I stand beneath the shower, hands gripping the chrome bars fastened to the tile walls. Water rains down, trickling like a thousand streams across my body. I close my eyes and lift my head, allowing the drops to flood my face and mold my hair until it hangs, sleek and thick, a snowy river dripping puddles that collect at my feet and disappear down the drain in the floor. I can feel the wolf, prowling. He is becoming more persistent, visiting almost daily now. He is patient. He sits, watching, waiting. I wipe my eyes, but they fill as quickly, and I don’t bother clearing them again. I reach out a hand, exploring the wall until I find the tap and turn it fully to the right. I gasp when the cold water stabs at me, as cold as the Lake. My eyes flash open at the shock, but still they see nothing. My skin prickles. My pulse quickens.
51
Morgan
My god, it’s snowing. The wind is an icy hand reaching right through my jacket. The snow is wet and heavy, blown into my face and down my neck. Already it’s piling up on the streets, making them a slippery, slushy mess. It’s hard to walk. Cars are skidding around corners. It’s always like that the first snowstorm of the season. People forget how to fucking drive. But even I have to admit; this is a good one, especially for this time of year.
My heart is racing. I want to get to Boreal quickly, but the buses are running late, and I have to wait outside in this fucking weather for what feels like an eternity before one finally shows up. There aren’t many people on the bus, and the driver drops me right in front of the building. I manage to thank him as I rush out the door.
When I get close to the entrance, I can tell that something isn’t right. I press on the buzzer and stand there, shivering, while the snow whips around my head. Nobody answers. I try the door, but it’s locked. Of course it is. It always is. But there’s also always some garbled voice to speak into the intercom, and pass judgment on anyone asking for access. Why aren’t they there now, of all times? I press my face against the glass, peering inside. I can see some of the staff way across the lobby. They’re in a group, talking, one of them waving her arms around and pointing at the door. But they don’t see me.
“Hey! Hey!” I bang on the door to get their attention, but they’ve all headed off down the hallway, and I’m still left standing outside. “Shit!”
I make my way around to the back of the building, past the fence I spent so many hours painting. It blends in, now, with the storm raging around it. White on white. I try to open the door that leads from the sunroom to the garden, but it’s locked too. I knew it would be, but I had to try it anyway. When I press my face up against the glass, I can see Marty inside. My banging and hollering gets his attention.
Marty doesn’t ask why I’m there. He just opens the door, and I step inside, out of the wind and swirling snow.
“Now isn’t a good time, Morgan,” he says.
I set my violin down and brush the snow off my coat. It’s dark in here, hushed and cozy, but there is a tension beneath that. I can feel it more than anything. Only a few lights are on, dim and feeble. Marty is putting his jacket on, getting ready to head outside. There’s something else going on.
“What’s up?”
“Miss Livingstone’s wandered off.”
I stop my brushing. I feel a thousand questions fighting to find a voice. But I think of what has happened, and I think, too, of my last conversation with her, and I don’t ask any of them.
He does up his jacket and pulls a toque down until it almost touches his bushy eyebrows. “Power failed. Iced-up tree branch fell on the lines. Sometime after it went dark, she slipped out the door. Alarms didn’t go off.” This is more than Marty usually says, and it makes me think he feels responsible.
“What can I do?”
“Not much except go out looking.” He glances out the door at the blanket of white blowing around outside and then adds, under his breath so I can barely hear, “and on a goddamn night like this.” He shrugs a couple of times, and without another word heads out into the storm.
I look around. There’re cops at the front door now. Anne Campbell is there, letting them in. I slip out the back and follow Marty’s prints. They’re already disappearing, swallowed up by the wind and snow.
*
The bus is completely empty when I get on it. I’m surprised the driver even saw me to stop and pick me up. He tells me that this will be his last run, that the roads are getting so bad they’ve decided to cancel service, and I tell him that I’m not going far. He’s got a radio playing eighties rock music, and between songs the announcer comes on and gives a list of all the events that have been canceled. A concert at the Lutheran church, swimming lessons at the Complex, even an AA meeting. The forecast is calling for a foot of snow overnight and then more again tomorrow. Snow and blowing snow with reduced visibility. They’ve already closed the highway to Nipigon.
I sit staring out the window. We’re quite a few blocks away from the home when I spot her. She’s walking up a side street, wrapped in a dark coat. Her head is bare, and I can see her long white hair flowing free.
“Stop! Stop right here, let me off here!” I hurry to the doors, trying to pull them open before the driver has even stopped the bus.
Beneath the drifting snow is a layer of ice, buried, hidden, waiting. I don’t expect it, and it steals my feet from me when I jump down. I land in a drift and curse, almost sliding under the bus. I have to pull my legs back to keep them from being run over. Stupid fucking weather. By the time I manage to get to my feet, the doors to the bus have closed, and I hear the brakes huff as it pulls away.
I don’t even realize that I’ve left my violin on the seat.
She’s walking away from me, bent into the wind, stepping slowly and carefully.
“Miss Livingstone! Miss Livingstone!” I run up behind her and grab her shoulder. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? It’s fucking freezing out here! Everyone is looking—”
She flinches at my touch and turns toward me. My words catch in my throat. Her hair, the color of snow, falling around her shoulders, is the same. But that’s where the resemblance ends. It’s not her. It’s Miss Livingstone, but it’s not her. Vibrant gray eyes look back at me. I have seen them before, in a photograph. They are haunting. They are the color of the Lake.
It’s Emily.
*