Shadowshift

by Peter Giglio

  “Don’t worry, Mom, I’m wearing Doc Martens. Kevin bought them for me at the mall.”

  When Tina looks down, Kevin is lumbering upward. Leaning down, he picks up the ceramic shards of his most frequently used mug. Coffee is for Closers, the cup had read, a quote from Glengarry Glen Ross, his favorite movie.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “I broke your mug,” she says. “I’m…I’m sorry. I don’t know why I picked that one this morning. I’ll get you another—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Kevin says. “Things can be replaced.” He steps onto the landing and puts a hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “Can we pull ourselves together for a while?” He flashes a smile. “Hannah has a friend coming over.”

  “A friend?” Tina asks.

  “Yeah,” Hannah says, “Chelsea and I are gonna ride our bikes around town, if that’s okay. She’s gonna show me around.”

  “Of course,” Tina says. As her gaze shifts to Kevin, she wonders what he’s doing that she isn’t. This man never raised children. He missed the dirty diapers and the long nights tending to Hannah’s allergies, most of which she mercifully outgrew. Missed all the turmoil, the doubt, and all the shattering moments in between. But maybe that’s his edge, Tina thinks, what makes him the right father figure. Or maybe he’s playing a game, trying to lock Tina into another losing proposition…

  Family = Prison.

  “I need to go change,” Hannah says. She gives her mom a kiss on the cheek, does the same for Kevin, then scampers to her room, leaving Kevin and Tina alone in the hallway.

  “This doesn’t fix everything,” Tina says.

  “I know,” he replies. “That wasn’t my intent.”

  “What was your intent? To make me feel inadequate? To prove I’ve been doing things wrong for the last twelve years?”

  “No, that’s not it. I just wanted Hannah to have a nice day. She’s a good kid.”

  “Damn right she’s a good kid, but that doesn’t answer my questions.”

  “I want her to be happy,” Kevin says. “It’s as simple as that.”

  As Kevin starts down the stairs, Tina puts a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Just remember one thing,” she says. “She’s my kid.”

  “Dammit, Tina, I’m not trying to steal her from you. What happened last night isn’t her fault. I just wanted to get her away from here for a bit so she could have some fun. I trust that isn’t a problem.”

  “Are you trying to make it impossible for me to leave?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Do you want it to be easy?”

  “I want everything to be easy, and why shouldn’t I? Everything’s been so hard for so long.”

  “Well, sorry, it doesn’t work that way.” He waits for a protracted moment. When she doesn’t respond, he resumes walking.

  “For what it’s worth,” she says, “thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Almost at the bottom of the stairs, he turns and adds, “When you’re ready, I want you to be happy, too.”

  “Don’t push it, mister.” She’s trying to sound playful, but the words ring harsh.

  Heeding the warning, he disappears around the corner. And that’s when a smile cracks Tina’s face.

  CHAPTER 17

  Hannah loves her mom’s expression when Chelsea hands her the copy of Midnight Mourning and asks for her signature. The pain of the last twenty hours seems to melt away.

  “I’ve already made it through the first three chapters,” Chelsea says, “and it’s awesome. I can’t wait to read the rest.”

  “That’s so nice of you,” Hannah’s mom beams. After confirming the spelling of Chelsea’s name, she peels pack the cover and pens an inscription on the title page. Handing the book to Hannah’s new friend, she says, “My agent keeps harping on me to write YA. She tells me the key to the market these days is a younger audience. What do you think?”

  “If the rest of your stuff is this good, I say keep doing what you’re doing,” Chelsea says. “If I had more friends, I’d tell them all to buy your books.”

  Shooting Kevin a frosty glare, she replies, “Beware of Winterland. You may still be too young for that one.”

  On that severe note, Hannah decides it’s time to leave. “Come on, let’s go.” She takes Chelsea’s hand and leads her to the front door.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Chelsea calls out, “I can handle anything. I’ve seen every season of True Blood.”

  Once outside, the girls mount their bikes.

  “Where do you want to go?” Hannah asks.

