Between Here and Forever - Elizabeth Scott [52]
“It sucks when people look at you and see someone else instead of you.”
“It does suck,” he says. “Is that how—is that how you think people see you and Tess?”
“It is how people see us. Me. Especially since—” I clear my throat, force myself to look at him. “Since the accident, I know they look at me and see her. See what she’s going through, see how—see how my family isn’t the same without her. Before, it was just that I wasn’t her. Now it’s that I’m here and she’s not.”
I’ve never said that last bit out loud before. I’ve never even let myself think it.
But that’s how it is, and that’s what is at the heart of all the anger and fear I have coiled inside me. I’m here. She’s not. And that doesn’t seem right to anyone. I can sense it. I see it.
And it makes me something more than angry or afraid.
It makes me sad, so sad.
“You want to get out of here?” Eli says, looking at me, just me, and I let myself see that.
I let myself look back.
I want to leave with him, and so I nod.
And so we do.
thirty-three
After we leave the school, my bike wedged into the backseat of Clement’s car, Eli heads into the heart of Milford.
I don’t say anything. I like that he hasn’t automatically turned to the hospital, to Tess. I like that he asked me to come with him. I like that he wants me with him.
I like him.
I could pretend I don’t know where we’re going, but if Eli’s place in the world is like mine—and lunch at his school showed me that it’s maybe even worse, that maybe the only person he has in the whole world is Clement—then I know exactly where we’re going.
His home.
I’m right, and Clement’s house looks like I thought it would: large and old, not the biggest house on the block but somehow the most imposing, a certain starkness to its features that’s missing from the lushly painted and landscaped houses that are within discreet distance.
“Clement’s not much for decoration,” Eli says after we’ve parked and walked into a giant front hall, made all the larger by the absolute absence of anything. It’s just a room with a high, airy ceiling, arched emptiness before the rest of the house. “He says Harriet didn’t like clutter.”
I try not to gape as Eli leads me down a hall with a series of large rooms branching off on either side, but it’s kind of hard not to. My parents’ house is large by Ferrisville standards—we have an upstairs, instead of the one-floor houses most people have—but it’s nothing compared to this.
The hallway ends in a large living room, dark with heavy wood furniture and a massive, deep blue Oriental carpet that sinks halfway up my shoes. Just beyond that I can make out what looks like the kitchen.
“This was my grandmother,” Eli says, picking up a photo in a large, silver frame.
A heavy-set woman with nut brown skin and wide, sparkling dark eyes—Eli’s eyes—grins at the camera, one arm slung exuberantly around Clement, who is gazing at her as if she’s a goddess.
I smile at the photo, because it so fits with everything Clement has ever said about Harriet, with how his love for her still shines in his voice. “She has your eyes. Or I guess you have hers.”
“That’s what Clement says,” he says. “My mother liked to remind my father of that when they were fighting about me.”
He hands me another photo, silently. A truly beautiful couple—a tall, elegant man and a tiny, raven-haired woman—are in wedding clothes, smiling at the camera. I can’t help but stare at the woman’s wedding dress, the train so long it’s been swept to one side and then arranged so it pools like water over the steps they’re standing on.
“My parents,” he says, and I see he has his father’s cheekbones, high and sharp, and his mother’s hair. There is an intensity about them both, though, a sense of barely contained urgency, that I don’t see in Eli.
“No photos of you?” I smile at him.
He shakes his head. “My parents used to send them, but I made Clement move them when I came. I don’t like—looking at them just reminds me of how hard I used to try to be what they wanted.”
He sees me looking at him and says, “Hold on, I’ll show you one.