The Year of Shadows

by Claire Legrand

  “I found an obituary in the Maestro’s room last night. My mom is dead. She left, and then she died a couple months later. About a year ago. It was a car crash.”

  Joan dropped her sandwich and covered her mouth with her hands.

  “Olivia . . .”

  I was fine until I heard Henry’s voice. Then the river started swelling up in my throat again, so I kept talking.

  “Also, the shades got a hold of Tabby Worthington’s doll and took it into Limbo. So I’m not sure what we’re going to do about that.”

  “Olivia.” Henry grabbed my milk carton, and I glared at him.

  “I was drinking that, Henry.”

  “Olivia. Are you okay?”

  “What do you think, Henry? Give me my milk carton.”

  “Fine. I just . . . you can talk about it if you want.”

  “I don’t. I just wanted to keep you updated.” We didn’t have time to talk about mothers. I pulled out our clipboard and our pounding-the-pavement plans for that evening, ignoring Henry and Joan’s shared look of concern. There were only two concerts left. We had to make the most of it. “Now. We’ve got work to do.”

  That Friday, the Maestro called a surprise rehearsal. Normally, the orchestra wouldn’t rehearse the afternoon before a concert, so everyone was curious and more than a little grumpy. Somehow, I found myself sitting in seat H15 with my sketchpad, Henry on one side and Igor on the other. I was drawing, but not anything in particular; I just let my pencil wander.

  “What do you think this rehearsal is for?” Henry asked.

  I shrugged. “Who cares?”

  Henry didn’t say anything more after that. I think he was afraid to talk to me, afraid that I would crack. He might have been right. All I knew was the tip of my charcoal on my sketchpad, like I was sewing myself back together.

  Once everyone was onstage, the Maestro clapped his hands. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you here.”

  From behind me, I heard a door open. I looked over my shoulder and saw Mr. Rue, Mayor Pitter, and two men I didn’t recognize enter the Hall.

  “First,” the Maestro was saying, “I wanted to announce that for our finale concert in May, we are going to adjust the program slightly. And, yes, we are going to go forward as though the Hall, and our orchestra, will remain intact. Instead of the Bach, Mozart, and Elgar, we are going to perform Mahler’s Second Symphony.”

  The musicians looked surprised and impressed. I saw Richard Ashley elbow one of the other trumpet players with this huge grin on his face. Trumpet players loved Mahler.

  Henry let his algebra textbook fall to the floor. “Mahler 2,” he breathed, like it was something to worship.

  I was still watching the group of men. The two men I didn’t recognize were talking with Mayor Pitter, pointing at the damaged chandelier, at the crummy ceiling repairs the handymen had done for a discount.

  Mr. Rue looked miserable, his arms crossed, his shoulders hunched.

  “Henry, what are they doing?” I said.

  Henry turned. “Uh-oh. That doesn’t look good.”

  “Second,” the Maestro was saying, “I wanted you all here to congratulate my daughter, Olivia, with me.”

  I spun around. “What?”

  “Our ticket sales are up—you will not believe it—one thousand percent. One thousand. Exactly what we needed.” The Maestro held his arms out toward me. “And you have helped get us there, Olivia. You and your friends and those beautiful posters. My little ghost girl.” He kissed his fingers and then threw the kiss at me. “My little shadow.”

  I hoped the Maestro didn’t think this changed anything. I was still furious with him. I still felt sick when I looked at him and thought about the secret he’d kept from me. But the musicians were smiling, cheering, raising their instruments to me. Richard Ashley smiled the biggest of all. For a few seconds, I soaked it up, gulped it down—this flushed, proud feeling. I had done good work.

  It didn’t last.

  The Maestro had noticed Mr. Rue and the others. He waved the musicians silent and squinted past the bright lights. “Walter? What is this?”

  Mr. Rue walked slowly toward the stage. “It’s over, Otto. It’s over.”

  I hadn’t ever heard a room go so silent so fast. “What do you mean?” the Maestro said. “Who are those men? Mr. Mayor?”

