. Every poem.”
He glanced at Mr. Gallagher and, with an almost imperceptible roll of his eyes, said, “Ms. Townsend, you’re telling us this is yours?” He held up my turquoise journal, the one containing my most private thoughts, my most secret fantasies.
“Yes, sir.”
“Forgive me, but I find that impossible to believe,” he said. It was clear he’d read the entire thing, not just the poem in question. The thought made me want to vomit.
One of the board members suggested, “Perhaps we should ask for a handwriting sample.” I wanted to smack their heads together, they were being so stubborn and stupid.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Mr. Gallagher said. “But if it is her journal, surely she will know its contents, even without the pages in front of her. For instance, page twelve contains a poem called ‘Noble Brow.’ I wonder if you could recite it for us, Ms. Townsend, to the best of your recollection.”
God, I hated him at that moment. He knew darn well what the poem was about, and now he wanted to humiliate me in front of the panel. The board members murmured to each other, still dubious but curious to see how this would pan out. I steeled myself for what I was about to do.
Before losing my nerve, I plunged in, reciting word for word the sonnet I’d written about Mr. Gallagher. The others were all craning their necks behind Gallagher’s shoulders to see if my words matched those on the page, but Gallagher was staring down at me the entire time, listening with grave interest, his eyes weighted with a meaning I couldn’t discern. When I finally finished, I was certain I would die on the spot.
Their glances flickered at each other. Stupidly, Dr. Overbrook said, “She could have memorized Michelle’s poem.”
But then Gallagher said, “I think it’s pretty clear that Ms. Townsend did write this poem and, therefore, is probably the author of the incriminating poem as well.”
Overbrook pursed his lips, annoyed. Things weren’t going his way. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t absolve Ms. Dominguez,” he said. “Mr. Gallagher, you said yourself that you saw Michelle leave the dance just moments before Ms. Townsend left and found the stables ablaze. When we questioned some of the other girls, they said Ms. Dominguez was fond of spending time at the stables. She is a rider, yes?”
“Look,” I said, feeling a strange power come over me, “Michelle is a rider and she does spend a lot of time at the stables. And yes, she did leave the dance that night. But Michelle loves those horses. Why would she want to harm them? Elise left the dance earlier that evening with some friends, and they were gone for a long time. Even her date said he thought she’d gone outside to smoke. Maybe she and her friends were smoking in the stables and accidentally started the fire. I’ve seen them there before, smoking marijuana.”
Dr. Overbrook choked a little, then sat up in his chair.
“That is a very serious accusation, Ms. Townsend,” he said. “I warn you to be careful what you say. I am not dragging a girl like Elise Fairchild into some drug scandal based on the word of Ms. Dominguez’s best friend. It is very clear your motivations in this case are not entirely based on a wholesome respect for the truth. It is interesting that Ms. Fairchild also saw Ms. Dominguez heading down to the stables that night.”
“Sir,” I said. “I’m sure Elise did claim to see Michelle going down to the stables, but given the circumstances, perhaps she also had motivations that weren’t entirely based on a wholesome respect for the truth.” I knew I was walking a tightrope between being strong and being stupid, but at that moment I didn’t care.
Overbrook got the same red-faced expression he’d gotten when Michelle had challenged him in class about third-world countries. “In the past,” he said, “Ms. Dominguez has displayed a fiery temper and a reckless disregard for the rules. Consider the night of the bonfire, when she dragged you out after hours and you ended up lying in a hospital for three weeks. Her behavior in my classroom has been consistently willful and disrespectful—”
“But none of that has any bearing on whether she did or did not set the stables on fire. You can’t go into this situation with your mind already made up,” I said. My calm and measured voice sounded foreign in my ears.
“Do not presume to tell me, Ms. Townsend, how I can or cannot run this investigation. May I remind you that you are here on the grace of a scholarship, one that is funded by the very family of the girl whose character you are trying to malign? Elise Fairchild is a model student respected by students and faculty alike. She has a stellar record of both scholarship and citizenship and is very likely headed toward an Ivy League education and a distinguished career. I see no reason why she would jeopardize all that for the sake of one night of smoking in a barn.”

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