Fade to Midnight

by Shannon McKenna

  "It's a fictional character, Dad," she said, her voice gentle and flat.

  There was a strained silence as they both groped for a way out of this danger zone. Dad was half right, as far as it went. The event that had inspired Fade Shadowseeker had indeed been traumatic.

  She remembered every detail. It happened eighteen years ago, on her eleventh birthday. Her mother had arranged a big party at the country club. Edie had been dreading the party. Her hair had been curled into a million dumb ringlets. She'd been dressed in a ruffly white thing with a scratchy lace collar. A wreath of white roses, baby's breath and lacy fluff in her hair. They'd stopped at Daddy's Flaxon office, so that Daddy could kiss her and give her his present in person, because he couldn't make the party. He'd bought her a pink bicycle. Pink silk ribbon bows on it. Pink helium balloons tied to the handle-bars.

  A man had burst in, and run into Daddy's office before anyone could stop him. He'd been hideously injured. His face blistered with burns, his hair singed off. His hands were black and swollen, his body bloody, covered with oozing cuts. He'd been raving about torture. Mind-rape. Kids thrown in a hole. Begging for someone to make it stop.

  Her mother screamed for security, yelling that the man was trying to kill Daddy. They had come running. The enormous, shattering crash as the wounded man threw one of the security guards through the plate glass window and out onto the grounds still echoed in her head.

  More security came running. The fight went on for a long time. The man was incredibly strong. It was terrible to hear, though she couldn't see most of it. Mother screamed through the whole thing.

  They'd finally subdued him. It took five of them to pull him out of Daddy's office. His eyes had fixed on her as they dragged him past, still twisting and struggling. His eyes were bright green. They shone with a brilliant, desperate light, as if lit from within. She saw it in her dreams.

  He'd twisted and strained to keep his eyes on her as they carried him away. He'd called out to her for help. His stark desperation haunted her. It haunted her still, eighteen years later.

  She tried to grasp that fey light whenever she drew Fade Shadowseeker, the scarred hero of her graphic novel series. She never came remotely close. But she kept on trying. Obsessively.

  After they hustled him away, she'd looked down at her ruffly dress. It had been speckled with a fine spray of tiny bloodstains.

  Yes, that had been traumatic. Just not as traumatic as having both her parents withhold their approval for most of her life. That trauma beat the burned man raving on her birthday to hell and gone.

  "It didn't blight my life," she repeated. "It marked it, that's all."

  "The hell it didn't! You were traumatized!" Dad jabbed the whispered words at her. "You've never been the same since!"

  A hard point to argue, since she doubted that her father had noticed what she'd been like before. Shy and insignificant, for sure. Easy to overlook. No trouble to speak of. No problems.

  It was afterwards that she'd become a problem to them.

  Her mother had canceled the birthday party, pleading a stomach virus. That had marked the beginning of Edie's oddessey with child psychiatrists and endless medications, to treat her nightmares, her anxiety, her so-called obsessions. Her utter, hopeless inability to be the daughter her parents wanted her to be.

  She pushed it away, and shook her head. "It's just a character. An artistic creation. It's my work, Dad. It's how I support myself."

  "Oh, stop. I've lost patience with your playacting at being a starving artist in that miserable hole of an apartment. It's an insult to me and to your mother's memory, when you could live in any of a dozen beautiful properties! You could have an allowance, a car--"

  "I don't need an allowance. I'm fine. I already have a car."

  "You call that thing a car? It's a death trap! You know how I worry. How your mother worried! Her worry for you shortened her life!"

  Edie winced. "That's not fair!"

  "That's the truth!" Her father shoved out his jaw, in that self-righteous way that brooked no argument.

  Not fair. Linda Parrish's death had not been her fault, but it hurt, to hear it said. To know that he believed it.

  Her mother had died of an unexpected heart attack fourteen months before. No one had known she had a heart condition. She was thin, fit, excruciatingly elegant. She played tennis, golf. She was active on the board of innumerable charities. But one day, at a Parrish Foundation board meeting, she had clutched her chest, and collapsed.

