The Shadow Girl

by Jennifer Archer

  Addie closes the front door, a sack of groceries propped on her hip. “We had the tastiest chicken salad at that new café on Main.” She makes her way into the kitchen and sets the sack and her purse on the counter.

  “Don’t rub it in—I had a PB and J,” I tease.

  Addie glances toward the hallway. “Where’s Wyatt?”

  “He went home so I could finish this assignment. I don’t want to fall behind.” I hope she doesn’t notice my red face.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to catch up,” Addie says. “No need to hurry just yet if you don’t feel up to it.”

  “I’d still like to graduate next week like I’d planned.”

  Turning to Mom, I ask, “Do you think that’s possible? Me graduating next week, I mean? If not, it’s okay. I understand if you don’t feel like looking over my assignments for a while.”

  Mom gives Cookie one last pat on the head, and stands. “You’ve never made below a B in your life. When your assignments are completed, let me know and I’ll give them a look. I have a feeling it won’t take long.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say.

  My parents have been my only teachers since first grade. It’s up to them to decide when I’m ready to graduate. Or just Mom now. That’s how homeschooling works, at least where I live. The state of Colorado expects me to study four hours a day, and certain courses are required, but that’s about it.

  “Your father wanted me to make a diploma for you, and he was going to build the frame,” says Mom. “I’ll still do my part. We can have it framed at Hobby Shop in Silver Lake.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  Pulling a bag of flour from the grocery sack, Addie clears her throat, then says, “I’m sure you two would like some time alone. After I put this cobbler together, I’ll pop it in the refrigerator and you can cook it whenever you’re ready. Then I’m going home. I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”

  “That’ll never happen,” says Mom. “We appreciate all you’ve done for us, don’t we, Lily?”

  “You’ve been great,” I say, sending Addie a smile.

  Mom tries to help unload the groceries, but Addie shoos her away, so she wanders over to me. “Need any help with your lesson?” she asks hesitantly.

  I realize she’s trying to smooth out the last wrinkles of tension between us. “No, I’m doing okay,” I tell her. “But, thanks.”

  She glances at the open physics book. “I’m not sure I’d be much help to you with that, anyway.”

  I know we’re both thinking that Dad was the one with a knack for science and math. He taught me those classes. Mom’s strengths are history and English and the creative subjects, like writing and art.

  And music, I remind myself, thinking of the violin hidden in Dad’s workshop.

  When the cobbler ingredients are all on the counter, Addie steps out onto the porch to call Wyatt. I try to focus on my classwork, while Mom stares out the windows at the dense blanket of spruce trees beyond the deck. I almost forget she’s standing beside my chair until she touches my shoulder.

  “Where did you get this?” Her fingers stroke down the sleeve of the red flannel shirt I’m still wearing. How could I have forgotten to take it off?

  “You—um—left Dad’s shop unlocked. The wind blew the door open so I went to close it and the shirt was out.” Shame rains down on me. I hate lying. Especially to Mom.

  She shakes her head. “I remember locking up.” After a pause, she asks, “Did you take anything else out of Dad’s shop?”

  Her sharp tone sparks anger inside of me. “No, Mom! Why do you even care? What’s out there that you don’t want me to see?”

  She pulls her keys from her pocket and heads for the door.

  The moment she steps outside, I unbutton the flannel shirt. If it upsets her so much, I’ll put it away.

  “What’s wrong, sugar?” Addie asks as she comes in from outside and sees the look on my face. “Your mother didn’t stop to say ‘boo’ when she passed me on the porch. Is everything okay?”

  “She went out to the shop again.”

  Addie sighs. “I thought an afternoon away from here might put an end to that.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  I’m tugging my arm from a sleeve, when invisible fingers slide down my spine again, caressing the shirt’s fabric. Shivering, I pull the sleeve back up my arm.

  I know, Iris, I think. I feel it, too.

  The shirt is like a security blanket, the soft flannel reassuring. It’s almost as if it was made for me. Or I was made for it.

  Addie leaves early in the evening, and Mom holes up inside the shop until after dusk. I’m not sure what finally makes her decide to return to the cabin, unless it’s the sweet scent of Addie’s cobbler baking in the oven.

