The Shadow of Your Smile

by Susan May Warren

  “What did Eli say?”

  Hmm. Clearly she hadn’t told Eli about Eric. But Eric knew about Eli.

  “Can I ask you a strange question?” She leaned forward, clasped her hands together.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you know why I applied to this school?”

  Eric frowned. She smiled, expecting that.

  “Why does anyone apply to art school? I suppose you love art and wanted to pursue it. Let’s see—you told me that you’d loved it in college but you never finished your degree, and now that your son was graduating from high school, it was time for you to go to college again. Did I get it right? Is this a test, Noelle?”

  She watched the movement on the harbor through the window, a huge tanker breaking free of the ice, lumbering out to the lake. “It’s not a test.” She looked at him, his kind smile. “I don’t know who I am, Mr. Hansen. In that accident I mentioned, I lost my memory. I didn’t know, until this moment, why I applied here. Who you even were. I’ve lost myself, my family, my life.” She shook her head, the words oddly cathartic. “I just woke up a month ago and thought I was twenty-one. I had no memory of my husband. He took me home, took care of me.”

  He had taken care of her. Gently. Wooed her back to him.

  “And I . . . well, I learned to care for him again. And our two amazing sons. The problem is, I found out a few things about our life that . . . I’m not sure I want to go back to. I’m not sure it’s a life I want to remember. I feel like I’ve wasted the last twenty-five years. Like I don’t even know who I am anymore. Maybe it’s best to forget everything and just . . . leave it behind.”

  He stared at his hands, took a long breath. “Like the memory of your daughter?”

  Oh. “You know about her? You know about what happened?”

  He gave her a soft smile. “Of course I do. You wrote a long essay about your painting and how it helped you recover from your grief over your daughter. Our selection committee was extremely moved. But even more so by your paintings.” He considered her a long moment, his lips together. “Noelle, would you like to see the portfolio you sent us for consideration?”

  “Yes.”

  Eric got up, went over to a large bookshelf behind her, knelt, and opened a bottom panel. After a few moments, he returned with a thin black portfolio.

  “We often hide pieces of ourselves in our paintings. You tell me what you see here.”

  She opened to the first page. A watercolor of a rock, white with brown etchings—a peace sign, a giant K, a cross. It lay in the palm of a young hand, the sun golden behind it.

  “I don’t know. It looks like something a child made.”

  “You titled this Faith.”

  The next was a picture of darkness, not pitch-black but just dark enough to accentuate the pale star over the horizon, bubbling with the dawn.

  “I recognize this. The morning star.”

  “You called this one Hope.”

  The final picture was of five hands stacked on top of each other. A male hand was turned up at the bottom, the others palm down on top of it. She recognized Eli’s hand, her own, Kyle’s, Kirby’s, and on top, it must be Kelsey’s. The sunset bled out behind it, a shadow of a cross cascading over the stack.

  “And this, this was Love.”

  She wanted to fit her hand into this picture, to feel Eli’s in hers, Kyle’s on top. She wanted to belong to this family, to love them.

  To remember them.

  She closed the portfolio. Rested her hand on it.

  Eric sat back down. “You tell me, Noelle. Was this worth twenty-five years of your life?”

  She met his eyes, hers blurry. Nodded.

  He let a beat pass. “Perhaps you’d like more time in making your decision about the future?”

  She wiped her cheek. “Yes, I would.” Perhaps she needed time to rethink everything. As she rose, she held out her hand. “I wish I could remember you. I have a feeling you were very nice to me.”

  He laughed. “Nice to see you—to meet you again, Noelle. I’ll save that spot for you as long as I can.”

  She took her time as she exited, lingering before the paintings in the hallways, walking by open classrooms, people working. She missed the creative hum of a studio.

  Maybe she’d start painting again at the art colony.

  She paused at a metal sculpture on her way out. An oval, it formed a head at the top, curved around to a smaller head below it. Like a mother holding a child up to kiss its head.

  Her hand went to the charm around her neck. She fit her thumb into the circle, felt the two grooves. Oh.

