The Awakening

She was glad for that stillness; she wanted to be alone right now. But, on the other hand, she didn’t exactly know what to do with herself.

Now that she finallycould cry, she found that tears wouldn’t come. She let her backpack sag to the floor in the front hall and walked slowly into the living room.

It was a handsome, impressive room, the only part of the house besides Elena’s bedroom that belonged to the original structure. That first house had been built before 1861, and had been almost completely burned in the Civil War. All that could be saved was this room, with its elaborate fireplace framed by scrolled molding, and the big bedroom above. Elena’s father’s greatgrandfather had built a new house, and Gilberts had lived in it ever since.

Elena turned to look out of one of the ceiling-to-floor windows. The glass was so old that it was thick and wavery, and everything outside was distorted, looking slightly tipsy. She remembered the first time her father had showed her that wavery old glass, when she had been younger than Margaret was now.

The fullness in her throat was back, but still no tears would come. Everything inside her was contradictory. She didn’t want company, and yet she was achingly lonely. Shedid want to think, but now that she was trying to, her thoughts eluded her like mice running from a white owl.

White owl… hunting bird… flesh eater… crow, she thought. "Biggest crow I’ve ever seen," Matt had said.

Her eyes stung again. Poor Matt. She’d hurt him, but he’d been so nice about it. He’d even been nice to Stefan.

Stefan . Her heart thudded once, hard, squeezing two hot tears out of her eyes. There, she was crying at last. She was crying with anger and humiliation and frustration-and what else? 

What had she really lost today? What did she really feel for this stranger, this Stefan Salvatore? He was a challenge, yes, and that made him different, interesting. Stefan was exotic… exciting.

Funny, that was what guys had sometimes told Elena she was. And later she heard from them, or from their friends or sisters, how nervous they were before going out with her, how their palms got sweaty and their stomachs were full of butterflies. Elena had always found such stories amusing. No boy she’d ever met in her life had made her nervous.

But when she’d spoken to Stefan today, her pulse had been racing, her knees weak. Her palms had been wet. And there hadn’t been butterflies in her stomach-there had been bats.

She was interested in the guy because he made her feel nervous? Not a very good reason, Elena, she told herself. In fact, a very bad reason.

But there was also that mouth. That sculpted mouth that made her knees weak with something entirely different than nervousness. And that night-dark hair-her fingers itched to weave themselves into its softness. That lithe, flat-muscled body, those long legs… and thatvoice . It was his voice that had decided her yesterday, making her absolutely determined to have him. His voice had been cool and disdainful when talking to Mr. Tanner, but strangely compelling for all that. She wondered if it could turn night-dark as well, and how it would sound saying her name, whispering her name…

"Elena!" 

Elena jumped, her reverie shattered. But it wasn’t Stefan Salvatore calling her, it was Aunt Judith rattling the front door open.

"Elena? Elena!" And that was Margaret, her voice shrill and piping. "Are you home?" 

Misery welled up in Elena again, and she glanced around the kitchen. She couldn’t face her aunt’s worried questions or Margaret’s innocent cheerfulness right now. Not with her eyelashes wet and new tears threatening any minute. She made a lightning decision and quietly slipped out the back door as the front door banged shut.

Once off the back porch and into the yard, she hesitated. She didn’t want to run into anyone she knew. But where could she go to be alone? 

The answer came almost instantly. Of course. She’d go see Mom and Dad.

It was a fairly long walk, almost to the edge of town, but over the last three years it had become familiar to Elena. She crossed over Wickery Bridge and climbed up the hill, past the ruined church, then down into the little valley below.

This part of the cemetery was well-kept; it was the old section that was allowed to run slightly wild. Here, the grass was neatly trimmed, and bouquets of flowers made splashes of bright color. Elena sat down by the big marble headstone with "Gilbert" carved into the front.

"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad," she whispered. She leaned over to place a purple impatiens blossom she’d picked along the way in front of the marker. Then she curled her legs under her and just sat.

She’d come here often after the accident. Margaret had been only one at the time of the car crash; she didn’t really remember them. But Elena did. Now she let her mind leaf back through memories, and the lump in her throat swelled, and the tears came easier. She missed them so much, still. Mother, so young and beautiful, and Father, with a smile that crinkled up his eyes.

She was lucky to have Aunt Judith, of course. It wasn’t every aunt who would quit her job and move back into a little town to take care of two orphaned nieces. And Robert, Aunt Judith’s fianc¨¦, was more like a stepfather to Margaret than an uncle-to-be by marriage.

But Elena remembered her parents. Sometimes, right after the funeral, she had come out here to rage at them, angry with them for being so stupid as to get themselves killed. That was when she hadn’t known Aunt Judith very well, and had felt there was nowhere on earth she belonged anymore.

Where did she belong now? she wondered. The easy answer was, here, in Fell’s Church, where she’d lived all her life. But lately the easy answer seemed wrong. Lately she felt there must be something else out there for her, some place she would recognize at once and call home.