  I turn on the television and raise the volume to fill the empty space between us. The silent treatment is our usual M.O. when we’re at odds. But tonight it’s worse than ever. We can’t even look at each other.

  On the television, the actors’ voices seem too loud and their laughter mocks us. “Lily,” Mom says, and I brace myself for the confrontation I’ve been expecting. But instead, Mom lifts the braid off my shoulder and rubs the spiky ends between her stiff fingers. “You should cut your hair,” she says in a distant voice.

  I turn to her, anxiety slithering through me. “I don’t want to cut it.”

  “You should.” She drops my braid, sits back, and murmurs, “You’d look wonderful.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Your father thought you were adorable with short hair.”

  “I’ve never had short hair,” I say. “Not since I was a baby.”

  Mom blinks, and I get the weirdest sense that she just returned from some faraway place. Standing abruptly, she crosses her arms, like she’s protecting herself.

  “Mom?” I dig my fingertips into the couch cushion. “The morning of my birthday, before Dad and I drove to the lookout, I heard the two of you talking.”

  She’s quiet for a long time, and then she says, “He was afraid you would.”

  “What was he going to tell me when we got home?” When she doesn’t answer after a few seconds, I try again. “After the accident, before Dad lost consciousness, he said something about the two of you thinking you’d done the right thing, then he asked me if it was right and if I’ve been happy. What did he mean?”

  “I don’t know. He must’ve been mixed up.” She grabs the television remote from the coffee table and begins flipping through the channels.

  “But what were you talking about when you said you gave up everything for me?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.” Mom turns the television off, lays down the remote, and stands, then starts toward the hallway. “Your father is gone and we have to learn to go on without him.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?” I call after her. “Going on with your life by locking yourself in his shop every day?”

  The click of her bedroom door is my only answer.

  That night, I curl up on the couch close to Cookie’s pen, intent on sneaking out to the workshop after I’m sure Mom’s asleep.

  The log walls creak and groan as the cabin settles in, and quiet yelps slip from Cookie’s throat as he dreams by the fireplace. I worry that he might be in pain, but I’ve already given him his dose of medicine. He’s just been so out of it today, so listless.

  Iris, though, is anything but lethargic. She’s edgy tonight, as restless as the wildlife that creep in the shadows around the cabin after dark. But I’m too tired to try to calm her down. My muscles relax and my eyelids droop.

  Just as I’m falling asleep, the fire snaps and flares, and she whispers, Wake up!

  Startled, I sit upright. What’s wrong, Iris?

  Go. The workshop. Look for answers.

  I rub my eyes. About Jake?

  The secret. He must be part of it.

  I stare into the glowing orange embers in the fireplace, feeling reluctant to dig any further. Wha
t if Jake wrote that note to my mother? Babe. I cringe. If Jake is the young guy I saw in the vision, then they did know each other before Mom married my dad, because he didn’t look any older than me. Why did I feel the urge to kiss him? And how is he connected to Iris? None of it makes sense.

  Go, Iris breathes.

  Slipping from beneath the blanket, I tiptoe into Mom’s room. The jeans she wore earlier are draped over a chair in the corner, her ring of keys creating a bulge in one pocket. Holding my breath, I ease across the floor and retrieve the keys without making a sound.

  Back in the living room, I take a lantern-style flashlight off the mantel, put my coat on over my pajamas, and stuff my feet into my boots. My breath catches when the hinge squeaks as the front door opens, but Cookie doesn’t stir and I don’t hear Mom, so I step outside and close the door gently behind me.

  Once I’m in the shop, I turn on the flashlight and set it on the floor. I don’t want to use the overhead lights and risk Mom looking out and seeing a glow streaming from the windows.

  Dragging the toolbox out of the closet, I remove the violin case and the jewelry box and place them on the floor, close to the light. I sit in front of the case, crossing my legs on the dusty plywood planks, and open it. The sight of the instrument’s gleaming, honey-colored wood makes my pulse stutter. But as much as I want to, I can’t bring myself to touch it again. What if I have another freaky vision of that guy? A part of me is terrified for that to happen. Another part wishes it would so that maybe I can figure out if he’s Jake.