  Then Noelle ran her thumb over her naked finger, now indented without the ring. It felt hollow, light.

  She wanted her ring back.

  Pushing through the door, she discovered the sun had arrived, burning off the clouds, the brutality of the night before. She walked toward Eli’s truck, digging the keys from her purse as she crossed the wet parking lot.

  Noelle felt the movement more than she saw it out of the corner of her eye. A blur of white. She turned.

  Froze.

  A van thundered toward her, a heartbeat away on the slippery ice.

  She jumped as a shot cracked the air.

  “Noelle!”

  She didn’t have to find the voice to know it, nor the arms that locked around her, tackling her to the soggy ground.

  Eli.

  They landed between cars, her on top of him as the van careened past.

  “What—?”

  “Shh. I got you, honey. Are you hurt?”

  She pushed herself up, looked at Eli. He appeared ragged, unshaven, his dark eyes troubled.

  “No, I’m fine but—” Behind them, she heard the van spin out of the parking lot.

  He pulled her to himself, crushing her. “Oh, I’m sorry, Noelle. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Eli. What happened?”

  “Ask Kyle. He thinks it was—”

  “Eli, you’re bleeding.” She had leaned back and seen the blood soaking his jacket.

  He looked down at the wound. “I . . . oh . . .” His face whitened as his gaze returned to hers.

  She cupped her hand behind his head, pulled off her scarf, shoved it into the wound. “Just stay still, honey. Just . . . help! Help!” She turned back to Eli, finding a voice that seemed suddenly very familiar. “Don’t you die on me, Eli Hueston. I’m not done with you yet.”

  “I’ve seen that van before.”

  Funny how five words could change everything. One minute Kyle and his dad and Kirby sat in the parked truck, staring at the old Union Depot, the home of the art institute, waiting for his mother to emerge. The next moment his father had barreled out of the truck, running full-out for his mother.

  There’d been ten minutes of waiting between when Kyle spotted the white van and the moment Noelle appeared, ten minutes of eternal frustration as he had called his office in Deep Haven. As they’d run the plate on the van for him.

  They’d confirmed Hugh Fadden as the owner.

  Then there was the casual drive-by. The man had a wide face, chin-length brown hair, a red baseball hat.

  Same guy Kyle had seen outside Billy Nickel’s house.

  Add to that the woman seated beside him, her shocking red hair messy around her face. So there you went, Yvonne.

  As the van drove by, the pair inside didn’t even blink away from watching the door of the art institute, not unlike what they’d been doing since Noelle went inside.

  When she appeared, Eli leaped from the truck. Then a shot rang out and the next seconds were a blur as Kyle floored it out of the parking lot, hot after the van that had nearly mowed down his mom.

  Somewhere in there, he also had a memory of his father’s voice. What is she doing at an art institute?

  He’d ask later, after he alerted the Duluth police to Hugh and the need for them to arrest the man, if not for attempted homicide, then for the way he plowed through Duluth traffic at a high rate of speed. />
  Too high, even for summer when the roads hadn’t glazed over, when ice didn’t crackle from the trees. Thankfully, the sun had risen and begun to bake away the danger. Still, Kyle fishtailed going around the corner at First Street.

  Nearly hit a car.

  Kirby grabbed the handle above his seat. “Don’t kill us.”

  “Just hang on. I have to keep him in my sights until the locals find him.” Deep Haven had patched him in to dispatch in Duluth, and he’d already alerted them to the cross streets. “I’m turning northwest onto Fourth Avenue.”

  Duluth, with its San Francisco–style steep streets, plunging to the lake below, could be lethal. Worse, the snowy street concealed potholes and black ice.

  “He’s cutting up the hill on Mesaba,” Kyle said to dispatch, his stomach knotting. Instead of heading toward the highway, Hugh had opted for an escape toward the clogged Mall area.

  Or not. “He cut off onto Skyline Parkway.” The last thing they needed was for Hugh to race through tiny neighborhoods. Through school zones and pedestrian crosswalks.

  Oh, he wanted to get his hands on this guy. Wanted to slam his fist into his face, to expel the memory of fear in his mother’s expression.

