The Shadow Girl

13




“Lily . . . please don’t do this,” Mom says, walking past me with her cane.

I whirl around to her, but the television diverts my attention when images of Iris and Mom’s smiling face flash on screen. I hear Dad’s enthusiastic voice. Their laughter. Sights and sounds of a happy family.

Mom steps in front of the television, blocking my view. “Let this go. No good can come of it.” She reaches back to turn off the video.

I rush over to stop her, but I’m too late. “What do you expect me to do? Pretend Iris didn’t exist? Well, she did! She still does.”

Mom draws back. “What are you saying?”

“The same thing I was trying to tell you when I was four years old.” I dig my fingers into my palms as the memory slams into me again. “I told you she talks to me, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“Do you mean you still think she does?” Mom asks with shock.

“I know she does.”

The cane thumps the floor as she limps to the couch. “We thought it would stop,” she says quietly. “That you’d outgrow it.”

My voice rises. “I didn’t imagine her, Mom. I’m not crazy. I know her name! Admit it—you and Dad never said it aloud. Not around me, so how else could I have known?” I pause for a breath, and when she doesn’t answer, I say, “Why did you keep her a secret?”

She sinks down onto the couch. “You’ve got to understand—”

“But I don’t understand! I had a sister and you didn’t tell me. What were you so afraid of? That you wouldn’t be able to move on if you admitted she was here? Because she is.” I press my fingers to my temples. “Iris is with me all the time. Inside of me. She’s here right now.”

Mom goes rigid. “Don’t say that! I can’t stand it! Iris died. She’s gone!”

“You can’t stand it?” I huff a humorless laugh. “Iris talks to me . . . she whispers and whispers and whispers until sometimes I want to crack my skull open and pull her out, but I can’t. I can’t get her out, even when I want to be alone and think thoughts she can’t hear. That’s not possible because she hears everything.”

“Oh, Lily . . .” Mom sobs, blinking up at me. “We didn’t know.”

I shake my head. “You and Dad could’ve helped me, but instead—” The enormity of Dad’s betrayal is more painful than hers. I hear him calling Iris Doodlebug. My nickname. Mine. “I’m not really surprised that you lied to me, but Dad . . .” My throat closes.

“Please don’t blame him,” Mom says in a quivering voice. “Your father wanted to tell you, but I wouldn’t let him. This is my fault. All of it. From the very beginning.”

“Why did you and Dad hide your past from me? Why can’t Iris move on? Why can’t you?” When she turns away, I start for the stairs to the loft, pausing at the landing to glance back at her. “How did my sister die?” I ask.

“She had leukemia.”

“When did she die?”

“May nineteenth. The year before you were born. She turned seventeen on May sixth.”

“May sixth is my birthday,” I say.

“The two of you were born on the same day,” Mom explains, sounding wrung out and ancient. “Eighteen years apart.”

My mind stumbles over that freaky twist of fate. “What did Dad mean when he asked me to reassure him that the two of you had ‘done the right thing’?” I ask.

In a harsh whisper, she says, “I don’t know.” But I don’t believe her.

“He was going to tell me about Iris when we got home, wasn’t he? How can knowing about her protect me? That’s what Dad said to you that morning—that the truth is my only protection.”

No answer.

Trembling with anger, I say, “Did the two of you run away to Silver Lake?”

Her head jerks toward me. “Run away? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stop lying! Did you even know how to play the violin or is that a lie, too?”

“I played,” Mom says. “When I was a girl. But not like Iris. Nobody could play like her.”

“I can,” I say. “I played today.” But I’m not sure she hears me.

Covering her face with her hands, Mom starts weeping again. “Iris helped me, but I couldn’t help her. So I did what I had to. I don’t regret it. You don’t know how it is to lose a child. I couldn’t just let her go. I couldn’t.”

Confused by what she’s saying, I cross to the couch and sit beside her. I push her hair back, still upset, but hurting for her, too.

“Your father and I—we loved her so much.” Mom lowers her hands, and her eyes meet mine. “We love you, too, Lily. I love you. But it’s been so difficult.” She cups my cheek. “How can I move on when I see her every time I look at you?”

