Shadow Girl

by Liana Liu

  In the pink bedroom, I shut the door and lie down on the floral bed. Then I do not move. Even my mind, my shark mind, is dead still. An hour drifts by. I lie there, do not move, do not sleep—or do I? Because suddenly there’s my father; he’s standing before me, his arms crossed over his chest, his head shaking. Then he asks, “What’s wrong with you?”

  So I must be sleeping. Because this has to be a dream.

  But no matter how hard I try, I cannot wake myself up.

  There’s a knock on the door. I pry open my swollen eyes, scramble out of bed, and shuffle across the room. I bump into the edge of the dressing table and trip over the fluffy white rug. I fumble with the knob.

  “Time for dinner,” Ella says when I open the door at last.

  “Oh,” I croak. I clear my throat and try again. “Oh, yeah, sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Are you ready?”

  I am not ready. I doubt I’ll ever be ready to see Jeffrey Morison again. But I say, in as cheerful a voice as I can manage, “Sure, let me just use the bathroom first.”

  I go wash my hands and face, and glance at my reflection. The girl in the mirror is red-eyed, blotchy skinned, hideous. I turn away and hurry back to the hallway.

  We walk downstairs. I chatter the whole way there: about my swimming lessons, about the weather, about a book I want her to read. Ella doesn’t say much in response, but she often doesn’t say much, so I don’t think she’s necessarily noticed that I’m upset.

  But when we reach the dining room, she pats my arm. “Don’t worry,” she says.

  “I’ll try not to.” I smile at her, a small but real smile.

  Then I stretch my smile wide as we step into the room. Everyone is already there, waiting, and I sense their impatience. “I’m so sorry!” I say, rotating my wide smile around the table. “I was taking a nap and somehow I overslept. You should have started without me.”

  “We’d never do that!” It’s not Vanessa who says this, or Henry, or old Mr. Morison. It’s Jeffrey. He says it with perfect pleasantness, and his accompanying grin shines.

  “Thank you,” I say. There’s nothing else to say.

  Vanessa peers at me. “Darling, you don’t look so good. I hope you’re not coming down with something.” She leans back, as if my puffy red blotch might be contagious.

  “Um. It might be a cold,” I say.

  “Drink lots of fluids and go to bed early,” Jeffrey says. “You need to take care of yourself. What would we do around here without you? Ella would miss her lessons and my wife would be lost and Henry, well, I’m sure he’d be fine. He always seems to be, no matter what sort of trouble he gets into.”

  Henry grimaces. Apparently the fact that he passed his exam and is graduating did not improve their relationship.

  Old Mr. Morison discharges a single sharp cough. “Is that the attitude you should be encouraging? You honestly believe nothing bad can happen to this family?”

  Jeffrey smiles, revealing an astounding number of teeth. “Hasn’t happened yet.”

  His father mutters something incomprehensible.

  “Daddy!” Ella chirps. “How was work this week? I missed you.”

  “I missed you too, sweetie, but you know I’m working hard for you. On Wednesday I had ten meetings—can you imagine? I didn’t even have time to comb my hair.” Jeffrey pats his own nearly bald head, his eyes wide with alarm.

  Ella and Vanessa laugh obligingly.

  And I stop paying attention. I just can’t do it anymore.

  But the truth is that it doesn’t matter. No one seems to notice whether I’m paying attention or not. They eat and they talk and I don’t listen and it doesn’t make a difference. Mrs. Tully comes in to clear the table. I don’t thank her like I usually thank her, and she glowers at me anyway.

  I spend the rest of the weekend avoiding Jeffrey Morison. It isn’t hard. On Saturday the family goes out on the boat, and they don’t return until late in the evening. On Sunday they have friends visiting and spend the day at the beach.

  Vanessa and Henry both come by once to ask if I want to join them. Ella comes by twice. I thank them and say, no, sorry, no. I’m not feeling well. I’d better stay and rest up. Also, I might be contagious and I don’t want anyone catching whatever I have. But have a great time!

  Only Ella questions me. “You don’t look sick,” she says, scrunching her nose.