  Iris flickers inside me like snowy static on a television screen, constant, unbroken. Waiting. I raise the lid on the jewelry box. The ballerina pops up and gives me a blank stare.

  “Sorry to bother you,” I murmur to the tiny doll. “I’d just like another look at that note, if you don’t mind.” Retrieving the scrap of paper, I unfold it, place it on my knee. A pencil lies nearby on the floor. Dad was always using them out here; he must’ve dropped it. I pick it up and trace the name Jake on the note, wondering who he might be.

  “You know who Jake is, don’t you?” I say to the ballerina, staring into her pinpoint eyes. Sighing, I give the peg beside her one twist. She twirls, and music trickles through the quiet workshop like water in a brook.

  I flinch at the sound and reach to stop the song, but before I can close the lid, my elbow knocks over the lantern and the bulb flicks off. Darkness swoops over me like the wing of a giant black bird.

  The music continues to play, weaving a ribbon of heartache around me so tight that I can’t move, drawing me someplace where nothing exists but the melody . . . where nothing else matters.

  I’m unsure how much time passes before Iris brings me back. I open my eyes to the darkness again and a sensation that I’ve traveled to a place I once knew. A place that felt like home.

  We have to find Jake, Iris says. He’ll help us.

  I fumble around on the floor until I find the lantern. With one rattle, the bulb engages and faint light quivers. The note from Jake lies atop the violin case. Written in pencil in my own handwriting beneath his name, just above the ragged torn edge of the paper, are the words: Winterhaven, Massachusetts.

  7

  Early the next morning, I wake to pounding above me. My first thought is that Dad is on the roof, nailing down shingles, continuing the project he started before my birthday. But then I remember, and the pain of losing him crashes down around me.

  Cookie’s whining in his pen. I sit up on the couch. Is he in pain? He slept through the night—maybe he’s just desperate to go outside. I reach for my cell phone on the coffee table and check the time. Ten fifteen. I can’t believe I slept so late.

  As I tuck my phone into the pocket of my baggy pajama pants, the weird things that happened in the workshop last night come back to me. The first time I played the jewelry box, I kissed Wyatt. The second time, I wrote on the note. Does the music throw me into some sort of trance?

  Pushing my worries to the back of my mind, I get up and go to the door where I left my boots last night before I tiptoed to Mom’s room to return her keys. As I put them on, the pounding overhead continues.

  Entering the pen, I try to coax Cookie out, but he won’t budge. He yelps when I lift him to his feet. I stay beside him as he limps into the room, then makes his way onto the porch. When he hesitates at the top of the stairs, I carry him down into the yard and set him in the grass. He does his business, then hobbles over to a patch of shade and plops down with a groan, his head on his paws.

  Concerned about him, I say, “What’s wrong, boy? Why are you so sad? Does it still hurt that much?” I don’t understand. Dr. Trujillo said that Cookie should get a little better every day.

  It’s warmer than it’s been all spring, with only a slight breeze blowing. Wyatt’s truck is parked behind Mom’s Blazer in the driveway. Knowing Cookie won’t go anywhere, I walk to the side of the cabin where I find Mom shielding the sun from her face with one hand as she looks up to where Wyatt is perched on his knees, hammering away at the roof. Wondering if we’re back on speaking terms, I try to gauge her frame of mind as I pause beside her.

  “Morning,” I say.

  She glances at me. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

  “I slept okay.” I follow her gaze to the roof. “How’d you manage to bribe Wyatt to do manual labor?”

  “He volunteered, free of charge. You’re too hard on him. Wyatt’s always been a good worker.”

  “Yeah, but usually for a price. And he takes Sunday being a day of rest to the extreme.”

  Mom smiles. “Maybe he’s maturing.”

  I snort a laugh, but then I remember the way he looked at me yesterday after that kiss. I didn’t recognize that Wyatt. Maybe he has changed.