Her comment stings like a slap, but she’s my mother, and I can’t stand to see her in so much pain. Taking her hands, I say, “You said you don’t regret what you did to help Iris. What do you mean?”

I can tell my words don’t reach her. She squeezes her eyes shut, caught in a landslide of mindless grief.

“I’m so sorry,” Mom whispers, gripping my fingers. “We never imagined that Iris would haunt you. In a way, she’s haunted all of us.”



I lie in bed next to Cookie for an hour listening to my iPod with the volume turned up so I won’t hear Mom’s crying or Iris’s frenzied pacing around in my mind. When the playlist ends, I pull the earbuds out. The house is quiet. Iris is, too.

I go downstairs again and find Mom asleep on the couch, tossing restlessly. On the coffee table beside her, her vial of sedatives sits next to a stack of books.

I pick up the VCR remote and turn on the television, muting the volume. After hitting rewind, I retreat to a corner chair. The tape makes a whirring noise as it scrolls back to the very start of the cassette, and when it finishes, I click play.

Over the next several minutes, my sister’s life unfolds before me, beginning just after her birth. I’m completely aware of Iris watching along with me, mesmerized by each image on the screen, as numb with shock as I am.

In the video, our parents are so young that I almost don’t recognize them. They’re all smiles and wonder as they wiggle Iris’s fingers and toes, their joy so overwhelming I can almost feel the warmth of it flowing from the television set.

On the couch, Mom murmurs disjointed sentences in her sleep as I watch Iris grow into a toddler, surrounded by my parents and other adoring people I don’t know. A young woman with frizzy brown bangs and squinty eyes behind funky glasses who resembles Dad. A tall, skinny man with big ears and a grin that covers half of his face. An older couple about the age my parents are now. I wonder if they might be my grandparents.

Yes, Iris says. I’m not sure about the other two. So much is still hazy.

Envy spears me. Iris knew our grandparents. Why haven’t I ever met them? Or these other people who were once important in my parents’ lives? Why weren’t they ever even mentioned?

What else do you remember? I ask.

We were happy. Then something bad happened. I was so scared.

You got sick.

Something else. Something they made me do.

Dreading her answer, I ask, Who? Mom and Dad?

Not sure. I don’t think so. Maybe . . .

Iris’s anxiety becomes my own as, on the screen, I see her splashing in a lake, and I realize that she’s the girl in all of Mom’s artwork. Shaking, I fast-forward through her childhood until she’s almost the age I am now. She’s standing on a stage, wearing the green beaded dress, the violin and bow in her hands. Behind her, a black man dressed in a tuxedo sits at a glossy piano. I use the remote to ease the volume up slightly as they begin to play.

The music drifts over me like a warm breeze, and despite everything that’s happened tonight, I gradually feel uplifted. At peace. I think of the change in Cookie after he heard me play this afternoon—the bolstering effect the music had on his mood.

“Oh, darling. I’m sorry,” Mom murmurs, and I drag my gaze from the television to look at her. She’s sitting up, a dark silhouette in the shadowed room, her voice distraught. My spirit tumbles again. Pushing from the chair, I go to her.

There are so many things I want to ask her. Why did she and Dad leave their old life behind? Why did they have me after Iris died? Was I just her substitute? A baby conceived to fill the void Iris’s death had left in their lives? If so, I failed. Mom said she loves me, but does she love me as much as she loved my sister?

Sitting beside Mom on the couch, I watch Iris on the screen and jealousy stabs me again and twists the knife. I take in her chic haircut, her poised posture, her grace and confidence. No wonder I don’t measure up to Iris in my mother’s eyes. I look exactly like my sister, but she was everything I’m not. When Mom looks at me, she must only notice what’s missing.

“Forgive me,” Mom whispers.

“Please don’t cry anymore,” I say. “I’m not mad at you or Dad. I just need to understand what’s happening.”

The light on the television screen flickers, illuminating her face, and I realize Mom’s watching Iris. She’s asking for my sister’s forgiveness, not mine.

Resentment fills my chest and hardens like concrete. But it just as quickly crumbles when I notice the deep creases of worry on Mom’s face and the sharp glitter of anxiety in her eyes. Encouraging her to lie down, I say, “You don’t have to worry anymore, Mom. Iris is happy.”

