The Shadow Girl

5




After going through all of the dresser and nightstand drawers in my parents’ bedroom, I start in on their closet.

Wyatt stands inside the doorway, leaning against the frame. “I don’t feel right about this,” he mutters.

“You don’t have to help,” I tell him, shoving hangers across the rod. I understand why he doesn’t approve. I feel like a thief as I search inside pockets and shoes. If Mom walked in, she might never speak to me again. I’d be furious if I ever found her nosing through my personal items. How can I expect her to feel any different?

But I can’t stop myself, and it doesn’t help that Iris is urging me on. She frets through my mind, as anxious as I am to figure out what’s up with Mom.

Standing on tiptoe, I snag my finger under the lid of a shoebox on the upper closet shelf and drag it toward me. The movement causes something to slide across the bottom of the box and the rattling sound of metal against metal trips my pulse. I take the box down and pull off the lid. “Here they are!”

Lifting the ring of keys, I turn to find Wyatt watching me with an expression that makes me ashamed of my triumphant feelings.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I say. “I can’t just sit around crying and wondering what Mom’s hiding for the rest of my life. That’s all I’ve done for the past few days, and I’m sick of it.” I wait for him to speak, and when he doesn’t, I say defensively, “Well, what would you do?”

He blinks at me. “The same thing, probably. But maybe you should go to your mom one more time.”

“She won’t talk to me! She just keeps saying that she’s going through Dad’s things or that she’s sketching when she’s out in his shop.”

“Maybe she is.”

“Then why won’t she let me in?”

Wyatt pushes away from the door and sighs. “Let’s find out.”

Minutes later, memories of Dad wash over me as we enter the shop. “Would you close the door?” I say quickly to Wyatt. “I feel too exposed with it up.”

He slides the door down behind us as I wander toward an unfinished cabinet in the center of the room. The scents of pungent wood shavings and Dad’s spicy pipe tobacco surround me. Dust motes dance in the blades of light that slice down from the small windows above. Stooping, I run my fingers along the edge of the cabinet. The aspen it’s made of is as white and smooth as the petals on the daffodils that have started sprouting in the meadows around our cabin.

For the first time since Dad died, my heart beats at a normal pace. Maybe I’ve misjudged Mom. Maybe she does spend her days out here just to feel close to him.

No, she’s hiding something, Iris insists. Whatever he was going to tell you.

Wyatt interrupts my focus on Iris’s words. “Maybe we should leave,” he says. “It’s sort of soon for you to be coming out here.”

“No, I’m okay. It feels good to be around Dad’s stuff. It’s just strange being here without him. This place was always off limits unless he was with me. He said it wasn’t safe, and he didn’t like anyone messing with his tools.” I scan the space around us, the peg board–covered walls with hooks and tools hanging from them, the wood stacked along one of them, Dad’s workbench and electric table saw, the paper-thin wood shavings scattered across the floor. Projects he left unfinished. “I feel him here,” I whisper.

“Me, too,” Wyatt says.

“I think Mom was going through Dad’s big toolbox.” I walk to the storage closet, the key ring dangling from my fingers. “She must’ve dragged it back in here.” I try each key on the ring until the door unlocks. When I open it, I’m surprised to find two metal toolboxes inside—Dad’s battered one, and another one just like it that looks almost new. “That’s strange,” I say, laying my hand on the shiny metal. “I’ve never seen this one before.”

Wyatt helps me tug it out into the room. Dropping to my knees, I insert each key in the latch, and when one of them works, I take a deep breath. “This might sound crazy, but I’m really scared to see what’s in here.”

“Let me do it,” says Wyatt, crouching beside me. The hinges squeak as he opens the lid. “It’s just a bunch of clothes.”

Iris seems eager but also tense, as I stand and lift out the first piece of clothing and remove the dry-cleaner plastic around it. It’s the fanciest dress I’ve ever seen, except in magazines and on television. The emerald green fabric is covered with tiny green beads.

“Wow.” Wyatt blinks at me. “Was that your mom’s?”

“I guess.”