  “Where’s our backup?” Kirby said, his voice tight.

  Kyle almost hit another car as the truck spun wide. He straightened it, ignoring Kirby’s comments from the backseat as Hugh now turned southeast on Eleventh Avenue, toward the knotted neighborhoods. “I’m just south of Chester Park, headed for Portland Square.”

  “Officers are on their way, Officer Hueston,” said the female voice in his ear.

  Not soon enough. The van nearly plowed into the oncoming cars at a four-way stop. Kyle hit the brakes, slid into the intersection, then pumped the gas when he missed a little sedan.

  “The mom in that car just flipped you off.”

  “Kirby—put a sock in it.”

  “I’m just saying, don’t kill us. Or anybody else.”

  “Don’t you want to get this guy?”

  “I wanna go back and see if Dad’s okay! I think he shot him!”

  Kyle glanced in the rearview mirror at Kirby. The kid wasn’t kidding. “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t know, but it looked like he got hit.”

  Kyle bit back a word. Watched as the van turned onto Fourth Street.

  Sirens sounded in the distance, too far off yet to be of any help. He tapped his brakes. God, please, make me smart. Help me not to make a stupid mistake.

  Hugh turned southeast toward the lake on Nineteenth.

  Kyle kept going through the green light.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I thought you wanted me to pull back.”

  “Not let him go!”

  “I’m not letting him go,” he said to Kirby. “I’m trying to stay ahead of him. If he thinks he’s being chased, he’s only going to get someone killed. But more than that—” he turned southeast on Twenty-First—“Nineteenth Avenue is torn up with road construction.”

  He cut onto Third Street, a one-way. “Please, please.” He gave his location to dispatch.

  Ahead, the street hadn’t been plowed, evidence of the stall in road repairs. Ice hooded the cars parked before ornate Craftsman houses, still tucked into the snow.

  He slowed just enough to brake for pedestrians.

  “I see him!” Kirby said.

  Indeed—the van had barreled through the orange construction signs and skidded into a hole of road carnage, its wheels spinning in mud as the driver gunned it.

  Kyle pulled into the intersection, threw the truck into park. “Wait here.” He jumped out.

  Hugh must have seen him coming because he opened his door and flew out.

  Kyle leaped on him, tackling him into the mud. “Oh no you don’t!”

  Hugh flung an elbow at him, but Kyle dodged it, grabbed his arm. He slammed Hugh’s face into the dirt with an arm bar, his knee powering into the man’s spine.

  “Get off me!”

  “Sorry, dude, but you’re under arrest.”

  Hugh struggled beneath him. “Says who—you’re not a cop.”

  “Yeah, actually, he is.” Kirby hadn’t stayed put, clearly, and in fact had made his own collar. He had Yvonne by the arm.

  She was crying, red-faced, shaking. “It was all Hugh’s idea! He followed that lady down here! And he was the one who killed Billy and that clerk at the store. It was him! Not me!”

  So now she was willing to talk.

  “Good catch, Kirby.”

  He expected a grin, but Kirby’s mouth tightened as cruisers appeared on the scene. A couple of uniforms jumped out and Kyle identified himself as they took Hugh into custody.

  Yvonne had a few words of protest when they slapped cuffs on her also. Apparently she’d been an innocent bystander.

  Kyle briefed the officers and then found Kirby sitting in the cab, his cell phone pressed to his ear. He slid into the seat. “What?”

  Kirby shook his head. “Dad’s at St. Luke’s. He’s in surgery.”

  Two bowls of Lucky Charms, a half-eaten bag of popcorn, and nine Hershey’s Kisses left over from the Valentine’s heart Emma’s mother had sent her hadn’t driven Kyle’s voice from her mind.

  Has it occurred to you that God didn’t want you to live Kelsey’s dreams? That yours were perfectly acceptable to Him?

  She sat on her bed, cross-legged, Kelsey’s lyric book open to the last song. She’d spent most of the night and some of this morning reading through the lyrics.

  Remembering.