  “Your mom’s so fuckin’ cool, but I always thought horror authors lived in creepy old houses and wore dark makeup.” She tilts her head and squints up at the house, as if expecting it to change form.

  “Um, have you ever looked at author photos? I don’t think Charlaine Harris howls at the moon, do you?”

  “Hey, she might. Besides, who are you to poop in my punchbowl?”

  “For one, I’m the daughter of a horror author who doesn’t howl at the moon.”

  Chelsea laughs. “Okay, okay, but I always thought those author photos were for show, like maybe mean publishers were making the writers look all respectable so housewives would buy their books. Know what I mean?”

  “Not really. You’ve clearly thought about this way too much.”

  “My dad says I think about everything too much.”

  As they pedal through the neighborhood, Chelsea does most of the talking. And, because she’s never tried being anyone’s friend before, Hannah decides it’s best to listen. After they select their first stop—Chelsea’s house—Hannah learns more than she ever cared to know about another girl.

  Chelsea collects old things, which causes her father to call her a “hoarder.” Chelsea’s mom died when she was little. Her father is some kind of accountant for a marine petroleum company, and he travels a lot, leaving Chelsea at home alone. She’s a year older than Hannah and claims to have made out with three boys, but she never lets them get past “first base.” Hannah doesn’t want to know what “first base” is and she doesn’t ask. It’s clear that Chelsea enjoys talking, but she doesn’t ask many questions. At first, Hannah finds this off-putting, then she realizes it’s convenient. After all, she’s not anxious to answer questions about her past.

  It’s not until Hannah enters Chelsea’s room that she understands what the girl’s father means by “hoarder.” The small space is made even smaller by all the shelves spilling over with trinkets and keepsakes—antique picture frames and dismembered doll heads, grisly figurines of gargoyles and surly gnomes. One shelf is dedicated to vinyl records. The air in the room is of a musty, antique-store quality, and the few slats of light that bleed through the sole window are clouded with swirling motes of sparkling dust.

  “My God,” Hannah says, “this place is like a museum.”

  “Thanks,” Chelsea says, “but I like to think of it as my tribute to the bizarre. Almost everything in my collection once belonged to someone else. Do you know what that means?”

  “That your father’s right. You are a hoarder.”

  “Well, yeah, I won’t deny that. But seriously, it means that everything in this room has a story. I like to think all these objects are haunted by their previous owners in some way, and that means I’m never really alone. You might think I’m strange for saying this, but I find that comforting.”

  Hannah’s thoughts flash to the haunted object in her own dresser. What would Chelsea say if she knew about my real father? Hannah wonders. She clears a small space on Chelsea’s bed, heaping a stack of books onto a pile of LPs and vintage magazines, then sits down. All the while, Chelsea prances along the narrow moat of exposed floor around her bed like a deranged sprite, telling stories about her possessions. Hannah’s starting to realize just how strange her new friend is, and this makes her like Chelsea more.

  “You’re lucky you still have both of your parents,” Chelsea says, handing Hannah a silver locket on a chain. “Ope
n it,” she says.

  Inside the charm, Hannah finds an oval image of a dark-haired woman holding a blonde toddler.

  “That’s me and Mom,” Chelsea says, her voice still remarkably bright.

  “I’m sorry,” Hannah says. “How did she…how did she…?”

  “Die? Is that what you’re trying to ask?” Chelsea smiles. “You really shouldn’t be afraid of words, Hannah. I bet your mom isn’t afraid of words.”

  Shaking her head, her eyes welling with tears, Hannah says, “I didn’t want to seem rude.”

  “The driver of the truck that plowed into my mom was rude. You’re just getting to know me. Nothing wrong with that, unless this is all too heavy for you.”

  Shaking her head, Hannah hands the necklace back to Chelsea. “Sorry,” she says, “I’ve never had any friends before. I just moved here from Savannah and—”

  “Oh, shit, tell me you mean Savannah, Georgia.” Chelsea’s eyes are wide with anticipation.

  Hannah nods. “Yeah, but it’s really no big deal.”

