Shadow Girl

by Liana Liu

  “That doesn’t make her unimportant,” I say.

  “Agreed,” he says.

  “We’ll remember you, Eleanor. Hold on a second.” I go over to the fence, where there is a cluster of small flowers on a thorny plant. I pick a few stems and lay them at the foot of her gravestone.

  “You know those are weeds, right?” says Henry.

  I scowl at him. “Doesn’t matter. They’re pretty.”

  “Right, sorry.”

  “Now apologize to Eleanor.”

  “Sorry, Eleanor.”

  “She forgives you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know,” I say.

  We stay there long enough to get uncomfortable crouching, so we sit, long enough to get uncomfortable sitting, and so we lie down. Is it creepy that we’re lying in the grass in a graveyard? Maybe. But it feels peaceful being here, watching for shooting stars as the moon drifts across the sky.

  After a long moment of silence, I say, “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “Calling you selfish.”

  “But I am,” he says. “And you already apologized.”

  “I know. But the truth is, it wasn’t really about you.”

  “Then what was it about?”

  “Well . . .” I tell him about Waltman College, applying, getting accepted, and turning them down. “Even with the scholarship, I couldn’t afford to go without taking out a bunch of loans, which is why I told my teacher I decided not to go. And that was true. But the real reason was that I can’t leave my mother. So I was jealous of you. Of how you do whatever you want.”

  “Why can’t you leave your mom?”

  “She wouldn’t get along without me. It’s just . . . the two of us.”

  “Well, how’s she doing without you this summer?”

  “Fine, but it’s only been a couple of months, and my brother is there too.”

  “Your bad brother? I thought you said he was making things worse.”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Maybe it’s also me,” I admit, and start crying.

  Henry rolls onto his side, props his head up on his arm, and gazes at me. He still doesn’t say anything. He waits for me to explain. I’ve never thought of him as a particularly patient person, but now he looks at me as though he could wait forever.

  So for a while I just cry. Then, when my tears eventually slow, I explain. “I guess I’m scared of leaving. Of letting my mom down. Of not being the perfect daughter. Of change. Of losing control. Of everything. Every single fucking thing. I’m just . . . so . . . scared.”

  As soon as I admit this to him—no, to myself—I start feeling better. I take a few deep breaths. I wipe my eyes. It has been a very, very, very long time since I’ve cried like that.

  “You okay?” Henry asks.

  “Yeah. Thanks for listening.”

  “It was worth it just to hear you curse. I’ve never heard you curse before.”

  I laugh. “Well, now you fucking have. So tell me your plans for after the summer.”

  “Well, I have orientation next week, so I have to figure out what classes I want to take and all that stuff. But I’ll be back in the city after that—it’s only a three-hour drive. So we can hang out then . . . if you’re around and not tired of hanging out with me.”

  “Always around and never tired.”

  “Perfect.” He smiles ruefully. “Now can I say something extremely selfish?”

  “Yes, please!”

  Henry lies back flat on the ground and stares at the sky. “I’m glad the reason you freaked out that night wasn’t because I tried to, uh, kiss you or anything.”

  My whole body tenses. It would be easy just to agree. But if he’s brave enough to tell me that, I want to be brave too. “Um, actually, it kind of was—not because I didn’t want you to, because I did. But then I started thinking about how we’re so different, our lives are so different, and I panicked.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay? You don’t think I’m a total weirdo who worries too much?”

  “The important part is you admitted you were dying to kiss me.”

  “That’s not what I said!”

  Henry smirks. “Why else would you panic?”

  “Ugh, no, stop, let’s talk about something else. How’s your mom?”

  “Much better. She and my stepdad went bowling yesterday, and she won two out of three games. They love bowling. Do you bowl? I can teach you.”

  “No! No more lessons!”

  He laughs. I laugh. We keep talking as the night grows cooler, then cold; and I’m cold, I’m freezing, but I don’t want to get up, I don’t want to leave, I don’t want this moment to end.

  But eventually Henry sits up and asks, “Should we go back?”

  “Never,” I say.

  “Your teeth are chattering.”

