Shadow Girl

by Liana Liu

  “Sounds like hiding to me.” Henry smirks.

  I ignore his smirk and say, “That was nice what you did the other night.”

  “I did something nice? It was probably a mistake.”

  “When you told Greg I was an academic tutor,” I persist. “I appreciated it.”

  “Oh, yeah. That. That was definitely a mistake. Better to keep that guy confused. Though it’s not like he needs any help. Maybe you should academic tutor him.” Henry is still smirking.

  And I feel so foolish. But I smile brightly. “Forget it,” I say.

  “Uh-oh, it’s the smile of doom. Now what did I do?” he asks.

  “Nothing. You’ve done nothing. You do absolutely nothing.”

  Henry stops smirking. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what it means,” I say, and dart past him into the dining room.

  The adults are all already there, and it appears they’ve been there for a while. Drinking. On the table are bottles of whiskey and vodka and wine. In their hands are glasses. Jeffrey’s face is deeply flushed. Vanessa’s dress is slipping off her shoulders, not intentionally. Greg’s swoop of hair seems to be deflating. Old Mr. Morison looks half asleep.

  Only Lorraine seems unaffected, her elaborately made-up face intact, her dark clothing securely fastened. But when she speaks, her voice is slightly huskier than usual. “Here come our dear young people, the brilliant tutor and the dashing Henry,” she says. “But where is our sweet little Ella?”

  “I’ll get her,” I say.

  I hurry to the small deck at the side of the house where I found her the day I arrived. Today she is not crouched in the corner. She is sitting on the white sofa, dressed in a fancy floral dress, with a book in her hands. It’s the book I bought for her. She closes it when she sees me.

  “I finished reading it,” Ella says accusingly.

  “Already? What did you think?” I expect her to argue that the ghost was real.

  But Ella says, “Why did he forget about his friend so fast?”

  “Who forgets about his friend?” I ask.

  “The neighbor boy. At the end of the book he forgets about his friend who used to live in the house and becomes friends with the new girl. How can he forget his old friend?”

  It takes me a moment to remember what she’s talking about. I’ve been focused on the haunting part of the book. “Um, just because he makes a new friend doesn’t mean he forgets about his old friend,” I say.

  Then Ella, quiet and modest and well-behaved Ella, flashes me a look of utter disdain. “The drawings weren’t very good either,” she says. “My drawings are better.”

  “I bet they are,” I say. “I’d love to see your drawings.”

  She drops her gaze. “Is it time for dinner now?”

  We go to the dining room.

  “Ellie!” cries Vanessa. “Come give Mommy a kiss. How pretty you are in that dress!”

  Ella goes to kiss her mother. Then she goes to kiss her father. He gives her his cheek and a pat on the shoulder while he continues talking to Lorraine. Tonight they are not gossiping about mutual acquaintances. They are discussing business.

  Lorraine is telling him about a new microchip under development at the technology company where she works. “The announcement will be made next Wednesday. It’s going to be huge,” she says.

  “Thanks for the tip. I can always count on you,” says Jeffrey.

  “And vice versa.” Lorraine smiles her alluring smile.

  “Jeffrey, this is not an appropriate conversation,” chides Mr. Morison. His voice is cold, but his face is hot with anger. I wonder how he would have reacted to the conversation of the other night, their talk of cancer, divorce, and secretaries.

  “Don’t blame him. It’s my fault.” Lorraine transfers her alluring smile to the old man.

  “Yes. I expect better from you, at least.” Mr. Morison’s expression softens. No one is immune to Lorraine’s charm.

  Mrs. Tully brings in dinner and more bottles of wine. Everyone eats and the adults drink and drink. A lot. By the time dessert arrives, Greg’s handsome face is sweaty and swollen and Mr. Morison is swaying sleepily in his chair. Jeffrey and Lorraine are sitting very close together. Vanessa watches them.

  Jeffrey whispers something to Lorraine.

  Lorraine bursts into laughter.

