Shadow Girl

by Liana Liu

  But instead of trying to persuade me to change my goal, Ms. Baldwin gave me that book about the recent financial crisis in hopes that I would convince myself. So I decide to try a similar strategy with the ghost problem. I go online and order a few books that seem both relevant and appropriate. Even though Ms. Baldwin’s approach didn’t work with me, that doesn’t mean it won’t work with Ella.

  I put away my laptop and get ready for bed. As I’m brushing my teeth, I suddenly remember Henry’s startled expression when I told him how terrible it would be if he got a cramp and drowned. Then a strange thing happens. I start laughing.

  8

  NOTHING DISTURBS MY SLEEP THAT NIGHT, OR THE NIGHT AFTER that. I point this out to Ella the next time she mentions the ghost, but she is unfazed. She says, “Sometimes she’s quiet, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t there.”

  “Maybe it does mean she isn’t there,” I say.

  Ella shakes her head. “She’s there. I can see her.”

  “What does she look like?” I ask, though I know I shouldn’t be encouraging her belief in the ghost. But I can’t help being curious.

  “She’s small, kind of skinny. Her hair is brownish, I think.”

  I look at Ella. Who is small and skinny with brown hair.

  “But it’s hard to see her clearly because she only comes out in the dark. Or maybe she’s only visible in the dark. Those aren’t the same thing, though some people might not realize the difference,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone I’ve begun to recognize. It’s the voice she uses to talk about the ghost.

  The grandfather clock in the corner chimes. We’re done for the afternoon.

  “You did well today, Ella,” I say, and it’s true. Although she isn’t performing to grade level, her work has been steadily improving all week.

  She smiles her small smile. “Will you do something for me?” she asks.

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “Promise you won’t tell anyone about her. She doesn’t want anyone to know about her, except us,” Ella says.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “You know, the ghost. Promise?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Please?”

  “Okay.”

  “Say you promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ella leaves to meet her brother; they’re going down to the beach. I stay and clean up, collecting paper scraps, straightening the heavy chairs, piling the workbooks together. I’ve just finished when Vanessa comes into the library.

  “Hello, darling!” She pulls out one of the heavy chairs I straightened and curls up in the seat, silky dress bunched around her knees, bare tanned feet twining together, pearly toenails flashing. “I have a teeny favor to ask of you.”

  “Yes?” I say noncommittally.

  Although I am very careful about being an academic tutor, there is an ambiguity to the job description that encourages certain parents to take advantage. For example, Kiki’s mom, who once interrupted our tutoring session to ask if I would load the dishwasher and make the bed when we were done, because she was expecting guests and her cleaning lady canceled.

  I did it. But I don’t tutor Kiki anymore.

  Now Vanessa says, “Great news! I found a calligrapher for the party invitations! The problem is I need to get her everything right away. I have a guest list and most of the addresses in my address book, but the calligrapher wants it in a spreadsheet, and I’m clueless about spreadsheets, so I was hoping you could help me. It shouldn’t take long. You’re so organized and efficient! You’ll do it, won’t you?”

  I should say no. I say, “Sure.”

  “You’re a lifesaver. I’ll email you the guest list right away. You might have to look up an address and zip code or two, though I’m sure you’ll be done in no time! If you could finish it by tonight, that would be really helpful.”

  Vanessa goes to her office to send me the information for the spreadsheet. I straighten the heavy chairs again. It’s not that I mind helping her. But I’m an academic tutor. Not a babysitter or nanny or cleaning lady. Not a spreadsheet maker. And ever since the incident with Kiki’s mother, I have been very careful to make that clear. Until now.

  So why did I agree? I guess because I feel bad for Vanessa—she’s obviously unhappy that her husband is gone. And because she asked nicely. And because I really am good at making spreadsheets.

  I know these are all just excuses. I can’t let this happen again.