  Edie had known it would happen, ever since her mandatory weekly lunch date with her mother. She'd been nervously doodling on her napkin during the lecture about her clothes, her hair, her attitude, the expression on her face. She'd sketched the sharp line of her mother's profile on the napkin, felt that inner eye open...and realized that she'd surrounded the portrait with dozens of hearts. Big ones, small ones. And she knew that deadly danger stalked her mother.

  She didn't know how, what, or when, but something was going to happen. Something that could kill Linda Parrish. She struggled as best she could to translate the symbols her subconscious threw to the surface. The hearts made her think that Mom should go to the doctor, get tests done. On her heart. That was the best she could figure.

  But her revelations had been met with derision and anger. The lunch had ended prematurely, and Edie had been banished in disgrace for forcing her sick delusions on her mother. And in a public place, too.

  Linda Parrish died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, a scant week later. No chance to say good-bye, or part on better terms.

  Edie had been over it in her head millions of times. She should have been smarter, sneakier. Told someone else to call her mother, someone with credibility. She should have begged her mother's doctor to suggest it. There had to have been a better way.

  Edie pushed away the grief and frustration, and tried again. "OK, never mind the book signing, Dad. I don't want to fight with you. Let's just talk about something else, OK?"

  Her father looked down at his wineglass, tightlipped. "You don't understand, Edith. By dwelling on that incident, you're forever flogging it in my face. I can't get away from it, no matter how I try to put it behind me. His brothers even came to harrass me! They held me responsible for that godawful nightmare! Me, personally! Understand?"

  She gazed at him, baffled. "What do you mean? What on earth? Who, Dad? Whose brothers?"

  He made an impatient gesture. "Don't play dumb. The brothers of that...that person. The one you saw, in that incident at Flaxon."

  "He had brothers? They came to see you?" Chills ran down her spine. "You mean, you know who he is? You know where he is?"

  "No! I most certainly do not know anything about him!" her father snapped. "I am sorry for what happened to him, but I assume that he is dead. Osterman hurt a lot of people in his disgusting illicit research, and that unfortunate person was one of them. I unknowingly funded it, Edith. It's something I have to live with every day of my life! And your ridiculous comic books do not help me!"

  Guilt clutched at her. Her eyes dropped. "I'm sorry."

  "His brothers thought that I was responsible for what had happened to him," he went on heatedly. "It put me in a terrible position. What Osterman did to those people was despicable, but I was a victim, too, Edith. And Helix, and the Parrish Foundation. And when I think of what Osterman did to you at the Haven..." His mouth tightened with disgust. "God. Whatever happened there sparked these delusions of yours. If I had any idea what that man truly was, I would never have allowed him near you! I failed to protect you, Edith. I have to live with that, too. And it is not easy for me, believe me."

  She stared at him, startled and moved. A flash of what seemed like genuine concern for her. Wow. That was rare. And precious.

  Laying aside the fact that the delusions were not delusions, but whatever. Laying aside the fact that she had told her father when she was fourteen that Osterman was crazy and evil, but Charles Parrish was not one to take the word of
a depressed, underachieving fourteen-year-old girl over that of a distinguished scientist who was generating profitable patents for Helix. But whatever. Let bygones be bygones.

  She reached out, impulsively, and touched her father's hand.

  Charles Parrish's hand twitched, as if he wanted to yank it back and was forcing himself to leave it, by brute effort of will.

  "One of the reasons that I'm retiring is because of that," he said stiffly. "I want to dedicate myself to administering the funds of the Parrish Foundation in a conscious, ethical way, which involves scrutinizing everything that is done with that money. Nothing will ever slip by me again. I will monitor every single goddamned penny of it."

  She squeezed his hand. "Good for you, Dad."

  He harrumphed. "There was something I wanted to ask you. You're aware, of course, that my retirement reception is in six weeks. I would like you to attend the banquet. Your mother would have liked for you to be there, with Ronnie. To represent the family."

  Edie wasn't so sure of that, but saw no profit in saying so. Her mother had been even more embarrassed by her clumsy, unpredictable daughter than her father had. She stared at his handsome, patrician face in the light of the flickering candle. He looked ten years younger than his sixty-four years. Fit, elegant, hair silvering at the temples.

