Frost - Marianna Baer

“You still feel like someone’s watching you?” I said, a heavy

dread descending on me.

“Sometimes,” Celeste continued as if she hadn’t even heard

me, “when I open the closet . . .” She motioned toward it with her

head and spoke quietly. “Sometimes I feel like whoever it is is in

there. I have to look through all the clothes, you know, to make

sure no one is hiding. But it’s like I feel them.”

My stomach constricted. I had sat in the closet a couple

more times recently, just for a little while when I needed to clear

my head. And although I’d never done it while she was in the

room, it was as if she’d sensed I’d been in there.

“Celeste,” I said, “you realize that you sound a little . . .

irrational? No one’s watching you.”

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“So, what?” she said. “You think I’m . . . what, imagining it?

Don’t tell me I’m making it up. This stuff is real, this stuff that’s

happened to me.”

“Honestly?” I said. “I think that you had a hard summer,

dealing with your boyfriend. And a hard year, with your dad. I

think that some weird, bad stuff has happened to you in this

room. And it’s freaked you out.”

Celeste’s eyes rolled up and she stared at the ceiling, as if

trying not to cry again.

“Maybe you should talk to someone,” I said.

“A therapist? They’d just stick me on some medication.

Don’t . . . don’t tell anyone I have these feelings, okay? Not the

dorm, or David. Okay? Please. It’s really important.”

She gripped one of my hands in both of hers. They felt cold,

bony.

“I just think it would be good if you talked to someone,” I

said.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “With a father like mine,

people—everyone—they’re just waiting for me to crack up. And I

can’t do anything without everyone thinking I tried to kill myself

or whatever. And I’ve done stupid stuff in the past, and now it’s

like, if they . . . you know . . . I don’t get the benefit of the doubt.

Please, Leena. Please . It’s not like I’m making up these feelings

from nowhere. This stuff happened.”

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I remembered the horrible feeling after I’d tried to hurt

myself in eighth grade, when my parents would stare at me with

these expressions like they were worried I was going to crack into

a thousand pieces at any moment.

“Please, Leena,” she said. “I’m not crazy. I’m not.” Her voice

was stronger. “Promise you won’t tell.”

“Okay,” I said. “I promise. But you have to promise to let me

know if it doesn’t get better. Okay?”

We agreed.

Later, as I was about to turn off my bedside lamp, Celeste

came into the room wearing the Moroccan caftan she slept in. I

couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to bed while I was

still awake. As if reading my mind, she said, “Maybe I’ll be able to

sleep. Now that the heat is on.” I didn’t point out that she hadn’t

been able to sleep when the weather was warm either.

She lingered at her mirror, smoothing cream on her face,

brushing her hair. Finally, she turned off her light and headed

toward her bed. On the way, she paused in front of the slightly

open closet door. After a second, she kept walking. She sat down

on the comforter, laid her crutches on the floor, glanced at the

closet again, stood up, closed the door.

This didn’t bode well.

“Do you want something mild to help? Just tonight?” I said.

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“No, thanks.”

When the lights had been off for a minute, she said, “You . . .

you know I was speaking . . . metaphorically , before. Right, Leena?

I don’t really think someone’s in the closet. I was just trying to

describe what it’s like, to feel like someone wants to hurt you.

You know that, right? I don’t really think someone’s in here or

whatever.”

I hesitated. “Sure,” I said. “I know what you meant.”

Sleep came easily for me, as it always did in that room, even

though I was picturing those scattered nests, telling myself they’d

been in a random pattern. It was deep, as well, so I had no idea

how long Celeste had been shouting when I woke up.

“Get off! Get off of me!”

Without my glasses and in the darkish room, I panicked—

someone was on Celeste’s bed! “Hey,” I cried. “Stop!” But as I

leapt up and hurried across the floor, I realized it was her arms

thrashing underneath the covers, not another body. I turned on

the light.

“Celeste.” I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Wake up.”

She sat straight up. “I’m awake,” she said. Her face shone

white and glistened with sweat.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You were having a nightmare.”

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“No, I wasn’t,” she said. “I wasn’t. Someone was here.” She

turned her head back and forth, searching. “I was awake.”

“You’re okay, Celeste.” I sat down and moved my hand to

her back. “No one was here except me. It was a bad dream.”

She shook her head. Her pupils were huge, swallowing up

her irises. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t. Someone was here. Someone’s

always here.”

“Shh,” I said. “No one was here. It’s okay. You’re just upset,

from before.”

“Before?”

“The conversation we had, earlier.”

We sat in silence for a moment, my hand absorbing the

tremors from her body.

“Are you okay to go back to sleep?” I finally said. “I swear, no

one was in here except me.”

She gathered her quilt around her shoulders. “Can you hand

me my crutches?” she said.

I did. She stood up and made her way out of the room. With

her stooped posture, the blanket around her shoulders, and the

sunken, haunted look in her face . . . well, I wondered if, when I’d

promised not to tell anyone about her fears, I’d made a promise I

shouldn’t keep.

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The next day, I couldn’t get that image of her out of my

mind. As my teachers talked on, I kept hearing her voice—so

much fear in it. I didn’t know what to do. Before last night, I’d

settled into thinking that Celeste was doing the things herself

because I couldn’t imagine who else would have. But yesterday

her surprise—her horror—had seemed so genuine. Nothing made

sense.

The first time I saw her was in the afternoon. She was sitting

on the main quad underneath the statue of Samuel Barcroft,

listening to music and writing or drawing in her sketchpad. Part of

me wanted to head in the opposite direction, pretend I didn’t see

her. But I had to deal with this sometime.

I walked up and waited for her to take out her earbuds.

“So,” I said, sitting next to her on the base of the statue. The

granite pressed cold and hard underneath me. “How do you

feel?”

She shrugged. Rhinestone-studded sunglasses hid her eyes.

“Okay,” she said. “Sorry for all the commotion last night. God,

David couldn’t believe it when I told him the cat did that to my

nests.”

Wait, what? “The cat?” I said.

“Oh, right. I didn’t tell you yet.” Her voice was breezy and

crisp as the autumn air, as if this was all perfectly normal. “I

realized this morning it must have been Leo. I’m sure he smelled

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the materials and jumped up there. Batted them around the

room.”

“But . . . he doesn’t ever leave Ms. Martin’s apartment, does