  Anyway, it doesn’t take me very long—no more than an hour or three—to make the spreadsheet. I email it to Vanessa, and a few minutes later, someone knocks on the door of the pink bedroom. I open it to find Mrs. Tully staring grimly at me. She thrusts a cardboard box into my arms and walks wordlessly away.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Tully! Have a nice day!” I call out after her. She doesn’t turn around, but I didn’t expect her to. Which is why I’m making a face behind her back.

  I open the package. It’s the books I ordered for Ella. I page through the first one, a kid’s book about a girl who moves into a house that seems haunted. There are noises in the night, doors mysteriously opening or closing, and a pale figure fluttering in corners. However, the girl discovers that it’s just the work of the boy who lives next door, who is angry that his best friend’s family moved out and the girl’s family moved in. Everything ends happily, with the girl and boy becoming friends.

  The story is silly and the illustrations are clumsy. But it gets the right message across: ghosts aren’t real. I put it with my workbooks on the dressing table. The other two books I stack on my nightstand. They’re both longer, and I want to read them before showing them to Ella.

  I get out my phone and call my mother. I’m trying to be better about calling regularly. “How are you? Has work been busy?” I ask.

  “Bùcuò,” she says. She tells me my brother got a job as a clerk in an insurance agency and it’s only part-time for now but he’s doing really well and they’re talking about hiring him full-time, but Andy’s not sure whether he wants to go full-time because he’s thinking about enrolling in some college courses in the fall.

  “Oh. That’s great,” I say.

  He’s working hard and doing very well.

  “How about you? How have you been?”

  I’m fine, she says. Your brother went out with his friends and Doris.

  “My Doris? Doris Chang?”

  “Tā shìgè hăo nǚhái.” She’s a good girl.

  “She is.” Which is why it doesn’t make sense that she’s spending time with Andy.

  Though my brother is a troublemaker, a loser, a creep, he constantly has girls hanging around him. I guess some girls, dumb girls, are attracted to jerky bad boys. The same kind of girls, I bet, who would date someone like Henry Morison.

  But Doris isn’t dumb. And Doris doesn’t even date. Though many boys have had crushes on her, she always rebuffs their advances, gently. Doris has never had a boyfriend, and it seems like a point of pride for her, as though she’s too pure for some fumbling teen romance.

  My own lone experience with fumbling teen romance proves that Doris isn’t missing much. For three months last year I dated this guy Paul Lim, also a junior. Paul was cute and smart and cool. I liked him. I wanted to like him more, but it never happened; nothing much happened between us. There was one party where we slow danced with my head on his shoulder, his hands clamped around my waist. There was lots of hanging out together with our friends, because we had the same friends. Some hand-holding. A little kissing. That was all.

  When we broke up, mutually and politely, I wasn’t upset. Even when Paul started dating Mary Choi three weeks later.

  No—that’s not true. I was upset.

  But it wasn’t Paul I was upset about, or even Mary Choi, who I considered a friend. It was me. I thought there was something wrong with me. I knew I should have been upset. A nice, normal girl would have been upset. So I was upset that I wasn’t upset. Though it
sounds pretty stupid when I put it like that.

  And now I’m stupidly upset about Andy and Doris.

  Because even though I know Doris is too smart to fall for his tricks, I don’t trust my brother. Not one bit. Not after everything he’s done.

  After I get off the phone with my mother, there’s another knock on the door of the pink bedroom. This time it’s Vanessa.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I sent the spreadsheet to the calligrapher. Thanks a million,” she says, and extends her arm. In her hand is a small white box. “This is for you. A little something to show my appreciation.”

  “Oh, no, I’m just happy to help.”

  “Please,” she says. “I insist.”

  So I take the box. Inside is a pair of elaborate earrings with tiny crystals dangling from strands of silver. They are lovely. They are obviously expensive.

  “It’s too much. I can’t accept these,” I say.

  “It’s nothing. A friend gave them to me, but they’re not my style at all. They’ll be perfect on you, though. Put them on.”

  I nod. It makes me feel better that it’s a recycled gift. And, also, kind of worse. I take the box into the bathroom and slide the earrings slowly in, first the right, then the left. They pull heavily on my earlobes. I gaze at my reflection. Silver strands glittering, stones flickering against the black backdrop of my hair.

