Frost - Marianna Baer

don’t get.”

“If I didn’t know better,” he said, nudging me, “I’d think you

were trying to convince me that there was something weird going

on in that house.”

Before, I would have been the first one to buy into David’s

theory. The first one to say that was what happened to me, too.

That my thoughts had been altered, twisted by the unhealthy air

I’d been breathing. But then I remember the pull I felt toward the

closet, that very first day. And even before the first day we moved

in, the way I felt the first time I ever saw the house, that intense

need to live there.

And what had I seen that day last fall? What had I mistaken

for smoke, as it drifted from the unusable chimney and danced

into the sky?

After sending David away to the coffee shop, Celeste and I

sat on my dad’s balcony, even though it was cold outside. I think

we both wanted as much fresh air as we could get. We sat quiet

for a moment.

“So,” I finally said. “This is fucked up.”

409

Celeste looked at me and laughed, a real laugh. “Yeah,” she

said. “It is.”

“There are still so many things I don’t understand,” I said.

“Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“How did you get the bruises?”

She pulled up the fur-lined collar of her vintage coat. “I’d

wake up, find them on me,” she said. “And I’d have strange

memories of fighting something off. It seemed like I was awake

when I did it.” She paused. “Who the hell knows? My shrink

thinks they happened during my night terrors. That I’d thrash

around so much I hurt myself.”

“I saw you do that,” I said. “I guess it could have happened.”

“Maybe.” We held eyes, though, and another conversation

passed between us. One in which we agreed on the possibility

that maybe she had been awake when she fought something off

all those nights. I knew it then: Celeste was as confused as I was.

“Something else,” I said. “Did you ever throw your beetle

photo across the room?”

“What?” she said. “No. When did that—?”

“The same night you were burned in the tub. I didn’t want to

tell you.”

410

“That burn . . .” Celeste rubbed the spot where it had been.

“I know which handle I turned that night. The water coming out of

the faucet was cold.”

“But the faucet was hot enough to burn you?”

She nodded.

“What does your shrink say about that?”

She gave a half smile. “I’m waiting until a later session to

break it to her.” After a moment she continued. “You know, you

were right to tell Dean Shepherd what was happening. Thanks for

doing that.”

I felt a rush of shame, knowing that the main reason I had

done it was that I didn’t want to lose Frost House. How could I

have thought that I was so weak? How could I have been so

convinced that Frost House was the only place I could ever be

happy?

I might need a long time to answer those questions. Now, I

still had more for Celeste.

“So that night at your parents’,” I said, “you had a whole

story, about that woman who had lived in Frost House. Didn’t you

wonder why she hadn’t done anything before? To other

students? I’m assuming we would have heard if there were other

people who had trouble in the dorm.”

411

She tightened her silver-wool-with-sequins scarf around her

neck.

“I thought it was because we were the first girls to live

there,” she said. “It was a woman who died; she’d had a baby girl

taken away from her. I thought she wasn’t interested in boys.”

Celeste stared off at a plane in the sky. “I couldn’t figure out what

she wanted, aside from me leaving, though.”

I didn’t say anything, just watched our healthy breaths puff

white in the cold air and thought about Celeste’s theory, thought

about my answer to her final question. And while thinking, I

realized: I knew everything that had happened to Celeste this

semester, but she didn’t know anything that had happened to

me. Somehow, it didn’t seem right.

Then I told her my version of the past months, including my

theory of what Frost House had wanted:

She had wanted Celeste to leave. But she had wanted me to

stay.

Forever.

412

Chapter 42

I DROVE OUT TO BARCROFT this morning. Later today I

have a series of meetings with my teachers and Dean Shepherd.

I’ve fallen too far behind to finish the semester in some classes,

but we’re going to try and figure out if I can still get enough

credits to graduate on time.

I’m also having dinner with David. I don’t think either of us is

sure what’s going on with our relationship—things have changed,

obviously. But we’re taking slow steps, at least toward staying

friends. Celeste and I still haven’t talked to him about what might

have really happened in the dorm. We will, though. It’s too big a

secret to keep from someone I want to be close to. I told Viv

everything, and she immediately knew which possible story she

wanted to believe. “I’m so sorry, Leen,” she said, giving me a hug.

“I should have made us listen to Orin.”

When I made plans to come out here today, I was explicitly

told—by my therapist, my father, the dean—to stay away from

Frost House. Right. Like that was going to happen.

I parked in the gym lot and pushed my way through the

bushes and tree branches, into the backyard. I didn’t want to walk

in off the road, in case someone happened to see me. I’d heard

from Viv that the whole Frost House thing had completely

overshadowed any other campus gossip. And to think, all they

knew was that we’d had carbon monoxide poisoning.

413

I paused for a moment before going inside. The house

appeared just as cozy and welcoming as the first time I saw it.

Now, though, I knew what I was seeing was just the architecture,

the outer shell; it didn’t mean anything about the type of house it

was inside. If I could see the house as it really was, it would be

dark and windowless. Uninhabitable.

My heart jumped when I entered the common room. The

light was dim and, at first glance, it seemed as if a tall figure stood

there, waiting for me. But I quickly saw what it was. The couch

had been moved into the middle of the room. The other furniture

was stacked precariously on top of it—table on top of armchair.

Maybe they were painting the walls again? Although I’d heard a

rumor that they were talking about tearing the house down, so

that didn’t make sense.

I worked my way around the odd sculpture and down the

hall. I ran my hand over the plaster wall, listened to the

conversation between floorboards. Celeste’s door stood open. I

pushed it farther with my index finger, but stayed in the hall as I

looked in. Shadowy. Empty. Very empty, if that’s possible.

I turned my back and crossed the hall. Bright sun filled my

room, bright enough so that it obliterated the room’s faults—

bumpy walls, gaps in the floorboards—instead of illuminating

them. The mattress had been removed from my bed. Otherwise,

all the furniture was still there.

414

The door to the closet stood open a crack, the wood on the

edge split and splintered where it had been broken when they got

me out. I turned away and studied the bare tree branches