  “That’s normal. My teeth always chatter. You haven’t noticed?”

  He laughs. “Come on. We don’t want to miss birthday cake.”

  I immediately jump up. “Bye, Eleanor!” I say.

  “Yeah, see you around, Ms. Arrow,” Henry says.

  We step through the gate and push it closed behind us. Our arms touch, brush, fingers tangle and twine. Then, hand in hand, we walk back to the house.

  11

  I WAKE UP IN MY FLORAL NEST OF BLANKETS, WITH THE SUN streaming light and bright through the curtains, as the birds chirp with wild cheerfulness outside the window. I smile.

  Then I frown when I see what time it is. I’ve overslept. Quickly, I brush my teeth and wash my face and change out of my pajamas. I run downstairs to the kitchen, hoping I didn’t miss breakfast.

  No one is there.

  Furthermore, there is no lingering smell of butter or coffee or bacon. There are no dishes in the sink, no mugs on the counter, not a single crust or crumb anywhere. I gingerly tap the kettle on the stove. It’s cold.

  I check the living room, the dining room, the family room. I go out on the deck at the side of the house and look in every corner. I walk across the front lawn to the backyard and around the swimming pool (which has been transformed back from a dance floor). No one is there. Nor is there any sign of last night’s party, but that isn’t surprising. Vanessa scheduled a cleaning crew to come last night.

  Maybe everyone is still sleeping—yesterday was a long and tiring day.

  So I go back upstairs, knock on Ella’s door, wait a minute, and go inside. She is not there. Her bed is unmade. Her closet door is open, and when I walk over to shut it, I see that most of her clothes are gone. I close her closet door. I make her bed. I notice that the books she usually keeps on her nightstand are also gone.

  I take out my cell phone and call Vanessa. The line goes straight to voice mail. I call Henry. The line rings and rings; he doesn’t answer. I walk downstairs to the kitchen again. I don’t know what else to do. I’m hungry.

  The refrigerator is full of food, as usual, and I’m relieved this much is normal. I make myself a sandwich and eat it quickly, standing over the sink.

  “What are you doing?” someone asks.

  I whirl around. It’s Mrs. Tully. And I’m so happy to see someone, I smile at her. I swallow the food in my mouth. “Where is everyone?” I ask.

  “What are you still doing here?” she asks.

  “Why shouldn’t I be here?” I stop smiling.

  Mrs. Tully tilts her head, her expression thoughtful. Then she starts laughing. “Oh, they forgot about you, did they?”

  “What?” Something twists in my stomach. I’ve probably eaten my sandwich too fast.

  “The family went back to the city this morning,” she says.

  “They did? Why?”

  “Mr. Morison wasn’t feeling well, and they wanted to take him to his doctor. That’s what Vanessa said, anyway.” Mrs. Tully’s face is set with glee. Spiteful glee. “How terrible that they forgot about you. But it’s a good lesson
, isn’t it?”

  My instinct is to politely excuse myself and go upstairs. Yet I don’t do it.

  Instead I look at her, not smiling, but not frowning either. My gaze is steady, and in a voice as steady as my gaze, I say, “Thank you for pointing out that lesson. In return, I think a lesson for you is that it’s hurtful when you are rude to others.”

  I speak to her as if I’m speaking to one of my students. Gently, but firmly. Calmly disapproving. I speak to her as if she is half my age instead of three times my age.

  “It’s all right. I know you’ll do better next time,” I say.

  Mrs. Tully glares at me, her eyes blazing, burning.

  I politely excuse myself and go upstairs. And as soon as I’m upstairs, I start laughing. I can’t believe I finally stood up to her. I’m so proud of myself.

  But then I remember the Morisons and stop laughing. I call Vanessa again, and when the line goes to voice mail, I leave a message. “Hi, I heard about your father-in-law. I hope everything is okay. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  I pace around the pink bedroom, clutching my phone in case she calls me back. I’m trying not to be hurt or offended. But . . . I’m a little hurt. A little offended.