  I'll come to the reception if you and Ronnie come to the book signing. The suggestion hovered, at the tip of her tongue...and she swallowed it back. She didn't have that kind of bargaining power. It would just touch off another ugly outburst, and she didn't have the energy for it.

  Besides. If Ronnie would be at that banquet, that was reason enough to grit her teeth, don an evening dress and heels, and go.

  "Of course," she said quietly. "I'd be proud to be there for you."

  "Good. You'll consult with Tanya and your Aunt Evelyn about your dress and hair," he added sharply, his eyes raking her critically. "And your shoes, of course."

  "Of course." Edie forced herself to sit up straighter. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Her wavy mane was clean and brushed. The horn-rimmed glasses obscured her eyes, and she liked it that way. Her high-tops were comfy. She was what she was, ink stains and all. "If Tanya and Aunt Evelyn have time to shop with me, I'll be glad to--"

  "They'll make time. If not, I'll have Marta help you."

  She kept her face carefully blank at that unspeakable idea. Shopping for an evening gown with her father's blond, perfect thirty-six year old trophy girlfriend, previously his secretary, was her idea of hell. She supposed she should be glad her father had some comfort in his bereavement, if only there were something real behind Marta's bright, lipsticked smile, but there wasn't. Just the grinding gears of a calculating, self-interested machine. "I'm sure that won't be necessary," she assured him. "Please, don't bother Marta."

  "See that it's not." Her father looked down at her hands, frowning at the ink stains on her fingers. "You will have a manicure before the reception? Let's not have people thinking you work in a garage."

  Edie snatched her hand back. "Of course," she said.

  The waiter arrived with her goat cheese, pine nut and arugula salad, and her father's swordfish filet. After a few bites, Edie laid down her fork and dabbed her napkin to her mouth. "Dad. I was wondering if I could come home this weekend, and spend some time with Ronnie."

  Her father frowned. "You know the answer to that. I've established my terms. Dr. Katz told me you've missed your sessions with him for weeks now. I assume this means you're being noncompliant with your meds. So why even ask? It's a waste of both our time and energy."

  She gulped. "I don't need the meds. I feel completely calm and--"

  "Edie. You have hallucinations." There was a savage edge to her father's voice. "You are a danger to your sister, and to yourself!"

  She wanted to screech loud enough to shatter glass. She gulped it back. "Dad, it's not like that. They're not hallucinations. They're--"

  "Keep your voice down! Does everyone have to know?"

  Edie pressed her hand to her shaking mouth. No. Crying.

  "Your sister is already stressed from your mother's death," her father raged on, his voice hushed. "Your abandonment is the final--"

  "Abandonment? That's not fair!" The words burst out. "I never abandoned her! I would do anything to see her! You know that!"

  "Shhh!" He glared at her, eyes darting around to see if anyone was listening. "She's acting out lately. We had another incident, with her firecrackers. She ordered them over the Internet, had the packaging disguised as books. Dr. Katz thinks she's punishing me. Showing me how explosive and destructive her rage is. The last thing Ronnie needs now are further examples of mental imbalance and rebellion. You oppose me at every turn, out of habit. Ronnie does not need to see it."

  I oppose you because I have to, Dad. To survive.

  Edie didn't say it. Her father would see the words as a spiteful blow. He could not hear the anguished truth behind them.

  Poor Ronnie. She wasn't acting out with her firecrackers. She just loved things that spat bright-colored sparks and went bang. It was her bizarre karma, like Edie's, to be born into the straitlaced Parrish family.

  "Would you mind leaving this subject?" her father asked. "It's ruining my meal."

  Edie nodded, and pushed the remaining salad around on her plate. The heavy silence was broken only by the clink of cutlery.

  When they were almost finished, she saw the arrogant young man from the couple nearby striding past their table. He'd said his piece, and he was beating hell out of there. Edie glanced over at the girl. Her eyes were streaming. Her hand was pressed against her mouth. She looked like she needed to vomit, or cry. Or both. Soon.