  “Well, I feel terrible,” I say. Which is the absolute truth.

  Finally, it’s Sunday evening. I’m in the pink bedroom getting ready for bed and thinking I’ve made it through safely—Jeffrey Morison will be leaving early the next morning—when someone knocks on the door. I open it a crack. I don’t believe it.

  “Are you feeling better?” Jeffrey Morison asks.

  I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.

  “Good,” he says, twinkling his toothy smile at me. “I was hoping we could have a chat. I want to check in about my daughter’s progress.”

  “Of course,” I say. It would be unprofessional to refuse this request.

  He glances inside my room. His smile withers as he looks at the flowers and ruffles and frills. “I always forget what my wife did in here. Shall we talk in the library?”

  “Sure.” I wonder if he makes the suggestion because it’s more appropriate or because he wants to avoid the pinkness of the pink bedroom. Maybe both.

  In the library, Jeffrey Morison relaxes on one of the large leather couches, his arms and legs flung outward. I sit in the chair across from him. It’s awkward being alone with him, not only because of what happened the other day, but also because I barely know him—despite the fact that I am living in his house and I spend every day with his family; despite the fact that his family, especially his wife, talks frequently about him. We are still strangers. With almost nothing in common. I feel very small in my armchair.

  “My wife tells me that my daughter has been making progress,” he says.

  “Yes, Ella has improved greatly in both her math and reading. Her long-division skills are especially strong. I’m very pleased with how well she’s doing.”

  Jeffrey nods. “I know Ella can do the work. She’s not stupid; I tell my wife that all the time. So I don’t understand her underwhelming grades.”

  “Part of the problem is motivation. If Ella isn’t interested or invested in the subject, she won’t put in the effort,” I say. In spite of everything, I’m happy to be having this conversation. I think it’s important for parents to recognize their children’s strengths and their weaknesses. Especially their weaknesses.

  “Then how can we keep her motivated in a class setting?”

  “If her teachers take the time and effort to build a genuine relationship with her, I think Ella will thrive.”

  “Considering the tuition costs at her school, I should hope her teachers take the time and effort to do that. I’ll have to speak to them about it.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “Well, I’m glad we had this talk. You’re an insightful girl,” he says with a smile. “Do I remember correctly—you mentioned you’re interested in finance? Would you be interested in interning at my company next summer?”

  “Yes,” I say immediately. “Yes, I’d be very interested.”

  “We only take on a few interns each year, and it’s a competitive process. But since I already know you and your abilities, we can bypass all that.”

  “Thank you! I really appreciate it.”

  “It’s no trouble. Since I already know I can trust you.” Jeffrey Morison stops smiling. His eyes harden; his mouth, his entire face. “Because I can trust you, can’t I?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “So I can trust you not to tell anyone about anything you may have overheard in this house.” He stares intently at me.

  “I, uh . . .” I don’t understand.

  Then, all at once, I do.

  He is talking about that phone conversation in his office. Phrases echo in my mind: “So he doesn�
��t have any proof. . . . We should be safe then. . . . Lorry, sweetheart . . .” And I remember Vanessa watching her husband and Lorraine Chamberlain sitting together at the dinner table, talking and laughing as if no one else was there. I remember the heartbroken expression on Vanessa’s face.

  Then I understand what this is actually about. What Jeffrey Morison is really offering me, and what he expects in exchange. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. But he is staring at me, waiting for me to answer. I have to say no. Because how can I say yes when it means betraying Vanessa?

  But how can I say no when he is giving me the opportunity I want, the opportunity I need, the opportunity I’ve been secretly dreaming of ever since I got this job?

  “Yes,” I say. “You can trust me.”

  In my dream I’m lying in bed when a little girl comes to sit beside me. Not now, Ella, I say. I’m trying to sleep. I’m so tired.

  I’m not Ella, snaps the girl.