She clutches my arm, blinks up at me. “Is she, Lily?”

I focus in on the essence of my sister, aware of Iris’s distress. “Yes,” I tell Mom. It isn’t a complete lie. I know Iris has moments of happiness.

“How do you know?” Mom asks.

Measuring my words, I say, “I sense her feelings and hear what she’s thinking in my head. You said that she haunts me, but it isn’t like that. It’s—” I glance at the girl playing her soul out on the screen. “It’s like Iris is more than a ghost—like she’s a part of me.”

“But you said she’s in your head. That she won’t stop whispering. She must be so tormented.” Mom cups my cheek with her cold, trembling hand. “You both must be.”

“No, Mom. I was upset when I said that. Sometimes I do wish she’d let me have a minute to myself, but I would never want her to go away forever.”

The music ends. Applause erupts. On the television screen, Iris bows.

“She’s always been my friend,” I whisper. “I love her.”

In the video, my sister lifts her head and peers out at the audience. The applause intensifies. Iris looks directly into my eyes and smiles as a soft voice inside my mind says, I love you, too.



I sit on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for the sunrise. Iris hovers at the edge of my mind.

So many lost memories . . . , she says sadly. Why can’t I remember more than glimpses . . . the music . . . Jake?

Maybe it’s just going to take time for the rest. I sigh. The things in the tool chest are yours, aren’t they? Jake wrote the note to you.

Yes.

You loved each other.

Like crazy, Iris says.

I want to ask more, but she curls into that dark, silent place where I can’t reach her, as if she wants to be alone with her memories of Jake.

I pick apart all I know, piece by piece. For some reason, I keep returning to the odd coincidence that Iris and I share the same birthday. I once wrote an English report about a science fiction and fantasy writer named Emma Bull. She said that “coincidence is the word we use when we can’t see the levers and pulleys.” Could there be a reason our birthdays are the same? Does that commonality have anything to do with why we’ve connected so strongly?

Tangled up inside, I call Addie as the first rays of light peek over the eastern horizon. She’s always up before dawn, and answers on the first ring.

“Something happened last night,” I tell her. “I really need to talk to somebody. Can you come over?” I burst into tears.

Addie says she’ll leave right away.

While I wait, I go check on Mom. She’s still sleeping so I put Cookie in his crate and go upstairs to change into jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Twenty minutes later, I hear a car outside.

Rushing downstairs, I pull open the door. Wyatt is climbing the steps behind his grandmother. I’m so glad to see him that I run past Addie and throw my arms around him. “Thank you for coming.”

As we step apart, he lowers his eyes. “I can only stay a little while before I have to leave for school.”

Addie reaches for the door, saying, “Where’s your mother?”

“Sleeping on the couch. I’m worried about her. She’s totally out of it.” My voice cracks as I add, “Before she fell asleep, she couldn’t stop crying.”

Inside, the three of us pause, our eyes on Mom. Then Addie shrugs out of her coat, whispering, “Help me get her to bed, Lily.”

Wyatt goes out to the porch as Addie and I rouse Mom and take her to her room. She curls up on her bed without a word.

I follow Addie back to the living room, and call Wyatt inside. “What happened?” Addie asks, leading me to the couch and drawing me close to her.

There’s no way to prepare them for the truth, so I just come out with it. “Last night I found out I had a sister. She died of leukemia before I was born. I guess talking about it was too much for Mom. She just—she fell apart.”

Addie doesn’t attempt to hide her shock. “They never told you before?” she gasps.

Pressing my lips together, I shake my head.

“Why not?” Wyatt asks.

“I don’t know.” I twist my fingers in my lap. “I kept asking but she got really upset and said a lot of things that don’t make sense.”

Addie hugs me. “When everything settles down and your mother’s emotions aren’t so raw, maybe she’ll be ready to talk about it. She’s suffered a lot of loss.” She sits back. “What can I do for you, sugar?”

“Nothing. I guess I just needed to tell someone. I feel so alone. I’m sorry I made you come over here.”

