by Liana Liu
“I was thinking about going into town,” she says, and turns to her daughter. “Ella, would you like to come along? We can get our nails done.”
“Okay.” Ella smiles.
“And find you a new dress for the party.”
Ella stops smiling.
“Or maybe a new book?” I suggest.
“Great idea! A book and a dress!” Vanessa says.
Ella looks at me. “Are you coming too?”
“No, you and your mom should have a special day together. Besides, I have some stuff to do here,” I say. It’s true: Ella and Vanessa should spend some quality time together. It’s true: I have to call my mother, email Doris, and fill out some medical forms for school.
However, I’m also feeling self-conscious about how inappropriate I was yesterday—chiding Vanessa, interrupting her—even if it turned out all right in the end. But I should be more professional from now on.
An hour later I’m at the spa, a place with soft lights and fragrant scents and plush chairs, getting my nails done with Vanessa and Ella. It’s my first time at a spa, my first time getting my nails done, and it feels weird having a stranger crouched at my feet, scrubbing my toes. It tickles. I don’t exactly like it, but I don’t dislike it. And my nails look perfect when they’re done—noticeably better than when I paint them myself.
Next we go to the bookstore, where Vanessa flips through style magazines while I browse the bestsellers and Ella scurries around in the kids’ section. She emerges hugging a tall stack of books. The cashier says, “What a terrific reader your daughter is.”
“Yes, she is,” Vanessa replies proudly.
Ella blushes. But she looks pleased.
Ten minutes later, she looks much less pleased as she tangles with the dresses at a children’s clothing store. Vanessa has picked out nearly a dozen for her try on; by the third one, Ella starts withdrawing.
“How about this one?” her mother asks.
She shrugs.
“Or this one?”
She shrugs.
Vanessa frowns.
Ella’s gaze floats far away.
“Where’s that yellow dress you were looking at?” I ask Vanessa. “I think it would be wonderful on her.”
“Really? With her complexion?” she looks skeptical but goes to find it.
Then I quietly ask Ella, “Do you like any of them?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Of all the dresses in here,” I say, “is there one you actually like? Or one you wouldn’t mind wearing to your dad’s party?”
Her eyes come into focus. She shuffles through flounce and lace and ribbon and sparkle, then pulls out a purple eyelet dress. “This one is okay,” she says.
“Great,” I say. “Now tell your mom.”
“Tell me what?” Vanessa comes back into the fitting room.
Ella looks at me. I nod at her.
“I like this one,” she says, pointing to the purple dress.
Vanessa looks befuddled—not because of the dress, I think, but because her daughter is expressing a preference for any dress. “All right. Do you want to try it on?”
Ella goes behind the curtain and comes out in purple.
“It’s beautiful!” I tell her.
“Thanks,” Ella says. But she looks at her mother.
Vanessa is studying the dress with dissatisfaction. It’s the least fancy, least flashy, of all the ones she selected. I’m afraid of what she might say, but Ella speaks first.
“Mom, do I look okay?” she asks.
Vanessa shifts her gaze from the dress to her daughter. After a moment, her expression softens. “You’re perfect,” she says. “If that’s the dress you want, that’s the dress we’ll get.”
Our final stop is a women’s boutique, where Ella and I sit in brocade armchairs while Vanessa tries on, seemingly, every dress in the store. Every time, she sashays out of the dressing room to ask what we think.
“I love it!” I say. Every time.
Ella says nothing because she is half asleep in her chair.
“This one also comes in red and a blue-green,” the saleswoman says.
“Oh! Let’s see the blue,” says Vanessa.
The saleswoman brings it out with a flourish. It’s a simple dress: sleeveless and scoop-necked and knee-length. The blue-green has an ocean shimmer.
“That color would look great on you,” I tell Vanessa.
“No, it’s your color. You have to try it on,” she says.
“Me?” I say.
“You,” she says.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“Yes,” says Vanessa.
“Yes,” says the saleswoman.
“If you want,” Ella murmurs sleepily.