“I can’t imagine her wearing something like that.”

I can’t see my no-frills mother in the dress, either. She’s strictly a jeans-and-sweatshirt sort of person.

I drape the dry cleaner plastic over Dad’s table saw and lay the dress on top of it, then lift the next item out of the chest. It’s a fitted white blouse. “I guess these clothes could be hers,” I say. “But they look like they belonged to someone younger.”

“Your mom was our age once,” Wyatt reminds me.

I hold the blouse up in front of me. “Yeah, but Mom’s sixty years old, and I don’t think the styles were like this when she was in high school. I mean, look at the shoulder pads. I’m pretty sure they were popular in the eighties or nineties.”

Placing the blouse on top of the dress, I reach into the chest again, take out a plaid wool miniskirt, black leggings, two long baggy pullover sweaters, and a white dress. I add each one to the pile on Dad’s table saw. The next item looks larger than the others. A man’s red flannel shirt, the fabric soft and faded. On impulse, I slip it on. The shirt feels strangely familiar. Comfortable. Comforting. As I’m rolling up the sleeves, Iris sighs inside my head, as if the flannel against my skin soothes her, too.

“Hey, look at this,” Wyatt says, bending over the toolbox. “There’s other stuff under the clothes.” He sets a small silver jewelry box on the floor between us, then holds up a hairbrush for me to see.

I take the brush from him as he removes a long black case. “What’s that?” I ask.

He carries it to Dad’s workbench, sets it down, and flips the latches. “Whoa,” he says as he lifts the lid. “It’s a violin. A Stradivarius. They cost big bucks; pretty much only professional musicians can afford them.”

A chill skates across my skin and Iris shivers violently. The hairbrush slips from my fingers and lands on the floor with a thud. The violin’s amber wood gleams like polished marble, and I have the strangest feeling that I know exactly how it would feel against my skin. Smooth and cool, the neck of the instrument a perfect fit for my hands. Joy surges through me, followed by a feeling of sadness. I don’t understand what’s happening to me.

“Lil? What’s wrong? You’re shaking like crazy. Is it your mom’s? Didn’t you tell me she used to play?”

“Yes, in the school orchestra when she was growing up. But why would she have had such an expensive violin?” Keeping my focus on the instrument, I cross to Wyatt. “This is going to sound weird, but it’s like I remember it.”

“Just because your mom didn’t play it for you doesn’t mean you never saw it. She might’ve shown it to you before she packed it away.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

A creeping sensation climbs up my spine, and when it reaches the space between my shoulder blades, I feel a firm pressure, as if I’m being nudged to pick up the violin. I jump, unsettled to have felt Iris’s touch in such a solid way—if that’s what it was. Apprehensive, I reach for the Stradivarius, but quickly draw back my hand after brushing my fingertips across the strings.

But I’m too late.

The brief contact triggers some switch inside of me, and out of nowhere, frantic notes fill my mind, the melody they create too faint to clearly distinguish. I close my eyes and a vision flickers on the backs of my eyelids: Long fingers quivering across strings . . . feminine fingers tipped by short, glossy nails, holding a bow that simultaneously jerks and glides. And behind the bow, a flash of sparkling green—the dress. The music fades. Applause explodes like thunder.

Shaken by the memory, I look at Wyatt again. “I think I did hear Mom play when I was little. I’m pretty sure she was wearing that beaded dress.” I gesture toward where it hangs over the table saw. “And she was on a stage, performing for an audience.”

His brows lift. “I didn’t realize she had that kind of talent.”

“Neither did I. She only told me she took lessons in school.”

“Why wouldn’t she have mentioned something like that? And if she was that good, why would she have given it up?”

We gave up everything. Mom’s words to Dad that morning of the accident. Was a career as a professional musician part of that “everything”? Why would she have to give it up for me? “She told me she wanted to concentrate on her artwork,” I tell Wyatt, trying to tamp down my sense of unease. “But if the memory I just had is real, she was a much better musician than she is an artist.”

“Do you think she plays when she comes out here?” he asks, plucking a string gently.