“No, I’m glad you called. You’ve been through a lot, too. More than your share.”

“Would you mind staying with Mom while I take a walk? I need to get out of here, and I don’t want her to wake up to an empty house.”

“Sure,” Addie says. “Take your time.”

Turning to Wyatt, I ask, “Will you come?” I bite my lip.

“If we hurry,” he says, still looking injured.

I grab my jacket off the hook by the door and slip it on, then Wyatt follows me outside. The dawn is milky gray, the sky streaked with tenuous light. We take the steps down into the yard and walk in the same direction without even discussing where to go. I know we’ll end up at Ponderosa Pond, our spot, the place where we learned to swim and skip stones across the water, where we shared secrets about broken rules, first beers, and first crushes—Wyatt’s on Kelsey Redgrave in fourth grade, mine on Zac Efron, who I’d crushed on after seeing him in High School Musical. I’ve never told Wyatt my biggest secret, though. Today I’m finally going to.

Wyatt and I reach the pond in ten minutes. I stare across the murky green water, smelling a faint scent of fish in the air. My eyes are so tired, my lids scrape like sandpaper each time I blink. “I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been,” I say. “I should’ve listened to you. Ty doesn’t really care about me. He was only using me.”

Wyatt startles, alarmed. “What are you talking about? Are you okay?” His eyes narrow. “If he hurt you—”

“He didn’t. I’m fine.” I tell him about Mack’s visit. “When I asked Ty about threatening Dad, he didn’t deny it; he just looked guilty and wanted to explain.”

Wyatt utters a sound of disgust. “What did he say?”

“I didn’t give him the chance—I told him to leave. I didn’t want to listen to his excuses. But now I wish I had. I want to know what he and Dad argued about and why he came here.”

“No, you did the right thing. He probably would’ve lied, anyway. He already proved he can’t be trusted.”

I watch Wyatt closely. “So, you’re not mad at me?”

He squints and scratches his chin. “Hmm. I need some time to think about that.”

“Don’t tease,” I say, crossing my arms. “Not now. I really need to talk to you about my sister.”

Sobering, Wyatt says, “You must be freaking out.”

“It seems impossible. Why would they hide her from me?”

Wyatt shakes his head. “Those things we found in your Dad’s workshop. The clothes . . . the violin . . . I guess they belonged to her instead of your mom?”

“I guess. She was wearing two of the dresses in the video. And the violin—she played it, and ohmygosh, Wyatt! She’s incredible. But there’s more about her I haven’t told you.” Fighting a flutter of nerves, I take a breath, then say, “I’ve known Iris most of my life. I was four the first time I remember talking to her.”

“What? But you said she died.”

“She did.”

Wyatt’s look of bafflement turns to disbelief. “Come on, Lil. Are you saying she’s a ghost?”

“I don’t know what she is, exactly. But we communicate. It’s like she’s inside me.”

He blinks, silent, waiting for the punch line.

Desperate for him to believe me, I say, “I’m serious. I knew Iris’s name when I was little, even though nobody ever said it to me.” I tell him about the warnings she sent me before Dad’s accident and that she pressed on my brake to keep me from hitting the deer. “And she made me write Winterhaven on that note,” I finish.

Wyatt shifts his attention to the water.

“You don’t believe me.”

Rubbing a hand across his face, he says, “Listen to yourself, Lil. Maybe . . .” He exhales.

“Go ahead and say what you’re thinking.”

“Don’t get mad,” he says slowly, “but maybe the next time your mom goes to the doctor, you should see him, too. You’ve had some hard stuff to deal with lately. First your dad, then Cookie, and now this.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “I don’t need a straitjacket. I’m not imagining things. I can understand your doubts, but I thought you’d at least try to have an open mind. Didn’t you tell me once that something like forty percent of city police departments use psychics to help solve crimes?”

“More like thirty-five.”

“I remember you talking about a case you read where a woman led the cops to a lake where a victim was buried.”

Wyatt shrugs. “They get lucky sometimes.” He gestures toward the road. “Let’s go talk to Gran about this, okay? I’m a little freaked out.”

My blush burns hotter. “Explain how I knew my sister’s name before anyone ever told me about her. When I was a kid, I even mentioned Iris to my parents and they got all weird about it.”