  Plus, I hate not knowing what to do next. Should I work on my lesson plans for next week? Or should I be packing my things and preparing to go home too? Since I don’t know, I do both.

  An hour later, there is a knock on my door. It’s the woman who does the gardening for the Morisons. I barely know her—she works while I’m tutoring Ella—and I’m confused to find her here.

  She looks confused too as she says, “Mrs. Tully asked me to tell you that she talked to Vanessa and the family isn’t coming back, so we’re going to close the house down for the season. She told me to tell you to go home. Today or tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Did she say anything about how Mr. Morison is doing?”

  “No, but I hope the old guy is okay.”

  “Me too. Does Vanessa want me to call her?”

  “Mrs. Tully didn’t mention it. But she said that you’ll have to drop off some stuff at the Morisons’ apartment building in the city. She’ll leave the suitcase for you downstairs. And she wants to know if you’re going to go today or tomorrow.”

  I think it over. “I guess I’ll leave early tomorrow morning.”

  “Great, I’ll tell her.” She smiles at me.

  I try to smile back, but my face twists wrong, contorts, as if I’ve forgotten how. But this situation is so ridiculous: the gardener passing messages on to me from Mrs. Tully, who is passing messages on to me from Vanessa.

  “Are you all right?” she asks.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I say quickly.

  After she leaves, I finish packing my clothes and shoes and books. I tidy up the bedroom. I tidy up the bathroom. I wait for the sky to darken and night to come, but the day seems to drag on. On and on and on. Finally the sun sets and I take a bath in the enormous tub. I put on my pajamas and crawl under the floral quilt. Then, for the last time, I go to sleep in the pink bedroom.

  PART IV

  THE CITY

  1

  TO TRAVEL FROM THE MORISONS’ HOUSE ON ARROW ISLAND TO their apartment in the city requires taking a taxi to the island port, the ferry to the ferry terminal, the bus to the bus station, and the subway to their building. The trip takes seven hectic, stressful, sweaty hours. For me, it takes a few fewer minutes because I take a cab from the bus station, though I never take cabs. But I’m exhausted: from traveling all day, from sleeping poorly the night before, from having to manage—in addition to my bulky suitcase—a sleek suitcase filled with the things the family forgot.

  The cab turns on to a block of grand buildings and pulls up in front of the grandest one. I try to straighten my wrinkled clothes. The driver hauls the luggage out of the trunk. I pay him and try not to fret over the cost.

  As I approach the entrance, the concierge, a man in an elaborate uniform and cap, opens the door. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “I’m dropping this off for Vanessa Morison,” I say.

  “Let’s see.” He goes to his desk and picks up the phone.

  I drag the two suitcases toward the elevator.

  “Hey, come back. You have to wait here!” he shouts.

  “Oh. Sorry.” I drag the two suitcases to his desk.

  He smiles—not at me, but into the telephone. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Morison. A girl is here with some suitcases, and she says they’re for you?” He nods as he listens to her.

  Then he stops nodding, stops smiling, tilts the phone away from his face, and tells me, “She says you should leave the luggage with me.”

  “What? I can’t go up and see them?”

  “Leave the luggage with me,” he repeats.

  I pause, then—

  “I’m going up.” I walk to the elevator and press the button. The door opens with a delicate chime. I step inside.

  “Hey! Stop!” The man runs toward me.

  The door closes. I am quickly and smoothly lifted up to the top floor. The hallway carpeting is plush and paisley, the walls shimmer like the inside of a seashell. I barely notice. I’m regretting my hastiness. I don’t want to bother the family, especially if old Mr. Morison’s condition is serious. So I decide to leave the sleek suitcase outside their apartment and go.

  However, before I can do that, their front door opens. Maybe it’s my own suitcase that gave me away—the plush carpeting softened but could not completely absorb the loud squeak of the wheels.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  Vanessa stares at me. Her hair is a snarled golden nest. Her eyes are red and wet. She is wearing a robe, but it couldn’t possibly be her own robe—it’s a dull purple plaid in unseasonable flannel, the fabric faded and pilled. It’s something my own mother would wear.

  “Are you okay? Is Mr. Morison all right?” I ask.