I go into the dressing room. Then I look at the price tag. I can’t believe it. I knew it would be expensive, but I didn’t know it could be this expensive—more than the cost of everything in my closet combined. So very, very carefully, I slip into the dress. The fabric glides across my skin and clings softly to my body. I tell myself not to look in the mirror—this is not an item of clothing I could ever buy, so there’s no point in looking in the mirror.
Of course I look.
A dress is not magic, I know. It can’t transform you into another person. Yet I feel completely transformed. The girl in the mirror is not me; she’s a fashionable girl, a confident girl, a sophisticated, stylish girl, a girl without a care in the world, a girl who would not, could not, be overlooked. For a moment I wish Henry Morison could see me in this dress.
Stupid thought. Stupid Henry. Stupider me.
“Come on out—let’s see!” calls Vanessa.
Reluctantly, I pull back the curtain. Vanessa and the saleswoman ooh and ah. Vanessa tells me I look gorgeous. The saleswoman tells me I look stunning. The saleswoman turns to Vanessa and says, “That color’s perfect on her, don’t you think? Though I’d like to see her in the red. So exotic.”
“No, the blue-green is the one for her,” says Vanessa.
The saleswoman immediately agrees. “Oh, definitely.”
“Um. Thanks.” I hurry back into the fitting room, lift the dress over my head, and hang it back on the hanger. I return it to the saleswoman.
“Are you getting it? You have to get it,” she says.
“You have to,” says Vanessa.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“It’ll be perfect for the party,” says Vanessa.
“It’s perfect for any occasion,” says the saleswoman.
“You’re beautiful in it,” says Vanessa.
“It fit perfectly,” says the saleswoman. “Like it was made for you.”
“Thanks, but I really can’t buy it,” I say softly.
Perhaps I say it too softly. The saleswoman brings the dress to the register. Vanessa walks with her, rambling about what color shoes would go best with it. “A soft gold, maybe, or what about coral?” she says.
I clear my throat. “I’m not going to buy the dress,” I say loudly, clearly.
They whirl around. “What? Why not?”
“I can’t afford it,” I say.
Vanessa and the saleswoman stare at me. They are silent. I feel as if I’ve screamed some bad words or something. Maybe I have.
The silence seems to last forever. It probably lasts less than a minute. Then they all start talking at once. The saleswoman says, “Yes, well, that’s understandable, dear.” Vanessa says, “Sure, sure, that’s fine, of course.” Ella says, “Mom, is it time to go home yet?”
And I say, “I’m sorry.”
We drive back to the house to find dinner is ready and Mr. Morison is impatiently waiting in the dining room. After we eat, he and Ella go to watch a movie in the entertainment room. Vanessa goes to call her event planner with a new idea about hors d’oeuvres. I go to the pink bedroom and get ready for bed. Even though it’s still early. Even though I’m not especially tired. But I don’t know how else to get away from my embarrassment.
“Wake up! Wake
up!” says the voice. A soft voice, a girlish voice.
I open my eyes. There is a shadow sitting at the side of the bed. I know I’m dreaming. I shut my eyes again and turn over, pulling the blanket up to my chin.
“Wake up!” the voice says, louder now.
I feel a weight on my arm, as if something—someone—is holding on to me, shaking me. A dream, I tell myself, it’s only a dream. But I’m physically shaking. I turn back over, open my eyes again, and rub away the sleep. I squint through the darkness.
“Ella?” I say to the shadow.
She leans closer to me. “Are you awake?” she whispers.
“Yeah. Because you just woke me up.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Eleanor keeps bothering me. Can you hear her?”
I listen. All I hear is the sound of my breathing and her breathing. I shake my head.
Ella tilts her head to the side. She frowns. “She’s being quiet now. But she’s upset.”
“Why is she upset?”
“I told you. The party.”
“Right.” I yawn. “Now that she’s quiet, you should go back to sleep.
“As soon as I try to sleep, she’s going to start bothering me again.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.” Ella swings her legs up onto the bed. She wraps her arms around her knees. She looks very small, very young.