  The pure sound of it, the twinkling of her joy, startles Mr. Morison out of his stupor. He looks at her. Then he looks at his son and says, “She’s the one who got away, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, I was never handsome enough for her,” says Jeffrey.

  “That’s not true. I was never pretty enough for you,” says Lorraine.

  They smile, affectionately, at each other.

  I glance at Vanessa. She looks close to weeping.

  I’m getting ready for bed when Ella knocks on the door. She is still wearing her fancy dinner dress, and the sight of her in flowers and ruffles, surrounded by the flowers and ruffles of the pink room, is almost comical. But I don’t laugh. Ella’s expression is too serious.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “She’s here.”

  “Who?”

  “The ghost.”

  “Ella, there is no ghost,” I say.

  She stares at me.

  “Ghosts don’t actually exist,” I say.

  Her face puckers. “Also, I forgot your book outside. Come get it with me.”

  “Please ask nicely. And it’s your book now. I bought it for you.”

  “Will you please come with me to get my book please?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  It’s not very late, but the house already seems to be sleeping. The hallways are dark. The rooms are silent and still. We walk carefully through the shadows, speaking only in whispers.

  “Do you feel the cold air?” Ella whispers.

  “No. I think it feels warm here,” I whisper back.

  I tug the sliding door open, and we both jump at the stuttering swish—not because it’s loud, but because the night is so quiet. There is no breeze, no insect buzz. Only the distant rumble of the ocean.

  Ella scurries out and snatches the book from the sofa. Then she stops. She straightens. She lifts her chin and tilts her head.

  “Come on, Ella. Let’s go,” I whisper.

  “Do you hear that?” she asks.

  “I don’t hear anything,” I say. But then I do. A high-pitched wail. And I know there’s no ghost here, ghosts don’t exist, but I have to resist the urge to grab hold of Ella and run back inside. I force myself toward the mournful sound. I walk to the outer edge of the deck and peer over the railing.

  It’s Vanessa. Vanessa talking to her husband. Vanessa wailing at her husband. They are down in the backyard, their faces glowing blue in the swimming pool lights.

  “Aren’t I enough for you? Is there something wrong with me?” Vanessa cries.

  “Honey, you’re acting crazy. Lorraine’s like my sister. Besides, don’t you realize how much I make off her information?” Jeffrey says.

  “You leave me here with your kids. You stick me in this impossible situation with your father. You don’t come back for weeks. Then you bring her!”

  “You know I’d rather be here. It’s work that keeps me away. You should be happy. You certainly seem happy enough to spend my money.”

  “Your money?”

  I suddenly realize that Ella is next to me, stretched up on her tiptoes so that she can see over the railing. I take hold of her small, cold hand. “Let’s go inside,” I say.

  “Wait,” she says.

  I don’t wait. And she doesn’t resist as I pull her across the deck and into the house. I slide the door closed behind us. Then everything is silent again.

  As we climb up the stairs, I say, “All couples fight. It’s a way of expressing their feelings. It can make their relationship better.”

  Ella slides her hand out of my hand. I don’t take offense. Eight-year-olds are unpredictable when it
comes to hand-holding. “Okay,” she says skeptically.

  I don’t blame her. I’m skeptical too. Before my father left, my parents fought often. Or, more accurately, my father would fight with my mother. She wouldn’t fight back—she would reply in a soft and agreeable voice, saying soft and agreeable things. Which only made him attack harder, complain louder, criticize more harshly and unfairly. Their fights didn’t make their relationship better. But I doubt anything could have made their relationship better.

  When we reach her bedroom, Ella grabs my arm and grips it with startling strength. “Do you feel that?” she asks.

  “Ella, that’s enough. No more ghost stuff,” I say.

  But then I feel it. The floor trembling under our feet. The walls shivering around us. My heart shuddering in my body, my body shuddering as everything—the whole house, the whole world, and Ella and me inside it—shakes and shakes and shakes.

