“You can rest here,” the old woman says as she guides me into a small bedroom and turns on a lamp. “This was Grayson’s room. I’ve kept it clean over the years, in case he ever wanted to come home. It’s not much... but you can see that all his things are still here. Just as he left them, a decade ago.”
For the most part it looks like the normal room of a young boy. The furnishings are cheap and simple, and there are some old toys lining the shelves. However, there is one thing that catches my attention. In one corner of the room, near an old writing desk, there is a wall covered in sketches and paintings. They are very similar to the ones that Brad showed me in the attic. The same young girl with light brown hair is depicted, over and over. At first, the images are simple. They are even so true to life and perfect that I believe they might have been sketched from a photograph. But then, they change. They become morbid, with plenty of blood and darkness. The color scheme changes as the art grows more and more sinister.
Finally, I see the angel wings beginning to appear. That was a common theme in the drawings I saw in my house.
“My son was a talented artist,” the old woman explains. “It was one of the many things he excelled at. His art teacher gave him private tutorials after school, and frequently encouraged him to become an artist. But we had no money, and he knew he needed to pay more attention to his other skills if he wanted a strong career someday. This took a backseat as his hobby.”
“He’s drawing her?” I ask softly. “The girl that died. Helen.”
“Yes. It was the only way he could cope with what happened,” his mother explains. “I told him to trust that she was with God, and that she was now an angel looking down on him. That she would be watching over him for all the days that he lived. He found peace in that thought at first, but he later grew a little obsessed with it. He sometimes told me that he could see her standing in the shadows, watching him from afar. He often said that he could hear her voice.”
Nodding, I look around sadly. This whole room is like stepping back in time to visit my husband as a child. There is a bookcase that is only half-filled with books, for the rest of it contains trophies. There are medals hanging from the wall, for both sports and academics. It’s really quite heartbreaking to think of how wonderful Grayson could have been. He could have been great. He could have been happy. He would have been an amazing father.
“You should get some sleep, dear,” says Grayson’s mother softly. “Please let me know if you need anything. The bathroom is right down the hall.”
“Thank you,” I tell her as I move toward the bed. She exits the room and gently closes the door.
Placing my purse down on the small bedside table, I pull the covers of the bed back and crawl underneath them. I really am exhausted. Reaching to the side, I switch off the lamp to plunge the room into darkness. Letting my head fall back onto the pillow, a little gasp escapes my throat.
Apparently, Grayson liked to create his best artwork with glow-in-the-dark chalk. Every inch of the walls is covered in pale phosphorescent drawings of his dead girlfriend. But the worst of it is on the ceiling. I don’t know how he was even able to reach that high—perhaps he was tall enough, or maybe he stood on a chair—but the entire ceiling is covered in repetitious writings of her name.
Penned in multiple sizes and every kind of font imaginable, the word Helen is repeated over and over and over again. Sometimes the word is written backwards, or upside down. My eyes scan the glowing letters as chills run down my spine.
Helen. helen. Helen. neleH. HELEN. helen. neleh.
The words blend together in a chaotic jumble, sometimes overlapping and crisscrossing. It is always written with such a passionate scrawl that it is evident to see that Grayson’s state of mind was not calm or accepting. This tragic event completely unhinged him. It looks like he was never willing to let go.
I can see why my husband developed such an unhealthy obsession with my sister. Loss can do funny things to a person, as I am quickly learning. When he discovered that my sister’s name was also Helen, some desperate part of his brain must have wanted to believe that his first girlfriend was still alive. After she was taken from him in such an atrocious way, he must have wanted to do anything possible to preserve her image in his mind. I don’t think he really meant to hurt anyone, but he was very disconnected from reality.
Thinking about this whole situation hurts my chest. I can picture Grayson lying here every night, staring up at her name on the ceiling and remembering what he’d lost. How many thousands of tears did he shed on this very pillow? Imagining my husband as a teenage boy going through such pain causes my own grief to deepen.
My hand shakes as I reach to the side to turn the lamp back on, and all the words and images immediately disappear. I take a deep breath, and try to wipe the horrifying sight from my mind. It is as if all of Grayson’s heartache was immortalized on these walls. I could feel the overpowering sadness and misery of the young boy in every stroke of every letter he wrote.
And strangely enough, I also feel closer to him. It’s both comforting and saddening to know that my husband once went through the same thing I am going through right now. He lost his lover and his child nearly simultaneously, just as I have. And he took it just as poorly as I am, if not worse. Far worse.
Will I ever get over this?
From the looks of things, Grayson never really got over Helen’s death. It seems like he went through his life searching for her. Searching for someone similar to her. The images on the wall do slightly resemble my sister, so I can see why he became fixated on her. I can see how his mind could have played tricks on him, especially combined with the side effects of his drug use. I can see how he could have gone slightly insane when presented with a living woman who reminded him of so much of the dead woman he loved, and the trauma he suffered all those years ago.
I forgive you, Grayson, I tell him inwardly. I’m so sorry for all that you suffered and I want you to know that I forgive you. I wish you could have told me. I wish you could have shared all of this with me. It was a part of you, and I would have loved you once I understood what you’ve been through and where you actually came from. I don’t know why you felt the need to lie to me. I didn’t care about whether you had any money at all—I only wanted you.