The ping of the note vibrates the hushed air around us. I shake my head. “I would’ve heard her. And anyway, with her hands so crippled, I’m not sure she could.”

I step around Dad’s old battered toolbox and head for the storage closet. It’s dark inside, and the single bulb overhead doesn’t offer much light. Finding a flashlight in the corner, I snap it on and sweep the beam across the shelves, scanning rows of jars filled with nails and screws, measuring tapes, extension cords.

Something on the top shelf catches my eye. I stand on tiptoe and reach for it, but the shelf is too high.

“Here,” Wyatt says from behind me. “Try this.” He drags a stepladder from the corner and positions it near the wall.

I climb up and aim the flashlight above, moving the beam left to right. Four long cardboard tubes are stacked on the shelf. One by one, I hand them to Wyatt, then I step down and we move the tubes into the center of the workshop.

Using my fingernail, I pry the cap off the end of the first one. Inside, paper is curled up like a poster. “This looks like the parchment Mom uses to sketch,” I say as I slide it out.

Wyatt reaches for one end. “I’ll help you unroll it.”

I lay the tube on the floor at our feet alongside the others, then Wyatt takes hold of the edges of the parchment and walks backward. The paper uncurls in my hands. “Be careful not to tear it,” I say.

When it’s completely open between us, Wyatt says, “Hey, is that you?”

Oh! Iris gasps as I study the girl in the sketch. She’s probably twelve or thirteen, and sits in profile, playing a violin. The girl’s hair is chin length, just long enough that it falls forward to cover her face so that I only get a hazy impression of her features. Still, our resemblance is unmistakable.

“That must be Mom,” I say. “When she was a girl.”

“She looks like you.”

“Yeah,” I say, an odd wariness drifting over me. Returning to the tubes, I open another one.

Wyatt studies the picture and says, “That must be you when you were a baby.”

“I guess.” In the drawing, my parents and I are standing on a dock that juts out across a lake. Dad is holding my hand.

“Your parents look so young. Where were you?” asks Wyatt.

“I don’t know,” I say, trying not to cry. I don’t understand why the sketches make me feel so emotional.

The next sketch we open is of a colonial-style house on a wide stretch of lawn that’s bordered by flower gardens. The last one is a city scene—cobblestone streets and sidewalk cafés in a place unfamiliar to me.

As we’re returning the artwork to the tubes, Wyatt says, “At least we know now she wasn’t lying. She really has been sketching out here.”

“She might’ve done these a long time ago. They could be old,” I point out.

“Yeah, I guess.”

We carry the tubes to the storage closet and I put them back on the top shelf. Climbing down from the stepladder, I say, “There’s more to all this than I’ve told you, Wyatt.” As I gather up the clothes we found in the toolbox, I explain about the conversation I overheard between my parents on the morning of my birthday.

Wyatt blinks at me, as if trying to make sense of it all. “That’s movie-of-the-week stuff, Lil. What do you think they were talking about?”

“I was hoping you’d have an idea.”

“I wish I did.”

Realizing how little I know about my parents’ pasts, I walk to the worktable and pick up the silver jewelry box. Wyatt comes over and stands beside me as I open the lid. A ballerina pops up and colored jewels wink at me. A ring with a pale green stone lies next to a pair of big silver earrings. I run my fingertips across a turquoise bracelet and a heart locket on a delicate chain. Moving all of the jewelry aside, I find a folded scrap of notebook paper at the very bottom of the box. I set the box down, take the paper out, and unfold it.

“Listen to this,” I say to Wyatt, then read aloud the words scribbled in blue ink. “‘Good luck, babe. I know you’ll do great. Hurry back. I’ll miss you like crazy. Love, Jake.’”

Jake. Iris sighs wistfully, then in an urgent whisper adds, We have to find him.

Why? I ask. Do you know who is he?

No . . . maybe . . . not sure. His name . . . I feel something. She must have known him when we were small. Maybe we did, too. . . .

Understanding that the “she” Iris is referring to is Mom, I try to recall if I’ve ever heard her or Dad mention someone named Jake. I search my memory for an image of anyone by that name that we knew when I was younger, but don’t come up with anything.