  “An earthquake!” I say. I try to remember what you’re supposed to do. Stand in doorways? Crouch under tables? Huddle in the bathtub? I can’t remember. No one expects earthquakes around here.

  “No! You have to stop! Stop it now!” shouts Ella.

  And all at once, everything is still.

  10

  IN THE MORNING, THE FIRST THING I DO AFTER GETTING OUT OF bed is go online to search for any reports of nearby earthquakes, aftershocks, tremors, or vibrations caused by natural or man-made explosions. I find nothing. Apparently, Arrow Island is in a low-risk zone for seismic activity. But if that wasn’t an earthquake last night, what could it have been?

  “Can you believe how mad the ghost was last night? She was so mad!” Ella says as she closes her workbook.

  I’m impressed by her restraint: she waited until we finished our lessons before bringing up the ghost. But I’ve been preparing for this moment all day. “No, the ghost wasn’t mad. There is no ghost. Ghosts aren’t real,” I say calmly, sensibly, authoritatively.

  “How do you know?” she asks.

  “Science has debunked the existence of ghosts.”

  “What does debunk mean?”

  “Debunk means prove that something is false. Look at this.” I hand her a stapled stack of papers, photocopied from the second book I bought for her: an academic study by a psychologist that examines the science behind fake psychics and haunting hoaxes and other so-called paranormal phenomena. Most of the book is too difficult or disturbing for eight-year-old Ella, but there are parts I decided she could read. For example, the chapter about how certain locations may seem haunted because of sound waves caused by rumbling traffic or rustling wind.

  Ella looks down at the first page. She looks up at me with a glazed expression.

  “It’s interesting. We’ll read it together,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says.

  We leave the library. Ella goes downstairs to look for her brother. And I go upstairs to talk to Vanessa about the earthquake. Because what else could it have been?

  However, I’m a little apprehensive. Vanessa was quiet during lunch, in her gray satin robe with no makeup on. Her husband left early this morning, taking his guests with him, but she didn’t say anything about that, or anything about him, or much of anything at all.

  I knock lightly on her office door.

  “Come in!” she calls, so I do. Vanessa is sitting at her desk. In some ways, she looks much better than she did at lunch. She has changed into a long lilac dress. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips have been colored pink. But her eyes are wide and wild.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “Everything’s great! Why?” she says.

  “Oh, I was wondering because . . . of the earthquake.”

  “Earthquake? What are you talking about?”

  “It happened last night. Around nine o’clock.”

  Vanessa shakes her head. “There wasn’t an earthquake.”

  “I’m sure there was,” I say.

  “Maybe you dreamed it,” she says. “I’ve been having this recurring dream that I look in the mirror and my skin is green, a moldy green, and it’s starting to crumble off. I try to press it back on, but the more I do, the more comes off, and there’s nothing underneath. Just a black hole.”

  “That sounds scary,” I say. “But . . . I didn’t dream the earthquake.”

  Vanessa starts to laugh. It is not her normal laugh; it is not a normal laugh. It’s a strangled sound that goes on and on and on, until it turns into a sob. Then she’s crying. Hard. For a second, I’m not sure how to respond. No parent has ever cried in front of me before.

  But plenty of children have.

  So I walk around the desk, hunch next to her, and put my arm around her shoulder. In a low, soothing voice, I say, “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “What am I going to do?” she says.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask.

  I expect her to talk about her husband or Lorraine.

  She says, “I’m so stressed about this party. I can’t find an event planner; all the good ones are already booked. Part of me wants to cancel the whole thing. But I’ll feel like such a failure if I do. I already feel like a failure.”

  “You’re not a failure. I know you’re going to throw a great party.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes. All your ideas are fantastic!”

  “But there’s so much to do.”

  “You can do it. And I can help you,” I say. Even though I’m an academic tutor. Not a babysitter or nanny or cleaning lady or spreadsheet maker. Definitely not a party-planning assistant. But what else could I say?