  The girl got up, lurched toward the bathroom. Edie's hand shot out, grabbing her arm as she passed. "Wait," she said.

  Her father gasped. "Edie!" he hissed. "For God's sake--"

  "It'll be a girl," Edie blurted, looking into the girl's wide, wet eyes. "A beautiful little blond girl. And that selfish bastard is useless to you. He's done his job. It's all he's good for. Unload him, and move on."

  The girl's mouth sagged. Wonder, fear, shock, chills. The usual.

  Edie let go of her hand. The pregnant girl stumbled backward, and took off, in a wobbly, stumbling run.

  Well. That had been stupid, with her father watching. It would have been stupid even if he hadn't been. But she never had a choice. It had just...popped out of her. Totally involuntary. Like always.

  Edie stared at the drizzle of balsamic vinegar on her plate, her eyes fixed on the frilly shreds of romaine and arugula that clung to it. Avoiding the look in her father's eyes. She didn't need to see the anger, the disgust. She'd memorized them years ago. They never changed.

  "So. You're still suffering from your delusions." Dad's voice was cool, expressionless. "I'll make an emergency appointment for you with Dr. Katz, first thing tomorrow morning. If you do not go, there will be consequences. This is what happens when you don't take your meds."

  Experience had proven time without number that her perceptions were not delusions. They had never shown themselves to be false or misleading. Not even once. But that argument was lost before it began.

  "I don't need meds," Edie repeated, wearily.

  The truth was, the meds did work--in a certain sense. They zoned her out into emotional flatness, and clogged the airwaves so that she didn't get private newscasts from people's heads anymore. They also, surprise surprise, killed her desire to draw. She hated the meds.

  "Promise me that there will be no scenes like this at the reception," her father said.

  "I won't embarrass you at the reception, Dad," she said dully.

  Who knew if that was true, though. She never had a choice. God knows, she would never have voluntarily chosen this hell. Being constantly judged, isolated. Punished. Never seeing Ronnie.

  Her father's eyes flicked to the table. He jerked as if he'd been poked with a pin. "For the love of God, Edith! Stop that, right now!"

&nbs
p; She flinched. Her hand was holding a pen, which she hadn't been conscious of picking up. It hit the bulb of her wineglass, knocking it over. She'd been doodling on the open sketchpad without realizing it.

  A sketch of her father's face and torso covered the page. Wine spread across it, over the sketchbook, the table, dripping onto her lap.

  Edie grabbed a napkin, dabbed her skirt, murmuring a garbled apology. She'd been a compulsive doodler ever since she learned how to hold a pen, but her parents had gotten twitchy about it after the Haven. When the incidents began.

  "I'll make a strategic retreat now," Charles Parrish said, rising to his feet. "Before I get my fortune told. Please, Edith. Don't do this to people! No one wants to hear it! And take your meds, goddamnit!"

  "I'll try," she said. Referring to the first request, if not the last. "Can I...would you at least tell Ronnie that I--"

  "No!" He spat out the word with vicious force. "I'll contact Evelyn and Tanya for you. Clear your schedule for them, please, and arrange to go to their stylist and makeup artist before the banquet as well, understand?"

  She nodded mutely. He strode away. At least like this, they didn't have to do the stiff, awkward, eyeglass bumping hug, she thought, bleakly. He shrank from any physical contact with her.

  Do. Not. Cry. Not in public. Don't even think about it. She sniffed back the tears, swallowed, blinked. Grateful for the glasses, the shield of hair, for privacy. Dad was paying, at the door. He left. No glance. No wave. Their meetings always ended this way. No matter how she tried.

  The guy with the comb-over, the drug addicted daughter and the ADS grandson was chowing down on chocolate mousse cake, with the same grim sense of purpose with which he'd consumed the prime rib. Whoo hoo, she thought, staring at him. There was still more dam age she could do, if she wanted to. Anything that she said to that poor guy would provoke a massive heart attack, clogged as his arteries must be.

  Hah. What a fit ending that would be for an evening like this. Something else to pile up onto her overloaded conscience. As if Mom's death wasn't enough for her to bear. And Ronnie. Feeling abandoned.