  “Come out! Let’s see!” calls Vanessa.

  But when I come out to show her, she doesn’t look. She is paging through the book about the girl and the haunted house. “What’s this?”

  “It’s for Ella. I thought she’d like it.”

  She studies the description on the back. She frowns.

  “It’s about making new friends,” I say. “But if you think—”

  “I’m sure it’s fine.” Vanessa puts the book down. She turns toward me and exclaims over the earrings in my ears. She smiles. But I can still see the strain in the corners of her lips, the creases on her brow.

  I don’t know what to do. I thank her again.

  “How’s the tutoring going?” she asks. “I know Ella can be a handful. I hope she hasn’t been giving you any trouble.”

  “No, no trouble. We’re making good progress.”

  “She’s so stubborn. Like her father.”

  I nod, though I don’t think Ella is particularly stubborn. “She’s a great kid.”

  “I know. I know. It’s just sometimes I wish . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Those earrings are really perfect on you. I knew they’d be.” Vanessa reaches over and lightly touches my hair, smoothing it back, the way she sometimes does with her daughter. Her fingers are cool and nimble. The sweet, clean scent of her perfume drifts over me.

  Then she gives my shoulder a pat and wishes me good night.

  After Vanessa leaves, I go back to the mirror to look at the earrings. They’re beautiful but definitely don’t match the tank top and shorts I’m wearing. They don’t match any of the clothes I own. But I still appreciate Vanessa’s gift. Regift.

  I pull the silver from my ears and lay the earrings neatly inside their box. I twist my hair into a knot and secure it with a few bobby pins. Then I pick up the book I bought for Ella. The cartoon cover is as silly as the story: a little girl looks alarmed as she enters a spooky house while glowing eyes watch her from a dark rectangle of window.

  I put the book down, facedown to hide its silly cover. My earlobes are stinging, the skin swollen where the heavy earrings pierced and pulled. I rub my aching ears.

  “You aren’t superstitious, are you?” Vanessa asked the first time we met. My answer was no then, and it’s no now, but I’m worried I’ve somehow contradicted myself by promising Ella I wouldn’t tell anyone about the ghost. I shouldn’t have promised. It was a rookie mistake: never promise a kid anything you’re not absolutely positively sure you can deliver.

  But I did it. Now I can only hope I don’t end up regretting it.

  9

  THE NEXT TIME JEFFREY MORISON COMES TO THE ISLAND, HE brings guests—Greg and Lorraine Chamberlain. Greg is a tall and handsome white man with the straight strong features of a television news anchor. Lorraine is a short white woman with unnaturally red hair and a lot of makeup. Her eyebrows are drawn dramatically upward. Her mouth is colored the same vivid red as her hair. She looks ridiculous.

  But then she speaks. “Jeffrey, tell your family about the cop who pulled us over because you were driving thirty miles over the speed limit. Then he saw it was you so he apologized and let us go. Are you sure this is Arrow Island and not Morison Island? I didn’t know the feudal system was thriving in this country—well, this part of the country,” Lorraine says, laughing.

  Her voice is low, in both tone and volume. Her laughter is a tinkling melody. She is, I suddenly realize, strikingly attractive.

  “Tell them, Jeffrey,” she says, and though her words point the attention toward Jeffrey, everyone continues watching Lorraine. Especially Jeffrey.

  “Well, Lorry, you just told the whole story. I’ve got nothing to add,” he says with a hearty chuckle.

  “Thirty miles over the speed limit, honey?” Vanessa tries to sparkle the question at her husband, but her voice is brittle. She sounds disapproving, not flirtatious, and when Jeffrey looks at her, he looks exasperated.

  Lorraine interjects, “It was probably only ten. You know I can’t help exaggerating.”

  “I know.” Vanessa smiles stiffly.

  Jeffrey surveys the table. “Where’s my father?”

  “He’s not feeling well. He’s resting,” says Henry.

  Lorraine gasps. “Oh no! Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine,” says Vanessa.

