said. “I was wondering when he’d manage to get here.”
“ You and me both,” I muttered under my breath.
“ Rowan.” Dad honestly looked happy to see me for the first time since my mother died. “Are you okay?”
“ Yeah, I think so,” I said.
“ Is she?” Dad asked, shifting his gaze to Claire.
Claire smiled. “Yes, I think she’ll be fine. She’s got a little gash above her brow, but not bad enough to need stitches. Her nose is going to be swollen and tender for a few days and her neck, along with other areas, may also become sore. I recommend she take some Ibuprofen every four to six hours or as needed.”
“ Okay, I’m pretty sure we have some at home. Thank you,” Dad said.
“ No problem. There are some things to watch for, though. If she experiences any dizziness or problems with her vision such as spots or blurriness, you should take her to the ER immediately,” Claire said, informing us of potential complications.
I wondered if seeing a dead person’s ghost step out of its body fell under either of those categories, but thought better of asking. A thought occurred to me then—maybe my mother hadn’t been crazy after all, because if she had been, then so was I.
Chapter Two
Three days passed and I began to question the reality of what I’d seen, doubting the unrealistic truth of it all. More snow had fallen, trapping me between the walls of my house until it melted and school resumed as normal. It was a welcome torment, though, caused by Mother Nature, one which allowed me to heal my various aches and pains away from the curious and incredibly judgmental eyes of my peers. It also enabled me to avoid the string of never-ending questions asked by those who truly couldn’t care less about my answer.
Dad’s questions about how I was feeling, devoid of concern and sympathy, were enough.
Life had returned to normal the very next day in the Harper household. There were no hugs and kisses or specially-made, home-cooked meals to show how glad anyone was I had survived. This was because my mother had ended her life five months ago, and, to be perfectly honest, my dad should have ended his right alongside her. Since then, he’d barely even looked at me. Ever since my mother’s suicide, our house had felt as bitterly cold and gloomy as a moonless night in the dead of winter.
People had often told me I looked just like my mother, Salene Harper, but I’d never believed them until after she was gone, when I realized my dad couldn’t even look at me anymore because I reminded him too much of her. We shared the same ebony-colored hair, bright green eyes, olive complexion, and petite slender frame.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon and I sat perched on the steps off my back porch, attempting to capture the haunting gaze of the crows that had congregated in my backyard. For whatever reason, my charcoals and sketch pad just weren’t doing it. I’d been sitting outside for so long my butt had grown numb and the coldness of the winter storm had begun to seep its way into my bones.
I pulled a fresh Q-tip from my wooden art box and lightly smudged along the bold black lines of charcoal I’d just stroked, adding depth to my picture. I’d spent hours drawing the crows, adding more detail into their feathers and perfecting the sheen of their eyes. I knew they were important in some way, I just couldn’t figure out how. Their presence held a meaning, making them symbolic of something, but what? And what did it have to do with me?
I picked up a dark brown charcoal and began adding long, thick lines into the branches of the trees I’d drawn for a more realistic look. I glanced up to compare the Gothic Edgar Allen Poe scene in front of me to the one I’d mimicked on a textured, cream-colored page, and that’s when I became aware of him. His stare must have gone unnoticed because of the four sets of watchful eyes already on me—but there he was, the same dark-haired boy
“ You and me both,” I muttered under my breath.
“ Rowan.” Dad honestly looked happy to see me for the first time since my mother died. “Are you okay?”
“ Yeah, I think so,” I said.
“ Is she?” Dad asked, shifting his gaze to Claire.
Claire smiled. “Yes, I think she’ll be fine. She’s got a little gash above her brow, but not bad enough to need stitches. Her nose is going to be swollen and tender for a few days and her neck, along with other areas, may also become sore. I recommend she take some Ibuprofen every four to six hours or as needed.”
“ Okay, I’m pretty sure we have some at home. Thank you,” Dad said.
“ No problem. There are some things to watch for, though. If she experiences any dizziness or problems with her vision such as spots or blurriness, you should take her to the ER immediately,” Claire said, informing us of potential complications.
I wondered if seeing a dead person’s ghost step out of its body fell under either of those categories, but thought better of asking. A thought occurred to me then—maybe my mother hadn’t been crazy after all, because if she had been, then so was I.
Chapter Two
Three days passed and I began to question the reality of what I’d seen, doubting the unrealistic truth of it all. More snow had fallen, trapping me between the walls of my house until it melted and school resumed as normal. It was a welcome torment, though, caused by Mother Nature, one which allowed me to heal my various aches and pains away from the curious and incredibly judgmental eyes of my peers. It also enabled me to avoid the string of never-ending questions asked by those who truly couldn’t care less about my answer.
Dad’s questions about how I was feeling, devoid of concern and sympathy, were enough.
Life had returned to normal the very next day in the Harper household. There were no hugs and kisses or specially-made, home-cooked meals to show how glad anyone was I had survived. This was because my mother had ended her life five months ago, and, to be perfectly honest, my dad should have ended his right alongside her. Since then, he’d barely even looked at me. Ever since my mother’s suicide, our house had felt as bitterly cold and gloomy as a moonless night in the dead of winter.
People had often told me I looked just like my mother, Salene Harper, but I’d never believed them until after she was gone, when I realized my dad couldn’t even look at me anymore because I reminded him too much of her. We shared the same ebony-colored hair, bright green eyes, olive complexion, and petite slender frame.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon and I sat perched on the steps off my back porch, attempting to capture the haunting gaze of the crows that had congregated in my backyard. For whatever reason, my charcoals and sketch pad just weren’t doing it. I’d been sitting outside for so long my butt had grown numb and the coldness of the winter storm had begun to seep its way into my bones.
I pulled a fresh Q-tip from my wooden art box and lightly smudged along the bold black lines of charcoal I’d just stroked, adding depth to my picture. I’d spent hours drawing the crows, adding more detail into their feathers and perfecting the sheen of their eyes. I knew they were important in some way, I just couldn’t figure out how. Their presence held a meaning, making them symbolic of something, but what? And what did it have to do with me?
I picked up a dark brown charcoal and began adding long, thick lines into the branches of the trees I’d drawn for a more realistic look. I glanced up to compare the Gothic Edgar Allen Poe scene in front of me to the one I’d mimicked on a textured, cream-colored page, and that’s when I became aware of him. His stare must have gone unnoticed because of the four sets of watchful eyes already on me—but there he was, the same dark-haired boy
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