  “I’m sorry, Otto.” Mayor Pitter cleared his throat and held out a paper to read. “After the incident at that concert with the chandelier, I sent in some people from the engineering department to inspect the building. Otto, this place is dangerous. It shouldn’t be open, not even for another day. I’m not sure how it’s still standing.” He took a deep breath and looked around for a long time, like he was making himself look the musicians in the eye. Then he gave the papers to the Maestro and stepped away. “I’ve got a notice here I can’t ignore. A notice to condemn.”

  Condemn: to say that something can no longer be used; can no longer be open for business.

  To say that something should be destroyed.

  Immediately, the stage erupted into chaos. The musicians demanded to read the papers themselves. They demanded meetings with the mayor, with City Council.

  Henry chased after Mr. Worthington, who was wailing in agony. Other ghosts flitted around, shouting to each other, making a mad rush for The Ghost Room so they could share with Mrs. Barsky as soon as possible. They were jumping off a sinking ship.

  The Maestro stared silently at the papers in his hands. He seemed small and shrunken, like a kid in too-big clothes.

  His mouth moved. I couldn’t hear him, but I could read his lips.

  They said Cara.

  Then he said, What do I do? and looked up at the ceiling.

  I followed his eyes to the ceiling, and I tried to scream, but nothing came out.

  Shades swarmed up above the stage, maybe drawn there by all the chaos of the ghosts flying around. A big knot of shades hovered right over the Maestro’s head, hanging from the ceiling like a cluster of bats.

  They were chewing on the ends of a big, curved wooden beam. Clawing at the ceiling in a frenzy, chipping away the painted angels.

  I knew what would happen right before it did happen.

  And I couldn’t do anything about it.

  I couldn’t move fast enough to get to the Maestro, to push him out of the way. I couldn’t get my voice to scream, “Watch out!”

  So when that stretch of ceiling crashed down, it landed right on top of him.

  I watched his body buckle under the weight of all that wood and plaster.

  I saw his head smack the edge of the stage.

  I saw him topple off the stage to the Hall floor, and the wreckage pin him there.

  I saw his arm, bleeding. It was the only part of him I could see.

  It didn’t move.

  I WAS ZOOMING somewhere, fast.

  There were blue lights, and red lights. People rushing around, uniforms floating in the air. Hands touching me, hugging me.

  “Olivia?”

  Colors blurred, surrounding me. I was being poked, prodded, patted. Why wouldn’t they just leave me alone here? Why did they keep talking to me?

  “Olivia? Look at me.”

  Two hands cupped my face. A man with sandy brown hair.

  “It’s Richard, Olivia,” the man said. “Richard Ashley.”

  I nodded. I knew Richard Ashley.

  “We’re on the way to the hospital. Do you understand? Your father’s in an ambulance. He’s hurt, Olivia. We’re following the ambulance in a cab. Do you understand?”

  Of course I understood. Why did he keep asking me that?

  “Olivia, say something. Hilda, do you have any water?”

  I blinked and looked around. Richard Ashley. Hilda Hightower. A water bottle.

  “Here, drink some of this, sweetie,” Hilda said.

  I tried to drink some water, but it didn’t go down right because something was choking off my air.

  “Henry,” I s
aid, and my face was wet. Richard Ashley was hugging me. His jacket was around my shoulders. I smelled the valve oil he kept in his pocket. That’s what trumpet players use when their valves go dry. There are seven valve combinations: open, 1, 2, 1-2, 2-3, 1-3, 1-2-3. The Maestro once showed me. I was sitting in Mom’s lap. The Maestro made a weird sound on the trumpet that sounded like a horse neigh. You can do that, you know, if you hold the valves down only halfway and shake the horn around.

  It made us laugh, me and Mom.

  “Where’s Henry?” I kept saying. “Henry.”

  “He’s right here,” Richard Ashley said.

  “I’m here, Olivia,” came Henry’s voice. I felt him grab my hand. Nobody grabbed hands like Henry did. “I’m right here. It’s okay.”

  THEY PUT THE Maestro in the ICU. That means Intensive Care Unit. That means You’ve Been Hurt Bad.