  Sorry. Of course you’re not. I don’t know how I could have confused them. Ella has dark hair, and this girl’s hair is silver moonlight. Ella has a slight summer tan and this girl is so pale that her skin seems translucent. This girl is wearing a white dress, lacy and beaded and long, wedding-dress fancy. It’s a dress Ella might wear because her mother picked it out, but Ella would never look comfortable in it. This girl looks comfortable.

  I like your dress, I tell her.

  She glances down at it, as if she has forgotten what she’s wearing. It’s all right, she says. But I have prettier ones that Father bought for me. You should see them.

  Will you show them to me? I ask.

  Not now, she says.

  Why not?

  You’re not ready.

  I’m ready.

  No, says the little girl, you’re not.

  Please? Please show them to me, I beg. I know that seeing her pretty dresses will change me, and I’m desperate to change.

  Fine. But I warned you. She sighs as she slips down from my bed. Her white dress is too long; it trails on the floor behind her as she leads me to the mirrored wardrobe. Even though it’s just across the room, it takes us a very long time to get there.

  But that’s my closet, I say.

  We’re sharing it, she says, and jerks open the door.

  I leap back in horror. There are no pretty dresses inside, no clothing at all. Instead there are heads. Severed heads, chopped off at the neck. Lined up in a neat row. Blood dripping from the shelf. I stare at them. Drip, drip. They stare back at me. Drip, drip. They are all there: old Mr. Morison, Jeffrey, Vanessa, Henry, and Ella. Drip, drip. I want to scream, to cry, to run away. But I don’t. It would be rude. Drip.

  The little girl sighs again. See, I told you you weren’t ready.

  And then she starts screaming.

  It’s her screaming that wakes me. I jolt up and tell myself it was a dream, it’s not real, it was a dream, just a dream. The problem is, I am now clearly awake and someone is still screaming. Loud and shrill and frantic.

  At first I think it’s Ella. But then I realize it couldn’t possibly be Ella. Because the sound is coming from here, inside my bedroom, inside my bed. I lift my hand to my face. My mouth is closed. Yet as soon as my fingers cover my lips, the screaming stops.

  For several minutes I sit there with my hand over my mouth, struggling to make sense of the situation. Then something—and I cannot describe what that something is—makes me turn my head to the left, toward the mirrored wardrobe across the room.

  The door is open wide, revealing all the darkness within.

  3

  I SHOULDN’T DO IT. BUT I CAN’T HELP IT. “DID YOU HEAR ANYTHING last night?” I ask when we’ve finished our lessons for the day.

  “Like what?” Ella says.

  “Like, um, voices?”

  “You mean the ghost? Eleanor? Did she talk to you? What did she say?”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  Ella shakes her head. “I didn’t hear anything. What did you hear?”

  “Nothing really. I think it was just a dream.”

  “A dream?” she says doubtfully.

  “A dream,” I say firmly. “Anyway, I have something for you. It’s from a book about the Arrow family.”

  Ella eagerly takes the packet of papers from me and starts reading, her eyes rapidly scanning. The chapter is about Lionel Arrow and his five sons, but before the scandal and disappearance of four of the brothers and the tragic end of the fifth brother. It describes their childhood on the island, the pranks and hijinks and bonds and fun and fights. There is no mention of any daughter. No Eleanor.

  Which is exactly my point: Eleanor didn’t exist then. Eleanor doesn’t exist now.

  When Ella finishes reading, it’s the first thing she points out. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I’m sorry, but the truth is—”

  “They left her out,” she interrupts. “Poor Eleanor.”

  “No, Ella. If she existed,” I say, “she would be in the book.”

  “Of course she existed. How could she be here now if she never existed?” Ella speaks so matter-of-factly that I’m almost convinced by her logic.

  Almost. “But she’s not here now. There is no ghost.”

  “If there’s no ghost, who did you talk to last night?”

  “I told you it was just a dream.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay.” Ella gazes at me with wide, innocent eyes, but her mouth gives her away. Her lips twitch into a smirk, a very Henry-ish smirk.

  I have no idea what to do. There seems to be no way to convince Ella that the ghost doesn’t exist. Even worse, I now seem to be having trouble convincing myself.