  Then Vanessa smiles at me with such gratitude that I can’t regret it. Not exactly.

  When Doris calls me this evening, I’m tempted not to answer. I’m not in the mood to talk to her. But as the phone rings and rings and rings, I start feeling guilty. She’s my best friend. I don’t want to be a bad friend. So I shine up my voice and answer.

  “Doris! How are you? It’s been so long! I miss you!”

  “I miss you too! It feels like you’ve been gone forever,” she says. “All this stuff is happening and I’m dying to talk to you about it.”

  “What stuff?” I immediately think of my brother.

  “Well, I met with my college adviser today, and we had an amazing discussion about my future, and I’m now considering going into neurology instead of cardiology.”

  I exhale. “Well, you don’t have to decide yet, do you?”

  “You know how I am, though. I like to plan.”

  “Me too,” I say. “That’s why we’re friends. Remember in second grade when I asked if I could use your red marker, and you said I could but only if I used it right away because you’d need it in exactly three minutes to color the flowers in your rainforest sketch?”

  “Then you gave the marker back two minutes and fifty-eight seconds later. That’s when I knew we’d be best friends forever,” she says.

  We both laugh, and I’m reminded of the way it used to be between us—so fun, so easy. I wish it could be that way again. But then Doris starts talking about my brother.

  “Andy did the sweetest thing,” she says. “My headphones broke last week, and you know what he did? He bought me a new pair. Isn’t that sweet?”

  “He probably stole them,” I say.

  Doris is quiet.

  “I’m kidding,” I say.

  “That’s not very nice,” she says, her voice gently chiding. It’s the same voice I use to discipline my students. “Andy cares about you. He misses you.”

  “He really said that?”

  “Not exactly. But he did ask me how you were doing.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you’re great! Aren’t you?”

  I try not to think about the fight between Vanessa and Jeffrey. Or how cold Ella’s hand felt when I held it last night. Or how I may be compromising my job description. Or the earthquake that no one else noticed. Especially not that.
/>   “Yeah, I’m great,” I say. And wish I hadn’t answered the phone.

  The next few days pass uneventfully. Vanessa finally hires an event planner. Old Mr. Morison recovers from his cold. Henry is his usual obnoxious self. Ella and I continue making slow progress during our tutoring sessions. We also spend a few hours reading the supernatural-study photocopies, but Ella isn’t that interested. I can’t tell whether it’s because she disagrees with the content or because it’s too difficult.

  On Thursday afternoon I’m in the library, reviewing my lesson plan for the next day, when Vanessa appears and sits down next to me at the table.

  “I need your help,” she says. “The calligrapher will be finished with the invitations and envelopes for the party tomorrow, and they need to be picked up and mailed right away.”

  “Okay,” I say. After all, I told her I’d help. “You want me to mail the invitations?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Great! You’ll have to leave early tomorrow morning so that you can get there in time. Then I thought you might like to spend the rest of the weekend with your family. I know you must miss them.”

  “My family?” I’m confused.

  “Don’t you miss them?” she says.

  “Yes, but . . . you want me to go back to the city?”

  “The calligrapher lives in the city. I didn’t mention that?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Yes, she works out of her home downtown. Don’t you live downtown as well? Anyway, I’d go myself, except my husband is coming tomorrow. Wouldn’t it be funny if I left the island to go to the city the same day Jeffrey left the city to come to the island?” Vanessa does something to her face—I think it’s meant to be a smile. It looks like a convulsion.

  “So you’ll go?” she asks.

  “Of course.” Even though I’m an academic tutor.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll tell Henry.”

  I frown. “What does Henry have to do with it?”

  “He’s going to drive you. I didn’t mention that? I’m so absentminded today. Henry has a meeting with his vice principal tomorrow afternoon, so he’s driving to the city. He’ll stay with his mom for the weekend, and the two of you can come back together on Sunday. It’s perfect timing, isn’t it?”