  Wyatt’s wearing a ball cap with the bill to the back and a short-sleeved T-shirt. The muscles in his arm flex each time he swings the hammer. Crazy questions start knocking around in my mind as I watch him work: What if Wyatt and I hadn’t grown up together? What if we were meeting for the very first time?

  He lifts his head, catches sight of me, and stops hammering. “Hey.” Wyatt sits back on his heels, squinting in the sunlight.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  He flashes a grin, and I cross my arms, embarrassed that my hair is a mess and I’m not wearing a bra. Weird. Wyatt has seen me looking worse than this more times than I can count and I was never self-conscious. Suddenly, I wish that I could remember every detail of our kiss, and that wish startles me so much, I quickly shift my eyes to the ground.

  “Come on down whenever you’re ready, Wyatt,” Mom calls. “I’m sure you have chores to do at home.”

  “I’ll just finish this row,” he answers. “If you want me to come back later, I will.”

  As Wyatt starts hammering again, Mom says to me, “He’s nice to offer, but I can’t ask him to finish the roof.” She sighs. “I don’t know how we’ll afford to hire someone else to do it, though.”

  I flash back to Dad’s memorial. “I met someone who might be willing to do it,” I say, and tell Mom about Ty Collier.

  She frowns. “I don’t know, Lily. I don’t like the idea of hiring a stranger.”

  “He helped me with Dad and Cookie.”

  Reluctantly, Mom says, “I’d want to meet him before I decide. And I’d need references.” She hesitates another moment, then smiles, adding, “I guess you can call him.”

  I send her a cautious smile back, relieved that she’s more like her old self today. I consider asking about Jake and Winterhaven, Massachusetts—if she’s ever heard of it, if we’ve ever been there. But something tells me that Jake and Winterhaven are connected to the secret Dad wanted to tell me, and that both might be touchy subjects, like the red flannel shirt. I don’t want to spoil Mom’s good mood.

  When Wyatt finally comes down from the roof, he carries Cookie into the house for me. Placing him in his pen, Wyatt asks, “Do you have plans today, Lil?”

  “Not really,” I say.r />
  “Me, either.”

  “Could I keep Lily until after lunch, Wyatt?” Mom asks, sitting on the couch. “We need to call Adam’s clients and look over some paperwork. He had several projects under way.”

  “Sure.” Wyatt starts toward the door. “I’ll call you later, Lil.”

  “Thanks for your help today, Wyatt,” says Mom. “With the roof and with Cookie.”

  “Anytime.” He steps onto the porch and closes the door.

  Mom calls me over to the couch, and I’m surprised to see tears in her eyes. “Your father would hate letting down his clients.”

  “How can I help?” I ask, my eyes filling, too. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing right now. I just needed an excuse to steal you away from Wyatt for a while.” A tear clings to her lashes, and as she swipes it away, the shadow of a smile curves her lips. “We have some other unfinished business.” Reaching beneath the coffee table, she slides out the package with the yellow bow. It’s been sitting there on the floor ever since the morning of my birthday, and I completely forgot about it. Holding the gift out to me, she says, “I hope you like it.”

  I press my lips together and shake my head. “I don’t know if I can open it, Mom. Dad should be here with us. Me and my stupid birthday tradition. We should’ve stayed home that morning.”

  Mom sets the package on the coffee table. “Come here, Lily.” As I settle in next to her, she says, “Your father is still here in so many ways.” She gestures around the room, at the view outside the window. “Everywhere I look, I see him. Don’t you? He’s a part of this cabin and the mountains and meadows he loved so much.” She lifts the present from the table. “And he’s very much a part of this.”

  I taste tears on my lips as I unwrap the package. Inside, I find a smaller wrapped box. It’s something Dad would do and I’m suddenly laughing as I unwrap it, too. Tingling with excitement, I lift the lid. A ring sits on a black velvet cushion. Symbols are etched into the silver around the band—antelope and stick people, pyramids and spiraling circles. “Oh my gosh! These look like the Indian petroglyphs we saw at Picture Canyon,” I exclaim, referring to a day trip we took last year to see the ancient rock art carved into the canyon walls.