Paper, Pens, and Summons

“Evie? Evelyn, did you hear me?”1

“What?” I shook my head both to clear my thoughts and show that I had not, in fact, heard her.2

“I asked if you had tried out for the play yet,” Irina said reproachfully, flipping her blond tresses over her shoulder.3

“No, I haven’t. You know I don’t like to act.”4

I looked around the cafeteria, letting Irina’s mindless chatter flow over me again while I was lost in my own thoughts. Feeling slightly guilty for not paying that much attention to my best friend lately, I attempted to listen once again, but daily school life couldn’t seem to hold my attention for longer then a few minutes. My dad had never had much time for petty conflicts, either, and I wished that there was a way I could see him again… Instinctively, I flinched away from these thoughts, away from the pain that I knew would start in both my mind and body, and into the numbness that my mind reserved for occasions like these (which seemed to be happening quite often).5

Only the dull electronic beep of the bell put a break in the stream of words gushing out of Irina’s mouth. After dumping the contents of my lunch tray in the trash, I waved goodbye to her and collected my ELA supplies from my locker. I also checked my reflection in the small mirror I had there, and brushed out my flaming red hair. My father had always said that I had fiery hair and a temper to match, which was probably true.6

I think ELA was the only class I actually felt comfortable in. Writing must have been my way of expressing myself – the only way I expressed myself, really. I shuddered at the thought of singing, became paralyzed when asked to act, and my skills in the art department weren’t appraisable in the least. Stories flowed out of my pen, as swift and unceasing as a river, and plots were forever developing in my mind, just waiting to be written.7

So it was with great eagerness that I looked at our new assignment, a short story. (It had to be at least three to five pages, and typed.) When the teacher announced that we had about ten minutes to start our planning or rough drafts in class, I took a sheet of loose leaf paper out of my binder, listening to the familiar crinkle and swoosh as it came out of the spiral rings. The quiet scratching sounds of pencils filled the air, the occasional squeak vibrating through the room as a pencil protested its smooth movements across the page.8

Which plot should I choose? I mused. Should I choose the one about the vampire – or the one about the basketball game? What about the holiday story? None of the plots seemed to fit my mood, and a strange, new idea came to my mind. What if I just… wrote? I decided to try that, to see how the plot would develop…9

I shivered and tugged my jacket closer to my body, attempting to warm myself as I walked home, wincing at the acrid smell of the bus’s exhaust as it pulled away…10

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Later that day, Irina approached me. I was kneeling by my locker and trying – in vain – to fit my coat in the back pocket of my book-bag, straining the coarse, woven flaps to their limits and cursing the thickness of the insulation on my jacket.12

“It’s kind of sad, y’know?” Irina asked, sympathy evident in her expressive green eyes as she looked down at me. Why she was sympathetic, I didn’t know.13

“Sorry?” I asked blankly.14

“I feel like I don’t even know you anymore. It’s like you’re walking around in a… daze right now,” she said, twirling her hair around her perfectly manicured index finger, obviously nervous.15

“What do you mean?” A faint feeling of suspicion began to prickle in the back of my mind – I did not like where this conversation was going. I’d almost forgotten how perceptive my friend could be, because this attribute was usually downplayed in light of her talkativeness. I gave up trying to stuff my jacket into my bag, and instead put it on, feeling like a snowman made by over-ambitious children.16

“Evie, let me just tell this to you straight out. I know you’re still mourning your father, but it’s been what, six months since he passed away? Do you really think it’s… right… to keep… er…” Irina winced, not liking how the words were coming out.17

There was nothing like a brutal slap to reality. “No, I don’t supposed it is,” I said, unable to keep the pain and anger out of my voice as I stuffed my books aggressively into my bag, slamming my locker shut, attempting to shut the gaping, empty hole in my chest that had just appeared again after several days. I shied away from the pain, locking up the memories of my dead father and tried not to let myself get too angry at Irina, because that would be unfair. She didn’t know that his death had not only made our family lonely and mournful, but had sent us on an emotional – not to mention financial – roller coaster.18

Irina opened her mouth, then saw my stormy expression and thought better of it, deciding to instead merely follow me to the bus, a troubled expression on her otherwise perfect features.19

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I shivered and tugged my jacket closer to my body, attempting to warm myself as I walked home, wincing at the acrid smell of the bus’s exhaust as it pulled away.21

Did I just say that? I wondered, marveling at the coincidence.22

After fumbling for a few minutes with the keys, I managed to wrench open the door and turn off the alarm. I yanked the post-it note my mother had left me off of the table, not bothering to read what she had written. I already knew what it would say: it would remind me that I had to babysit my two younger siblings tomorrow. Before I did anything else, I pulled out my story and began to type the few paragraphs I had into the computer, the soft blue glow lighting my face. So far, the narrator had gotten off of the bus, and was at home, talking with her mother.23

“I don’t care, I don’t care!” I yelled, my voice cracking slightly, and I angrily wiped my tears away.24

My mother was facing away from me, vigorously washing the dishes, her own voice harsh from many days of mourning. “I’m sorry, Evie, but you know I don’t have time to watch your siblings right now. I’ve had to increase my work hours just to get enough income! I need you to babysit them!”25

“But you know I have newspaper class after school!”26

“I’m sorry, Evie, but I really can’t do anything else! I’m sorry you can’t do newspaper, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”27

“Dad never would have made me do this.”28

“Well, perhaps not. But Dad isn’t here now, is he? And that’s our problem.”29

Wow, this was really starting to sound like my life. Maybe my sub-consciousness was trying to tell me something.30

