Haunted

Sensitive content: Mention of self harm, attempted suicide, eating disorder, death, and suggestion of sexual assault.

“That’s the window she fell from.”

Katelyn is pointing up to the arts building where a dance studio is surrounded on two sides by floor to ceiling windows. I nod as though I know exactly which window pane she’s pointing to, even though there is absolutely no way to distinguish one from another.

The arts building is one of few modern structures on the campus. Most of the dorms are old colonial houses made entirely of wood which we’re told have a ridiculously fast burn rate, so candles are strictly forbidden. The commons building at the top of the common lawn seems to be from about the same time period, as well as the old red barn that’s used for literature and social studies classes, and the rest of the structures are in a smattering of different styles from various time periods. The whole place has a haphazard feel that’s weirdly whimsical. If you stand at the head of the common lawn and look to the stone wall on the other side, the world seems to drop off steeply and suddenly. It’s an optical illusion, of course, affectionately called “the end of the world.” Walking up to it reveals that the stone wall is actually just at the top of a gently sloping hill.

But the true selling point of the tour had been the manor house at the top of the hill. Rumored to be the inspiration for The Haunting of Hill House, the tour guide (and several students since) was sure to emphasize the possible haunting with mischievous sidelong glances and more than a little bit of pride. The house itself has a beautiful stonework exterior, a grand staircase, and more rooms than I can imagine ever needing. I can easily imagine it haunted, and obviously so could everyone else. I’ve only been on campus for three days for a pre-orientation, and I’ve already heard multiple conflicting stories about what ghosts still linger there and why.

We stand for a moment, looking solemnly up at the window — or at least what I think is the window — where a dancer had a horrible accident the year before and lost her life. They didn’t include that on the official tour. I awkwardly glance at Katelyn to see if she still needs more time, then back at the window. The loss isn’t mine, so I’m not sure what is the appropriate amount of time to pay our respects. I find it a little interesting that a school so determined to be haunted doesn’t realize that they already are. All of the students carrying that day like ghosts in the pockets of their eyes. On a campus so small — fewer than a thousand students — a death like that affects everyone.

“Well, I usually go in this way,” said Katelyn, flipping her dyed-red, chin length, half-shaved hair out of her eyes and surging forward. I shake off the emotional whiplash and hurry to keep up. “I’ll give you my quick and dirty tour, but you won’t remember it. Everyone gets lost in this building.”

Katelyn is a sophomore who invited me on an errand to the arts building under the pretense of giving me a tour. The real motivation is to get out of the sun into the large cool halls of the building while most of us wait for our roommates to arrive, or for our parents who are coming up after pre-orientation with all of our stuff. We wander around for a while, the sweat on our skin drying in the cool air to be replaced by goosebumps. I try to take note of where we go and how we get there, but Katelyn was right. There’s no way I’ll remember my way around. There are about a half million doors (a low estimate), and several different floors that all start and end in different places. If that sentence didn’t make sense, good. Neither does the arts building.

When I get back to my dorm, my mother’s car is parked outside. I can see her frizzy puff of damaged, bottle-black hair in the front seat, and suddenly my feet each weigh a hundred pounds. My steps become painfully sluggish as I approach. But there’s only so long I can delay the inevitable. She’ll see me through the rearview mirror soon.

“Just get through this, and you’re free,” I tell myself, pasting on a bright smile even Miss Manners would approve of.

“Hi, Mom,” I greet her as she emerges from the car. Her thin lips curl slightly into what is probably intended as a smile but looks more like a grimace. (Miss Manners would not be impressed.) “How was the drive?”

“Long,” she says, popping open the trunk. “But I prefer staying off the highway.”

I nod. It feels crazy to me to add an additional forty minutes to your trip because you don’t want to get on the highway, but I know some people just prefer it. My attempt at polite conversation done, we unload the car in silence. I do most of it. My mother is not exactly healthy. She has an eating disorder. I imagine when she was younger that meant there was a fair amount of restricting, maybe even binging and purging, but in recent years it’s just meant binging. And she’s never shown any interest in getting help for her problem; in fact, she may not even believe she has one. But the constant intake of mostly unhealthy food paired with a sedentary life has led to a myriad of joint problems and high blood pressure among other things.

As for the impact it’s had on me? Let’s just say that I’ve gotten used to having an empty stomach. Equal parts because my mother stopped providing food for me years ago, and because I’m afraid of being her.

A few of the people I met on my pre-orientation trip drop by while I’m unloading to invite me to hang out with them. I make note of where they’ll be when I’m done and cling to these plans as a reminder that this will be over soon, and I’ll be free. My new mantra.

When the car is empty, I walk my mother back down, and we stand on the curb awkwardly. I can see it occurring to both of us at the same moment: we’re supposed to hug goodbye. That’s what everyone else does. You hug goodbye and say, “I love you.” Some parents cry at their kids being all grown up and leaving the nest. Some parents take their kids out for a last meal or ask if there’s anything else they need. None of that will be happening for me, but we will have to hug. The awareness of other people nearby is the only thing that could ever make my mother conscious of the things she’s “supposed” to do as a mother, and I’ve already seen the realization dawn on her face.

I look at this woman and realize that we have no idea how to hug each other. I can’t remember the last time we did. When I was sixteen and my older sister left home, my mother sobbed and told me she hated me. We definitely didn’t hug then. When I was fifteen and sent to a psychiatric facility for trying to kill myself — she never even told me she loved me. For years afterwards, it was just, “you’d better not be cutting, or I’ll have you locked up again.” When I was fourteen and my sister went missing. I searched the neighborhood for her and pulled her, drugged, from a den of drunk middle-aged men, while my mother waited at home. God knows, that was my fault, wasn’t it? No hugs then. It’s funny to think that the last time I hugged my mother, I didn’t know it was the last time. Maybe if I had, I would remember it. I wonder how young I was. If I was still naive enough to think I could earn her love one day — one hug at a time.

This time I’ll remember it. This one will be the last.

The embrace is quick. Hands awkwardly tapping shoulders. Almost everything inside of me screams that this is wrong and awful, and I need it to be over now. I’ll allow that there’s one small part of me somewhere in the back of my mind that wishes it wasn’t awkward. That wishes I had a kiss-the-boo-boo, love for all seasons kind of mother. But I didn’t. I don’t. We release almost as soon as we touch.

With one last look up at my dorm — one of the large, white, colonial houses — she says, “Are you sure you want to stay here? Looks haunted.”

She had actually tried to talk me out of going to college and asked me to get a job to help take care of her instead. According to her, no one in the family thinks that I’ll be able to make anything of myself and a college degree is a waste of time and money. But just thinking about that future fills me with terror. Any time I picture it, all I can see is walls closing in on me. There’s no air, no hope, no life in that direction. I have to believe there’s something — anything — out there for me that’s better than what I’ve had so far. Even if I fail — even if it all amounts to nothing in the end — at least I have to try.

I look up at the window of my new dorm room. I can just make out the piles of bags on my bed and the bare walls behind it waiting to be filled, and I smile.

I shrug. “That’s kind of what I like about it,” I say.

Relief washes over me as I watch her car disappear down the college drive, and I realize for the first time that I’m shaking. Maybe this school is haunted, but so am I. Maybe this is where I belong.