  Hearing Kelsey’s laughter, her voice. But also hearing her own, listening to her own dreams.

  Kyle had nailed it exactly. It did hurt to remember. But he’d also shown her the sweet memories collected in Deep Haven. Bittersweet, in total. Especially the dreams, however simple, of raising a family in her small town.

  If God wanted Kelsey to live her dreams, then Kelsey would have lived.

  Brutal, his words felt upon her heart. Even more brutal the betrayal on his face when he realized that she hadn’t told him about his father and her mother.

  Why not? Fear, maybe. Or maybe, like in every other part of her life, she thought if she could run from it, it didn’t exist. If she kept herself busy pursuing Kelsey’s future, she wouldn’t have to stop. Turn around.

  Deal with the debris.

  Let God heal her.

  She strummed her guitar, looking at Kelsey’s song—no, Emma’s song. She sang the words, softly.

  “There are wishes on shooting stars that finally come true . . .

  For you.

  The sunshine always comes in the morning.

  Let the storm pass on by.

  Don’t let the night leave you blind.

  Leave it all behind . . .”

  The words left an eerie echo inside. As if Kelsey had known. Or perhaps she was simply writing about the everyday angst of a teenager. But suddenly the words seemed to unlock, spill out over Emma. She had been caught in the night. Had been blinded.

  Had stopped looking for the morning star.

  She could never get very far from the fight she’d had with Kyle, back when she’d been escaping Deep Haven. When he’d accused her of wanting to ignore the memories rather than believe that God could fix them.

  Maybe it was easier to walk alone in her pain than to share it.

  Or maybe . . . She remembered Kyle’s face last night when she’d launched herself into his arms after the audition. Pride. Joy. Sharing her triumph with her.

  Perhaps sharing the pain would ease it.

  Especially if she shared it with God.

  But words . . . she had none. She bowed her head, letting her fingers strum out the tune in her heart. A minor, an octave change, a lick back down to E major. She liked the lick. It felt like something of a catharsis.

  She started again with A minor, strumming a blues pattern. The words formed in her chest, born of the tune.

  God, I don’t want to spend my lif
e running. Or ignoring all the good things You’ve given me.

  She added the B7, did an E string bend, climbed up the pentatonic blues scale, then down the frets.

  Like my family. Kelsey. My dad.

  Her throat tightened. She played the minor scale in A, held it at the B string, the long moan of her heart.

  Kyle.

  She added a swing beat, a few jazz tones. Moving into the sound. She imagined Kyle, his head bobbing as he added his finesse on the drums.

  What a surprise he’d been.

  She threw in another B7 chord, then an E9, and then an F-sharp 9 for a turnaround back into the main beat.

  Oh, how she loved him.

  The thought caught her, stilled her hand on a C-sharp minor 7, a high, almost-tenuous chord.

  She loved him?

  The chord faded into the walls of her room. Yes, she loved him. Not the high school fan crush but the kind of love that might make a girl want to face her inadequacies, her fears. She loved him because he knew—he knew that she was running, and he’d gently urged her back to a world she’d longed for. She loved him because he wouldn’t give up on her.

  Or hadn’t, until she’d betrayed him.

  But perhaps . . . What had he said about making mistakes, over and over, letting God love you anyway?

  She finished the song with another pentatonic blues, fast, landed on the E9, then down to an F diminished, adding a hint of tension before she popped it out for a final lick down to the E. A power chord.

  She strummed it, looking out the window at the sky, the sun making an appearance, finally, after last night’s rain.

  Lord, I want to turn around, to see the memories. To let You heal me. I don’t want to live Kelsey’s dreams. Or even mine. I want to live Your dreams for me.

  God’s dreams for her.

  Yeah, that seemed like an answer she might be able to settle into, embrace. Find the music, even the words to.

  She glanced at Kelsey’s unfinished lyrics, words stirring in her head.

  Don’t let the night leave you blind . . .

  “Emma! You have a phone call.” Carrie poked her head in the door. She wore a towel, her purple hair dripping. “You left your cell phone in your bag.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I think it’s the guy from Nashville.”