  Vanessa comes into the library waving a thick stack of envelopes. “Girls! Look at what came in the mail today. So many RSVP cards!”

  “Great!” we say.

  She glances at the photocopied papers on the table. “What are you reading?”

  “We’re doing some research on the history of Arrow Island.” I smile at her. And feel rotten. Because my explanation is not the whole truth. Because there’s something else I haven’t told her. Something much worse.

  “Fun!” Vanessa sits down at the table with us. “But if you’re done . . . would you mind helping me sort these cards? It’ll go so much faster.”

  “Sure,” I say. Anything to relieve my guilt.

  We make three piles: one for the yesses, one for the noes, and one for the ripped-open envelopes. Vanessa gives every yes a fond look and every no a slight frown.

  Some of the names are vaguely familiar, names I recognize from the newspaper or fashion magazines. Then I come across a name I personally recognize: Joan Pritchett, my student Benny’s mother, whose job offer I turned down for the Morisons’.

  “The Pritchetts are coming,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.

  “You mean Benny? Benny’s coming?” Ella asks.

  “Yes, the whole family,” I say.

  “Good,” says Ella.

  Vanessa gives the card a fond look as I set it down into the yes pile. Then her fond look becomes a sly smile. “Joan was extremely annoyed I’d hired you away from her. But I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist the party.”

  “It seems like most people can’t resist the party.” I gesture at the stacks. The yes pile is much taller than the no pile.

  “It’s Jeffrey. Everyone loves my husband.”

  I sit very still. I don’t even breathe.

  “It can be hard sharing him with everyone.” Vanessa sighs.

  I glance at Ella. She is watching her mother. When she notices me looking, her gaze shifts down to the envelope in her hand. She tears it open.

  A moment later Ella announces, “Greg and Lorraine aren’t coming.”

  There’s a note scribbled on the other side. I read it—before it occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t read it. But it only says:

  Sorry, V, it’s the same weekend we’re supposed to visit Greg’s dad. Love, Lorraine.

 
Vanessa flips it over and studies the message, really studies it, as if there is more than a single simple sentence written there. Maybe there is. Then she tosses it down onto the no pile. She shrugs. “Who cares,” she says.

  Days pass and the secret festers inside me, growing more painful and more putrid with each passing second. I can barely think about anything else.

  I have trouble sleeping. Every night I wake up two or three times, my heart beating so hard it hurts. It takes me hours to fall back asleep, if I can fall back asleep at all.

  I have trouble eating. I’m only able to take a few bites of breakfast, lunch, or dinner before feeling as if I’m going to throw up. At home we always finish everything in our bowl, every last grain of rice; it would be wasteful not to. But now I start leaving half of my meal, or more. I tell myself it doesn’t matter: in the Morison household, people don’t always clear their plates. I feel guilty anyway.

  It takes all my energy to keep up my tutoring sessions with Ella, to stay focused and engaged and cheerful during our lessons.

  I spend time in the pink bedroom, curled on the pink bed, trying to strategize my way out of this mess. But there are too many pieces to the puzzle: the phone call, the internship offer, the surprise party, Vanessa’s attachment to her husband, Jeffrey’s busyness at work, Ella’s obsession with Eleanor, Henry’s rift with his father, Jeffrey breaking his office chair, Vanessa’s competitive friendship with Joan Pritchett, old Mr. Morison’s forecasts of disaster, my strange and unsettling dreams. . . .

  The shark mind swims in sluggish circles, round and round, getting nowhere.

  Suddenly I think of my mother. I need to call her, I realize; it’s been days since I last called. I pick up my phone from the nightstand. Then I notice it’s after midnight. I put my phone back down. But I’m still thinking about my mother. I’m thinking about how she would be peeling a potato and suddenly she would stop and her eyes would go empty and in that moment I would see her sorrow. And something shifts inside me.

  I have to tell Vanessa about her husband and Lorraine.

  Of course I have to tell her. No matter what Jeffrey Morison promised me. No matter how scared I am to do it. No matter what the consequences might be. I have to tell her and I will. She deserves to know.