“You must’ve heard them say her name sometime and you just don’t remember.”

“No.” I shake my head. “What about everything else that’s been happening?”

“Like what?”

“For one thing, the visions.”

“Visions? What do you mean?”

I rub my palms up and down my arms, chilled by the cool morning air, in spite of my jacket. “I told you about them. In the workshop. Writing on that note . . . ?”

Wyatt clears his throat. “I guess I didn’t realize you saw something when that happened.”

Eager to make him understand, I say, “It’s sort of like I have memories, but now I think they’re actually Iris’s memories. I think she transfers them to me somehow. You were with me the first time. Remember how I zoned out that morning when we played the jewelry box? When the music started, I saw a guy’s face and that’s when I kissed you. But it was like I was kissing someone else, not you. I think it was the guy who wrote the note to Iris. Her boyfriend, Jake.”

Wyatt’s eyes are narrowed, his jaw clamped tight. “So your ghost sister made you kiss me?” he says. He turns his head, as if he’s too humiliated to face me.

Wincing, I say, “I’m sorry, Wyatt. I’m just telling you the truth.”

“I get it.” His voice is pinched. “You wish you’d never kissed me and don’t want a repeat. Well, there won’t be one, so you can relax.”

I touch his shoulder. “I didn’t say that. I just—it was only at first that I felt like I was kissing Jake. Then it was you. And I wouldn’t mind if it happened again, but I can’t think about that right now.” I sigh. “Please don’t be upset.”

A scowl darkens his face. “I’m trying to understand, but you’re not making it easy. You say you wouldn’t mind if it happened again, but I saw you making out with Ty, and now you tell me that when we kissed the first time you felt like you were kissing some other guy. What am I supposed to think?”

Knowing I don’t deserve Wyatt’s understanding, I say, “I know this is messed up. I’m messed up.”

He looks down at his boots.

Birds chirp high in the branches overhead. On the opposite side of the pond, two deer pass between the trees. I hear a splash as a fish jumps in the water near the shore where we stand, rippling a perfect circle on the surface of the pond.

“I’ll go with you to talk to your mom if you want,” Wyatt mutters after a minute. “We’ll figure this out.”

Relieved that he’s not going to walk away, I say, “Thanks, Wyatt. You’re awesome to offer, but right now I just need you to talk to me. About Iris. All of it.” Ducking my head, I catch his gaze.

“Sure.” He kicks a rock. “So . . . uh . . . has she made anything else happen since she hit the brake on the four-wheeler? Besides forcing you to kiss me, I mean?” His mouth slants into a smirk.

“I can play the violin,” I say, choosing to ignore his sarcasm. “I’m not sure if Iris is playing it through me or what, but I’m almost as good as she was. Possibly just as good. The first time I picked up her violin I knew exactly what to do. I didn’t even have to think about it.”

He frowns and gnaws his lower lip.

“What?” I say.

“I don’t know. This is all pretty weird. Maybe I should see that video.”

“You should.” I want to tell him that the music was like a balm to Cookie’s spirit, and how hearing Iris play it on the video had a powerful effect on me, too, but I don’t. He already thinks I’ve lost it. I don’t want to convince him he’s right. “Come over after school and I’ll play the violin for you,” I say.

“I’ll try.” I get the impression that he isn’t sure if he should be worried about me or laugh in my face.

“I can play,” I say, feeling defensive. “Ask Ty. He was there. He heard me. He said I was wonderful.”

“Yeah, I saw how wonderful he thinks you are.” Wyatt jams his hands into his pockets. “Sorry. That just slipped out.”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“I said it first.”

With a flustered laugh, I say, “That depends on when you started counting.” We stare at each other. The air is so thick with tension, I can barely breathe. “Promise you won’t tell your grandmother about any of this, okay? I’m not ready to talk about it with anyone except you.”

“Sure. Okay. I won’t say anything.”

We start walking at the same time, careful not to look at each other. Hating the awkwardness between us, I reach over and grab the tie dangling down from Wyatt’s stocking cap and give it a tug.

He slides me a crooked smile.

I smile back. Progress.