  I let Richard Ashley and Henry lead me around. I was still in zoom-land, where everything but Henry’s hand in mine and Richard’s hand on my shoulder was a blur.

  He will be okay, they kept saying. The doctor was a tiny, serious man who reminded me of a bird. His touch on my arm was light, like feathers. He darted everywhere, like he was gathering twigs.

  When I started imagining drawing Dr. Birdman, the genius half man, half sparrow neurologist, I finally snapped out of it. The things that make you the most you can do that. When everything else is zoomy and hazy and doesn’t make sense, you at least have that. Your hobbies. Your dreams. You at least have your sketches, or your trumpet playing, or your homework in its neat, color-coded folders labeled HENRY PAGE, SEVENTH GRADER.

  They’re kind of like anchors, those things.

  “Do you want something to eat?”

  I found Henry standing in front of me. Past him, the Maestro lay in a beeping, wired-up bed.

  “Richard gave me ten bucks,” Henry said. “I can get us food from the cafeteria. It’s always open, they said.”

  I pried the words out of myself, like I hadn’t spoken in centuries. “What happened?”

  “Oh wow, finally,” he said, and sat down next to me, on the ugliest couch in the world—gray and pink and faded blue. “You’ve been so quiet. They said you were in a state of shock.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your dad was hurt pretty bad, Olivia. Broken bones, a major concussion. And he was bleeding on the inside. They had to operate.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But they think he’s gonna be okay.”

  “Is he sleeping?”

  Henry hesitated. “He’s in a coma. They said it’s because he hit his head so hard.”

  “Why? What does that mean?”

  “It’s like his body shut down, so it can heal.”

  “When will he wake up?”

  “They don’t know.”

  I took a deep breath. When I let it out, I felt like crying. “It’s my fault.”

  “What? No, it was the shades.”

  “I said it,” I whispered. “I said, the other night: I wished it had been him instead of her.”

  “Olivia—”

  I grabbed Henry by the shoulders. “Don’t you get it? I bet the shades heard me. How could I have been so stupid, to say something like that? They heard me, and they’re mad at me because of everything we’ve done, so they decided to give me what I asked for.”

  Henry grabbed me by the shoulders right back. “Olivia, he’s not going to die.”

  “Did Dr. Birdman say that?”

  “Who?”

  “I mean the doctor.”

  “No, he didn’t say that, exactly. He said he’s hopeful, though.”

  “Hopeful doesn’t mean squat.” I drew myself into a knot, the couch making my legs itch. “Don’t tell me things you don’t know. And what is this couch, porcupine?”

  “Richard decided it was hedgehog.”

  “He’s here?”

  Henry smiled. “Olivia, everyone’s here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He helped me to the door of the ICU, and I peeked out into the lobby.

  The entire orchestra was there—sitting, standing, spread out with blankets on chairs pushed together to make beds. Cups of coffee, food wrappers, and music on the ground. A couple people praying in the corner. Grace Pollock, principal violist, listened to something on her headphones, her head bowed. Richard Ashley sprawled out on the floor, snoring.

  “They’ve been waiting for news,” Henry explained.

  I slipped back into the Maestro’s room, my throat too full for talking. The beeps of the machines keeping the Maestro alive pounded in my head like some giant, evil clock.

  “What are you thinking?” Henry asked, following me.

  “Do you think he’ll die?”

  “No,” Henry said firmly. “I think he’ll wake up any minute with a really bad headache.”

  “What if he doesn’t wake up?”

  “He will.”

  But we didn’t know that, did we? “And what about the Hall?”

  “Closed, but still standing. Everything’s postponed, indefinitely. It would be too disrespectful, Mayor Pitter said, to destroy the Hall with your dad in the hospital and . . .”

  Henry’s voice trailed off. And possibly dying, I finished for him.

  “So the Hall’s safe for now,” I said slowly.

  “For now, yeah. Olivia, there were reporters and everything. The whole city’s talking.”

  “Where’s Mr. Worthington?”

  “He’s hiding on the roof. The hospital weirds him out. Plus, I think sick or dying people can see ghosts better. This one lady, she had all these tubes in her, and she pointed right at him, screaming. People thought she was nuts.”