  Mrs. Tully comes in with the appetizers: salad and an assortment of savory pastries.

  “Mrs. Tully! I’ve been pestering Jeffrey for an invitation just so I could come back and eat your food.” Lorraine smiles. Her smile is as irresistible as her voice.

  Mrs. Tully smiles back. “I made the mushroom quiches because I remembered how much you liked them last time,” she says.

  Lorraine thanks her gravely, as if she has made a vast personal sacrifice and not a tart made of cheese and dough. Her excessive solemnity should be ridiculous, but it isn’t. Instead, it makes everyone else also thank Mrs. Tully.

  Then we eat. Jeffrey Morison and Lorraine talk. Apparently they’ve been friends for a long time, since college or high school or maybe even before that. And they have a lot to talk about: Fran Larson is getting divorced, again; and Jackson Roy is under investigation for insurance fraud; and Mina Bradley has some sort of illness and is starting a foundation. Their conversation pauses for a moment, out of respect for Mina’s illness. Then they continue. Vic Samson is cheating on his wife with his secretary and the secretary actually thinks he’s going to leave his wife for her.

  “Such a cliché. But Vic was always unoriginal,” says Lorraine.

  “That’s Vic, all right.” Jeffrey laughs and takes a long drink of wine.

  Meanwhile, Greg eats his food, grunting appreciatively.

  Meanwhile, Henry and Ella are communicating in a secret sibling language of eye rolls and nose wiggles and elbow jabs. I recognize it instantly, though it’s been years since my brother and I shared anything like that.

  Meanwhile, Vanessa watches her husband talk to Lorraine. Her blue eyes unblinking. Her glossy lips tremulously parted. As if she’s watching a movie, a sad one.

  I feel bad for Vanessa. But I’m also fascinated by Lorraine. She exemplifies the lesson that school assemblies, health classes, and teen magazines are always preaching: that attractiveness is not merely about looks, but also speech and action. It’s about confidence.

  I was never persuaded before, but Lorraine is dazzlingly convincing. She speaks with quiet authority, and everyone leans in to listen. She laughs often, and her laugh is infectious. Her smile is alluring. In comparison, Vanessa’s hair flipping and eyelash fluttering seem juvenile and co
ntrived.

  The worst part is that if I were a stranger guessing about the couples at this table, I’d guess wrong. Because they look right together, Jeffrey and Lorraine, a perfect match of wit and charm. Whereas Vanessa and Greg are similarly and conventionally beautiful. And also—at least in this moment—dull.

  Greg says nothing other than hello, nice to meet you, thanks for having us, and please pass the pepper. Then he is silent until he finishes his dessert, a thick slice of chocolate cake with whipped cream. He eats it all, leaving not a smudge on his plate. Finally he speaks again. He tells Vanessa, “That was some great grub.”

  “Thank you.” She doesn’t look at him. She is busy looking elsewhere.

  Greg either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He turns to the person seated on his other side. Which happens to be me. “So, you’re the nanny? How do you like it?” he asks.

  It’s a friendly question, and it deserves a friendly answer. I bend my lips into a smile. But before I can correct him, politely, someone else does.

  “Actually, Greg, she’s an academic tutor. Ella’s academic tutor.” It’s Henry. Henry says it. Then he looks at me and grins.

  I’m too startled to do anything but grin right back.

  Then Greg is asking me what exactly an academic tutor does, so I give him my standard explanation, full of words like “aptitude” and “individual attention” and “personalized curriculum.” I’ve given this speech dozens of times, so it requires no thought. Which is good, because I suddenly don’t know what to think.

  I think something has changed. I think it all day Saturday while the family and their guests are out: sailing on Jeffrey’s sailboat, eating dinner at the Morisons’ favorite restaurant in town. I think it all morning Sunday and most of the afternoon. I’m still thinking it when I meet Henry in the hallway, on our way to dinner Sunday night.

  “Hey,” he says. “Where’ve you been hiding?”

  “I’ve been in my room, but I haven’t been hiding,” I say.