  “No big deal? It’s only the most haunted place in the country. Come on, tell me, did you ever see any ghosts?”

  “Can’t say I did.”

  “Huh, you must not be tuned to the spirit world like I am. I bet I’ll see ghosts everywhere if I ever get to go there. They’ll show themselves to me because I want to see them. I read somewhere that it works like that. But I want to go to New Orleans more. I dig vampires more than ghosts.”

  “When you’ve seen the kind of things I have, ghosts and vampires really aren’t all that important.” As soon as Hannah says this, she wishes she could take it back.

  Chelsea sweeps a stack of magazines from her bed and plunks down next to Hannah. “I knew there was something cool about you, besides the fact that your mom writes horror, which is super fuckin’ cool. What have you seen? Tell me, please. You can trust me, I promise.”

  “No,” Hannah says, “it’s nothing.” But something inside takes control, and her eyes are drawn to the antique stereo atop the shelf of vinyl records. The room disappears, replaced by darkness, and Hannah and a silver box labeled “Sony” are joined. A network of wires reveals itself, and instinct guides her. A short series of metallic pings rifle through her head. She blinks and finds herself back in the room, but the previously dark stereo is now alive with blue lights, a metal arm swiveling, then dropping onto a spinning record. Silence is sliced open by the thunderous opening of Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song.” Hannah knows the tune because it was one of her father’s favorites.

  Pressing her hands to her cheeks, Chelsea stands and creeps toward the stereo. “This thing hasn’t worked in months,” she shouts above the music. She spins to face Hannah. “I could feel electricity coming off you and your eyes went all funny and…holy shit, how did you do that?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Hannah lies.

  “No, no…hell, no! You did something! Oh my God, you did something!” She races back to Hannah and grabs her shoulders, shaking her. “You’re amazing! Please, tell me how you did that. Please, I beg you. I need to know there’s magic in this fucked-up world. Please! I won’t tell anyone!”

  Slammed by an overwhelming desire to unburden herself with the details of her secret, Hannah realizes the only higher power that drew her gaze to the stereo was her own need. And this desperate girl provides the perfect audience. If Chelsea breaks her promise, it won’t be hard to discredit her as a loon, and Hannah’s account will become nothing more than another odd tale to keep the rest of this girl’s fantasies company.

  Hannah takes a deep breath, then, once her friend’s hysterics retreat to relative calm, she launches into her story.

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon, Kevin knocks softly on the bedroom door. The keyboard clatter from inside the room ceases, and Tina calls out, “Jesus Christ, Kevin, this is your house. If you want to come in, come in.”

  She swivels around on her chair as he skulks into the room. “I’m going back to work tomorrow,” he says. “Just called the office and let them know.”

  “So you’re cutting your staycation short?”

  “Might as well. You’re back to work already, so I figure it’s time for me to get out of your hair. Besides, everything’s unpacked, I don’t have anything to occupy my time, and Hannah has a friend now, so…”

  Tina stands and moves to the window. She pulls open the drapes and leans toward the glass, her hands gripping the sill. “Is Hannah home yet?” she asks.

  “No, but she promised she’d be back before dinner. No reason not to believe her.” Crossing his arms, Kevin stares at the floor.

  “I’m not used to my little girl being out there without adult supervision.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Tina. I used to babysit my cousins when I was Hannah’s age.” When Kevin looks up, he finds Tina smiling at him.

  “Oh my God, Kev. You were a babysitter?”

  Unfolding his arms, he takes a few steps toward Tina. “Of course, my aunt and uncle paid me in pizza.” He pats his gut. “Nothing this fat boy won’t do for a large Imo’s with everything on it.”

  She snickers.

  “How’s the writing going?” he asks. “Anything ready for me to read?”

  “It’s getting better,” she says. “Everything I wrote last night and this morning had to be scrapped. Pure crap, every fucking word of it. But I’m happy with what I’ve accomplished this afternoon. I guess my head is clearer now.”