“So your mom had a boyfriend before your dad,” Wyatt says in a matter-of-fact way.

“Not necessarily.”

He frowns at the note. “Sounds like a boyfriend to me.”

If Jake was Mom’s boyfriend before Dad, Iris wouldn’t have any memory of him, vague or otherwise. But I refuse to consider that Mom might’ve been seeing someone after she and Dad married. I don’t believe it.

Find him, Iris demands.

I refold the note and tuck it inside the box again. I have no idea how to start to find the guy. I’m not even sure I want to.

I twist the switch inside the jewelry box, and the ballerina twirls. A melody that Iris used to hum begins to play—the lullaby she sang me to sleep with at night when I was younger.

A wave of dizziness rocks me, and a vision appears. A guy about my age, his face blurred and flickering like an old movie. A flash of teary blue eyes, a shock of black hair falling over his forehead. He reaches out to me, his mouth moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. The guy’s face crumples as I lean closer, wanting to comfort him.

“Lily?” Wyatt breathes.

I blink, and the vision disappears. Wyatt and I are nose to nose, so near to each other that his breath feathers my face.

I stumble backward and glance down at the jewelry box. The music has stopped. The ballerina no longer twirls. She stares up at me with pinpoint black eyes.

Wyatt stares at me, too, his mouth hanging open.

“Wyatt,” I whisper. “What just happened?”

His grin spreads slowly. “That was some kiss. I didn’t know you cared.”

“Yeah . . . um . . .” I swallow. “Wyatt . . .” Ohmygod. Heat shoots through me as I remember the soft warmth of his lips against mine and how nice it felt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s okay. I liked it.” Amusement tinges his voice.

“But I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident.”

Wyatt laughs. “Yeah, like you fell forward and landed on my lips.”

My gaze is drawn to his mouth, and when I realize I’m staring, I look up quickly. What have I done? I’m feeling things for Wyatt that I definitely shouldn’t be feeling for my best friend.

He stops laughing. “Hey, not everyone hates the way I kiss,” he says, jamming his hands into his pockets, his face beginning to turn red.

“I didn’t say that I hated kissing you,” I blurt out.

“You didn’t have to.” He starts for the door.

“Wait, Wyatt.” I go after him. “I’m just freaked out. It’s just—we’re not like that. You know what I mean.”

Wyatt stops and looks back at me. “Yeah, I guess I do.” He tugs off his hat and drags his fingers through his hair. “Where did that come from, anyway?”

“Good question,” I say with a shaky laugh, my mind searching frantically for an explanation that will make sense to him. “Things have been crazy, and I’ve been really confused. You’ve been so great, and I guess—”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.” Wyatt shrugs a shoulder. “I won’t lie, though. I’ve thought about it before. Haven’t you?”

“Maybe.” My blush burns hotter. “But we grew up together. I shouldn’t have kissed you. We’re—”

“Just friends. I know . . .” Wyatt trails off.

Numb with embarrassment, I return the jewelry box to the tool chest. For the first time in my life, I’m self-conscious with Wyatt, and I don’t like it. Walking quickly to the violin on the worktable, I close the case and put it in the chest, too, then lock it.

Wyatt watches me closely. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I manage a smile for him. “Let’s get out of here before Mom and Addie get back.” He crosses to me, and I hand him the key ring. “Would you make me a spare set when you go into town on Monday?”

“Sure.”

Determined to act as if nothing happened, Wyatt and I drag the tool chest into the storage closet without uttering a word. He locks the closet, then we go outside, and I secure the door.

I’m glad he can’t see my face as he follows me to the cabin because I’m furious. Not at him, at myself. What was I thinking, kissing Wyatt of all people? I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t instigate that kiss any more than I pushed the brake on my four-wheeler to avoid hitting the deer. Iris is guilty on both counts; I’m furious with her, too. Why would she do such a thing?

Suddenly, I’m certain her reason has something to do with the vision I had of the guy with black hair. And sad eyes the color of a bluebird.