  For a moment, she just continues staring at me. Then she says, in a sharp and unsteady voice, “I’ll take the suitcase. Then you have to leave.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “It’s not a good time. Just go.”

  “But . . . can I at least say hello to Ella?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Joan told me about the spell.”

  “The spell? What are you talking about?”

  “Ella told Benny, who told his mother, who told me that you and Ella were casting spells together. I don’t want that kind of influence around my daughter. Especially now.” Her voice cracks on the word “now.” She wipes her wet red eyes.

  “It wasn’t like that—” There is a flash of movement behind Vanessa. I glance past her.

  Ella is standing a few feet behind her mother. Her eyes are dark. Her cheeks pale. Her lips pinched into a line. She shakes her head nearly imperceptibly at me.

  I look back at Vanessa. “Please let me explain.”

  “It’s time for you to go.” She takes the sleek suitcase and pulls it into the apartment, leaving me in the hallway with my bulky suitcase.

  As the door slowly swings shut, Ella lifts her hand.

  Good-bye.

  Then the door closes with a muffled thump. I feel it in my chest. Still, I stay there staring at the creamy-smooth surface of the closed door. Staring at nothing. Until the concierge comes to escort me out of the building.

  He scolds me, but I’m not listening as I trip across the plush paisley carpeting, blur past the shimmering walls, and stumble to the elevator. He presses the button. The doors slide open. It’s a smooth plunge down to the ground. I notice I’m not breathing. I remind myself to breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale.

  It’s true that Henry said his stepmother has a way of overreacting.

  But this still doesn’t make any sense. I’ve spent nearly two months living with the Morison family. Eating meals with them. Going into town together. Lounging by their pool. Talkin
g and laughing. And now I’m being escorted out of their building.

  Outside, the sun is blazing. The air is thick with humidity. Even on this clean, wide, tree-lined street, the heat is almost unbearable. Yet I just stand there in the middle of the sidewalk. A woman trips over my bulky suitcase and curses, rubbing her leg. She looks like she’s in terrible pain. She yells something at me. I’m in such a daze it takes me a moment to understand what she yelled. She yelled, “Go back to your country.”

  “All right,” I say, much too late. She is long gone.

  When I walk into our tiny, dingy, thin-walled, stale-smelling old apartment, my mother stares at me in surprise. I failed to tell her I was coming back. Coming home. She steps out from the kitchen, where she is cooking dinner. She hugs me and asks what I’m doing here.

  I mumble some explanation. “Where’s Andy?” I ask.

  She says he went to pick up something at the store. She looks at me with concern, but then she has to go back to the pans on the stove, where the hot oil is snapping.

  The evening news is on in the living room, even though no one is watching. I go to turn off the television. My finger touches the button. Then I jolt backward, as if electric shocked. And my body feels as if I’ve been electric shocked. Because there, on the screen, is Jeffrey Morison.

  He is coming out of an office building with two other men, one on each side of him, their hands clamped around his arms. He slouches forward, head down, face clammy, eyes on the ground—and for a moment I think that he must be the one who is ill, not his father. But as he walks past the camera, something flashes: the metal ringing his wrists.

  Jeffrey Morison is in handcuffs.

  The reporter is speaking, and I’m trying to listen, but I can’t seem to put together the story. All I hear are certain words and phrases: fraud, scam, scandal, millions missing, a massive scheme, assets frozen, financial ruin, prison, years in prison, decades in prison, ruin, ruin, ruin. And I feel a throbbing pain in my stomach, my head, my heart.

  The two men bring Jeffrey Morison to a police car and sweep him into the backseat. The car drives away. The camera pivots to the reporter at the scene, who is still talking, but my attention moves to the people standing behind him, a small crowd of observers. I stare numbly at a young girl in jean shorts and a tank top. She is clutching something in her hands. A doll, maybe—I can’t quite tell; her fingers are in the way. The girl looks familiar. Maybe she was one of my campers at Sunshine Day. I can’t remember. But I can’t stop staring at her. Because she seems to be staring right back at me.