“Do you want to sleep in here?” I slide over to make room for her in the bed.
“Okay.” She crawls under the floral blanket.
“Comfy?” I ask.
“Comfy,” Ella says.
Almost immediately she starts snoring, breathy snorts that rattle the whole mattress, and I’m so startled that for a moment I think: Eleanor. But then I realize it’s just Ella and I giggle into my pillow, and that’s the last thing I remember before falling asleep. Neither of us wakes again until the morning.
6
MONDAY COMES. HENRY IS STILL GONE. THEN TUESDAY, THEN Wednesday, then Thursday. But I don’t ask anyone where he is. I don’t care. And yet . . . I find myself listening closely when Ella mentions her brother during lunch.
“Why isn’t Henry back yet?” she asks.
“I guess his mom still needs him.” Vanessa looks at her phone as she speaks. Her distraction is excusable, I suppose. There are only two more days until the big day.
“That woman never changes.” Old Mr. Morison shakes his head.
“So when will Henry come home?” Ella asks.
“All I know is he’d better be back for the party,” says Vanessa.
Ella sighs. “I wish he was here now.”
I’m annoyed. Not at Ella—even though she has been waking me up every night to complain about Eleanor, then staying with me in the pink bedroom. I figure it’ll stop after the party. I hope it will.
But no, I’m annoyed at Henry. Now that I know where he is, I’m annoyed at him for leaving. Though what else should I have expected? He’s not grounded anymore. Of course he abandoned his family to go party with his friends in the city. Not that I care—it’s only for Ella, who truly and deeply misses her brother, that I care. For myself, I’d be fine if Henry never came back.
Henry comes back that night. He walks into the dining room nonchalantly, as if he never left. “What’s for dinner? It smells good in here,” he says.
“Henry!” Ella leaps up from her chair.
“Ella!” Henry catches her in his arms.
“You were gone forever!”
“I know, I’m sorry. You must have been insanely bored here without me,” he says. He smirks over his sister’s shoulder. At me.
“No,” says Ella. “We’ve been having fun. I got some new books.”
I smirk back at Henry. But my smirk feels too close to a smile, so I turn away.
“How’s your mother?” Vanessa asks.
“Fine. She’s fine,” Henry says. “Where’s Granddad?”
“He was tired, so he went to bed early.”
“Is he all right?”
“Yes, I think he has a cold.”
“Another cold?”
“I made him a get-well card,” Ella informs her brother.
“Then I bet he’ll be better in no time.” He grins.
Mrs. Tully comes into the dining room with a plate of food for Henry. He thanks her and tells her how much he missed her cooking. Then he turns to Vanessa. “How’s everything going with the party?” he asks.
“Great! Everything’s finally coming together,” she says.
“It’s going to be the best party ever. I can’t wait!” Henry says.
Vanessa is smiling at him. Ella is smiling at him. Mrs. Tully is smiling at him.
And I am rolling my eyes, thoroughly disgusted.
When dinner is over, I wait several minutes after Henry leaves the dining room to leave the dining room. I linger in the hallways. I saunter leisurely around corners. I admire the artwork in the foyer. Yet somehow—how?—we meet on the stairs. And I angrily blurt out what I’ve wanted to say all through the meal: “I’m shocked you came back for the party.”
“Of course I did. It’s my dad’s birthday,” he says.
“But you don’t care about stuff like that.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s essentially what you said. Then you proved it by leaving.”
Henry’s face twists into a bitter smile, a smile uglier than any frown. “Have you been rehearsing this since I’ve been gone? Thinking how you were going to tell me off?”
“You’re really conceited if you think I spent any time thinking about you.”
His bitter smile becomes a leer. “Maybe I am conceited, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t thinking about me. Admit it.”
I flush. “Yeah, I thought about you, about how selfish you are.”
Then Henry stops leering. He stares at me with no expression at all, and this is somehow worse than his leer, his bitter smile, his perennial smirk. When he speaks, his voice is as empty as his face. “For your information,” he says, “I left because my mom had a nervous breakdown. She was in the hospital for two days.”