  He cups his hands on her shoulders, expecting tense muscles. When his fingers find soft flesh, she turns into him and wraps her arms around his waist.

  “I thought anger inspired you,” he says.

  “I wasn’t angry, Kevin. I was giving up, trying to protect myself. I kept wondering how I could forgive you, and then I realized, you don’t need to be forgiven. You need to be loved. While I was freezing you out, thinking about running away, you were helping Hannah.”

  “Ah, that was nothing. She did most of the work.”

  Her hold around him tightens. “Listen to you, trying to be humble. I love that about you, Kevin. You’re a good man, and Hannah loves you, too.”

  Running a hand through Tina’s hair, he tilts his head and kisses her neck.

  “How much longer until Hannah comes home?” Tina asks.

  “Long enough.”

  He lifts Tina and lays her down on the bed, then he eases into her. That afternoon, he makes love with more intensity than he ever thought possible, holding her as if his life depends on it.

  Later, basking in Tina’s afterglow, he says, “Should I call the office and tell them I’m not coming in tomorrow?”

  “No,” she replies, “I think it’s time for things to become normal around here, and I don’t want your boss thinking my man is some kind of flake.”

  “What’s normal?” he asks.

  “Damned if I know,” she says, “but I think, maybe, it goes something like this. You go off to work, and I sit down at my desk and write, and Hannah plays with her friends, and then we all come together for dinner, and in the evenings we snuggle up with good books and bad TV, and at night we make love, and in the mornings we drink coffee together, and then we do it all over again. In summer, we take a trip someplace far from here. In winter, we drink cocoa and snuggle next to the Christmas tree. I miss winter, and I’m looking forward to snow this year.”

  “That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he says.

  “I think everyone wants some version of that, deep down inside. Damn shame that simplicity’s so hard to find.”

  “Why’s that, do you think?”

  “Maybe it’s because we’re stupid animals who cling to yesteryear’s tragedies instead of looking ahead with hope. Self-fulfilling prophecy is a bitch.”

  “Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said, ‘What’s past is prologue’?”

  “Why does everyone always quote that dead asshole?” She slaps him on the arm and smirks. “Unless you’re Tarantino, of c
ourse past is prologue, but that doesn’t mean I’m not ready for a happy ending.”

  He cringes at the finality of the sentiment, then says, “I just think we need to balance the lessons of the past with the promise of the future.” A week ago, Kevin wouldn’t have questioned Tina’s logic, but he feels a surge of confidence now. He hopes he isn’t pressing his luck.

  “Maybe,” she says.

  “Just a few days ago you were telling me that I couldn’t erase your past.”

  “No, Kevin, you can’t erase my past, but that doesn’t mean I can’t. You still want me to be happy, don’t you?”

  “More than anything, but we are products of our past, whether we like it or not, and your past brought you to me and made you the woman I love.”

  “That’s sweet,” she says, “and maybe that outlook works for you, but don’t forget, you never walked in my shoes.”

  “There you go,” he says with a smile, “putting me down just because I don’t have the calves to pull off high heels.”

  Laughing, they hold each other close, and they don’t let go until Hannah comes home.

  CHAPTER 18

  Following dinner, when Hannah announces a craving for banana pudding ice cream, Kevin volunteers to make a run to the grocery store, but as he drives toward his destination, memories of the previous night’s dinner loom, and he realizes he has unfinished business. Now that things are better with Tina, he wants to make sure they stay that way.

  When he pulls up to his parents’ house, his father is outside, mowing the front lawn. Lowering his head, he releases the safety guard on the mower’s handle, and the engine sputters and coughs.

  Stepping toward Kevin, his father says, “Might not be the best time, son. She’s in a foul mood, and I don’t want you making matters worse.”

  “Do you understand what happened last night?” Kevin asks. “Because I sure as hell don’t.”

  His father shakes his head sadly. “Everyone has their reasons for how they feel, and I guess your mom’s not really much different from Tina in that regard, but don’t ask me to explain it. If you ever do get married, and I pray you and Tina do someday, then maybe you’ll understand how it works.”