Hours passed as I sluggishly typed more and more of my story into the computer, and soon I could see darkness setting outside. The sun was starting to set very early now, and the first snow had fallen last week. Frost had crept across the single large windowpane in my room, creating a spider web of spindly ice. The time 7:00 was illuminated in bright turquoise on my wall.31

Closing my book, I flopped backwards on my bed, tracing the embroidered pattern on my quilt and breathed deeply, sparing a couple minutes of break time before I continued my homework. I was just about to get my binder from my book bag to begin my notes on The Hobbit when a sharp creak from outside startled me, and I dropped my book to the floor, where it crashed with a thud.32

What was that? I looked up sharply as a branch swayed outside, creaking alarmingly. A sharp yelp escaped my mouth as a book was knocked from my bookshelf – how, I don’t really know. Dread coursing through me, I picked up the book.33

It was The Hobbit.34

Setting the book back on my desk, I calmed myself slowly, only to jump again as I heard the front door slam shut in the hallway. It’s just Mom, I told myself, closing my eyes. I was wound tighter than a clock.35

Things were really getting weird, I thought, as I heard the front door slam. The window rattled lightly, and I shivered as I heard what sounded like footsteps walk down the hall. What was happening? Everything I wrote seemed to be happening. As far as I knew, stuff like this only happened in fantasy books.36

“Is that you, Mom?” I called, my fingers still glued to the keyboard. I couldn’t seem to stop, or take a break, couldn’t tear my eyes off of the glowing screen. My face was bathed in a blue light.37

Footsteps echoed through the hallway. I knew by now that this wasn’t my mom – these footsteps had a distinctive limp to them. They seemed almost familiar, almost like a long forgotten voice…38

Now I was actually hearing footsteps? I really must be getting deranged, or obsessed, or something of that sort.39

The footsteps were coming to my room. How could this person know the only room in the house that had someone in it? I froze, my eyes on the door, then turned and began to unlatch the window – luckily I was on the first floor, so I could get out that way if I needed to.40

The footsteps were getting closer, and were definitely coming to my room. I knew I should stop, that I should investigate, but I couldn’t, not now, not when my fingers were racing across the keyboard, the story flowing out of my hands.41

It also didn’t help that I was thinking: I know these footsteps, I know them, I know them, I know them…42

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was rough, and warm, and… kind?43

I stifled another yelp as I felt a hand on my shoulder.44

I –45

turned around -46

and -47

saw -48

my -49

“Dad?” I gasped.50

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I think I must have fainted or something, because I woke up a couple minutes later with my dad’s face looming in front of me. At least, I thought it was Dad’s – it certainly looked that way. The graying blonde hair, the gray eyes, the familiar creases at the edges of his eyes… they all looked the same.52

“Sweetie, are you alright?” he asked, concern showing in his eyes and his voice - his voice - the deep, warm, kind voice that only my father had.53

This couldn’t be real.54

“I must be dreaming. Or hallucinating. You can’t be real. Ha-ha.” I felt giddy, hysterical. I was seeing my dad, who had died of cancer six months ago. I still remember that day, and the time when I’d seen my father’s body, even though my mother hadn’t wanted me to. I remember his funeral, and the mournful hymns, and the sadness that still seemed to reach its ghostly fingers into our lives months later, as if it was clinging to us and begging us not to leave.55

Dad lifted my chin, and we stared at each other, as if looking could make up for six months of absence. “No, sweetie, you’re not. I just came to say that I love you, and I never wanted to leave you. But you can’t live in the past, Evelyn. It’s time… it’s time to move on.”56

I looked at him uncomprehendingly. My brain still hadn’t caught up enough to acknowledge he was real, never mind understanding what he was saying.57

Dad – or whatever hallucination this was – reached forwards, and hugged me.58

My breath caught slightly. This was a real hug, a warm hug, though almost rough at the same time. It was the type of hug that encouraged us to try new things, open new doors, or to comfort and protect. It was the type of hug only a father could give. “Dad…?” I whispered.59

“Yes, sweetie. I love you. I’m always here for you.”60

“I will,” I said, tears filling my eyes and blurring my vision before I angrily wiped them away. I had eyes only for my dad – no time for tears.61

“Move on, Evelyn. I’ll always be here for you. Always watching.”62

“You’re leaving?”63

“I’m dead, Evie,” my father whispered. “Even magic can’t change that.” As an afterthought, he said, “And take care of your mother for me, won’t you?”64

“Yes. I love you.”65

Dad smiled. “I love you too, Evie.”66

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“Evie – Evie, wake up! You fell asleep on the computer,” Mom explained as I woke up, looking bleary-eyed at her.68

“Oh.” I lifted my head off of the keyboard, touching my cheek. There were squares on my skin where the keyboard had left imprints, and I could feel a ‘K’ and an ‘L’.69

“Wait. Were you crying, Ev?” my mom asked, her face lined with worry.70

I reached up and felt my face – it was wet. After wiping away my tears, I said, “Love you, Mom,” and hugged her.71

“I’ve been wanting to hear that for a long time,” Mom said warmly.72

Minutes, or seconds, or maybe even hours later we finished talking, we smiled, searching each other’s eyes. It was the first time we’d actually talked about Dad, and our feelings, and everything since his death. I told her everything.73

I told her everything except my encounter with Dad, of course. I would never actually figure out what that had been – a dream, or a hallucination, or some encounter with spirits or the afterlife. None of my other stories would ever come to life again, either.74

Speaking of which, I thought as I turned back to my word document.75

It was blank.76

“Shoot,” I complained. “I’ll have to start all over again.”77

Then I started typing…78

“Evie? Evelyn, did you hear me?”79