  I put my hands over my ears to drown out that stupid beeping. “Tabby’s doll is in Limbo. With the shades.”

  Henry tried to pry my hands loose. “Are you okay?”

  “I have to go.”

  “What?”

  I hurried toward the door. “I have to go into Limbo.”

  Henry spun me around. “Are you crazy?”

  “Look, if the Maestro dies—”

  “He won’t.”

  I pointed at the Maestro, lying there in his bed. So small, so tubed. Things like that shouldn’t be in a person. “He might, Henry.”

  Henry couldn’t look at me.

  “If he does die, he might become a ghost. And if he becomes a ghost, he’ll obviously haunt the Hall. And the Hall will get torn down, and the shades will come after him next. They’ll wait around the Hall until his ghost shows up, and then they’ll take him away.”

  Henry sank down onto the porcupine couch. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “We’ve got to get them out of here, Henry. We’ve got to get Mr. Worthington out and show the shades that they can’t just stick around here until they get what they want. Make them never want to come back here again.” I drew myself up tall. “I have to go into Limbo. I have to find that doll.”

  “And how will you do that, exactly?”

  I marched toward the door. If I stopped for even one second, I might chicken out. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  Henry stopped me. “Olivia, you don’t know what the shades will do to you.”

  “Whatever it is, they’ll fail.”

  Henry put his hands on my face, just like Richard Ashley had done. His cheeks turned red. He dropped his hands.

  “I’m coming with you,” he said, swallowing hard. “I can’t let you go alone.”

  “No, you’re staying here with the Maestro. Someone has to keep an eye on him. And besides, I won’t be alone. I’ll have Igor.”

  Henry put his hands in his hair. “Man, Olivia, for the last time, that cat is just a cat.”

  “Nonnie says he’s a very weird cat.”

  “Is that supposed to be better or something?”

  “Just watch the Maestro, okay? And make sure no one sees me leave.”

  “No way, I’m not going to just—”

  I nee
ded to shut him up, to distract him. That was the only reason I did it, why I leaned up on my toes and kissed Henry Page’s cheek. Twice, for good luck.

  “You have sandwich breath,” I told him.

  Then I grabbed the ten-dollar bill and left him standing there, his hand on his cheek.

  The Hall was empty and dark, wreckage from the caved-in ceiling swept to the side in a pile blocked off with ropes. The holes in the ceiling gaped down at me.

  I stood there for a minute, trying to figure out how to go about this. I’d spent months avoiding Limbo. But I didn’t know how to find it. All I knew was that shades came from Limbo. The only times I’d seen it, they’d been around.

  Maybe it was as simple as that.

  Igor bounded toward me out of the dark. And what exactly do you think you’re doing?

  “Um, hello?” I called out. My voice bounced around the Hall. “Shades? I’ve come here to—”

  A blast of cold air knocked me to the ground. Mr. Worthington’s face appeared in the seat cushion above my face.

  “Stupid,” he boomed. “Stupid.”

  “I’m not stupid,” I said, glaring up at him. “I’ve just got to find your daughter’s doll, thanks very much.”

  Mr. Worthington patted me anxiously. “Safe. Please. Stay.”

  That’s when my arm started to burn, colder than it had ever burned before, and I knew, instinctively, what was about to happen. I smiled at Mr. Worthington.

  “Can’t stay,” I said.

  Igor growled, jumped onto my shoulders, and dug in his claws. Olivia . . .

  I turned to see dozens of cold black hands reaching for me, then jerking away like I’d burned them, then reaching for me again. Behind the hands, a door to Limbo swirled.

  “Okay.” I turned toward Limbo, spread my arms wide, and closed my eyes. Igor was meowing in my ear. “You can take me. I’ll go with you.”

  The hands grabbed me. None of them could hold on for very long. It was like Frederick had said—they wanted to be like me, but they also hated me. I was painful to them. One hand snaked around and clamped over my mouth and nose, choking my air away. Another hand reached under my shirt and pressed itself over my heart.