My anger abruptly shuts off.
“Henry, I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Stop pretending,” he says.
Henry leaps up the rest of the stairs, two at a time, rapidly rising above me. I stand there numbly until after he’s gone, after the echo of his footsteps has faded to nothing. Only then do I walk slowly back to the pink bedroom. I shut the door behind me.
And I realize he’s right. I’m not nice.
Wake up! Wake up! says the voice. A soft voice, a girlish voice.
I slide over in the bed without opening my eyes. I’m used to this now. “Get in, Ella. Go to sleep,” I murmur.
But I’m not tired, she says. And I’m not Ella.
“No jokes now. I’m sleeping.”
I never joke. Her voice abruptly deepens, so that it is no longer soft or girlish.
“Ella?” I roll over and look at her.
The shadow sitting at the side of the bed turns her face toward me. Her skin is grayish. Her eyes are black holes. Her dress is light pink with dark pink flowers. She is not Ella. She is not anyone I know. She is not human.
“I’m dreaming,” I say.
You’re not dreaming.
“Eleanor?” I say.
She smiles, her small teeth gleaming with moonlight.
“I’m going crazy,” I say.
Going, going, gone. She gives a gurgling giggle.
“Very funny,” I say. Strangely, I’m not scared at all. I don’t get the sense that Eleanor means me any harm. Maybe she’s a ghost, but she’s also just a girl.
I need to talk to you, Eleanor says.
“Sure, what about?”
The party.
“Oh. Are you upset you’re not invited?”
Of course not. It’s going to be boring. That’s what I want to talk to you abou
t. I have an idea to make it much more exciting.
At this I feel a pang of worry. “I don’t think we need to make it more exciting,” I say. “It’s already really exciting. They’re turning the swimming pool into a dance floor.”
Eleanor rolls her eyes. Aren’t you bored of being so boring?
“You sound like Henry now.”
She snorts. That’s ridiculous. I don’t sound like a boy. I’m just tired of being well-behaved. Besides, it’s the Morison family’s last party, so we should make it a good one.”
“What do you mean it’s their last party?”
Eleanor shakes her head and smiles, small teeth gleaming, and I notice how sharp those small teeth are. Then I notice something else: her dress is not light pink with dark pink flowers; her dress is white and covered in bloodstains.
She sees me noticing. Something changes in her smile. Her black eyes seem to get blacker. Her teeth seem to sharpen. The blood on her dress, I notice, is fresh and blossoming.
And now I’m absolutely terrified.
“Eleanor, what are you going to do?” I say, my voice trembling.
I’ve changed my mind; I don’t need your help. It’ll be a wonderful surprise for you. You’ll thank me after. She laughs, tipping back her head and opening her mouth wide so that the sound pours out like blood—a thick swell, a wave, and then there’s an ocean of red on the bed, the floor, and I’m kicking my legs and waving my arms to try to stay afloat.
The blood fills my lungs, sinking me down and down and down.
I cough myself awake. It was a dream, only a dream, a nightmare, a terrible and meaningless nightmare. I open my eyes to reassure myself that I am alone in the pristine pink bedroom. And I am. I glance at the clock. It’s almost five in the morning. The sky is beginning to lighten. I’m alone. Ella must have slept through the night.
I shut my eyes again and roll across the bed. Something stabs painfully into my back. I reach for it. My hand finds something small and cold and hard. I pull it out from under the blanket. It’s the porcelain ballerina figurine that my father gave me for my sixth birthday.
How could that possibly be?
The figurine should be where I put it, in my suitcase in the mirrored wardrobe. It should be where I left it in my closet at home. It should be anywhere other than here in the bed with me.
I get up and drop the figurine into the wastebasket. Then immediately I stoop down and retrieve it. Even after everything that’s happened, I can’t bring myself to throw it away. I place the figurine on the dressing table and give her a nudge so that she makes a teetering twirl. I should get back to bed. But I can’t bring myself to get back into that bed with its pretty floral quilt. In the gloom of early morning, the pink blossoms are the brown-red of drying blood.
