Mom tells Ty good-bye, then heads for the cabin as he backs out of the gravel drive. Reluctantly, I follow her, pausing when Ty calls, “Hey, Lily!” I look back to find the car stopped and Ty rolling his window down.
I shoot a glance at Mom, but she concentrates on climbing the steps to the porch. “Did you forget something?” I ask Ty.
“No, I wanted to ask about your dog. Cookie, right? I was hoping I’d see him.”
“He’s inside. He’s been so lazy since he came home from the clinic that he hasn’t been good for anything,” I say jokingly, not wanting to reveal just how worried I really am about Cookie.
“He’s better, though, right?” Ty’s grimace crinkles the space between his brows in the most appealing way.
I nod. “Yeah. He’s getting there,” I say, even though I’m not really sure.
“I’m glad.” A hint of a smile plays around Ty’s lips. He rests his elbow on the opening of the window and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Hey, I was thinking . . .” He clears his throat. “Even if your mom decides not to hire me, I hope you’ll still call when you’re ready to go for coffee.”
The fluttering wings in my chest take flight, lifting me off the ground. At least that’s how I feel—like I’m floating. “I will,” I blurt out, thinking he seems a little nervous. Which is completely surprising and really sweet.
One of Ty’s brows lifts as he tilts his head to the side. “Even if your mother doesn’t think it’s a good idea?”
“She won’t care,” I assure him, although I know that isn’t true.
“After that grilling she just gave me?” He laughs, and I immediately love the sound. It’s unrestrained and without an ounce of bitterness.
Wincing, I say, “Sorry about her interrogation.”
“I don’t blame her. I’m just some strange guy she doesn’t know from Ted Bundy; she’s smart to be careful.”
“Please tell me you aren’t that strange,” I say, teasing. Ty laughs again, and I add, “Mom’s just extra cautious lately. Because of what happened. Don’t take it personally. I’m sure she doesn’t think you’re a serial killer.”
His face is suddenly serious and filled with compassion. I look down at my boots, struck by emotion again. One thing I’ve learned about grief—it can catch you off guard and grab you by the throat. “I promise I’ll call you,” I say, to keep from crying.
“Good,” he says. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you. ’Bye, Lily.”
“’Bye.”
He waits three heartbeats before pulling away—I count them. Three wild, pounding heartbeats while we look at each other.
Ten minutes later, I’m in the kitchen washing the breakfast dishes when Mom comes out of her bedroom. My schoolbooks are on the kitchen table. I’m going to try to get back into my routine of working in the mornings for the next few days so that I can finish, turn my lessons over to Mom, and graduate by the end of the week.
She pauses behind me. “I’m still not sure how I feel about hiring Ty.”
“Why?” I look over my shoulder at her, my hands submerged in lemon-scented bubbles. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing, except that we don’t know him. It’s only you and me now. We can’t let just anyone hang around. Besides, all that talk about his father owning rental property might be pure fabrication and he can’t even hammer a nail.”
“That’s why you check references,” I say, with just a hint of sarcasm.
Mom crosses her arms. “I don’t know his references, either.”
Drying my hands on a dish towel, I face her. “Some of them are professors at Columbia. Jeez, Mom. If you doubt that, I’ll check the university’s website and make sure they’re listed. Why are you so nervous and suspicious?”
“Why are you so adamant that we hire him? If it’s a crush, you’re setting yourself up to get hurt. You heard what he said; he’s not sticking around. He’s going back to New York soon.”
Bristling, I toss the dish towel onto the drying rack. “It isn’t a crush. And nobody’s permanent. Dad didn’t stick around, either, did he?”
Mom flinches, and I instantly wish that I could snatch the words back. How could I have said something so cruel? Until now, I didn’t realize how angry I am at Dad for leaving.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Tension stretches between us, wraps around us, tugging tight. The clock ticks steadily. A crow caws outside. Beneath those sounds lies the constant undercurrent of friction that I recognize as Iris. She’s nervous about everything, too, lately. Pressuring me to ask Mom about Winterhaven and Jake, to find out what’s going on. But I don’t think Iris understands Mom’s state of mind right now, how easily she might crumble.
A full minute passes before Mom walks to the coffee table and picks up her cell phone. “I’ll call his references,” she says, avoiding my scrutiny. “If everything checks out, Ty can start work in the morning.”
Ty’s references had only good things to say about him. Mom said they used words like diligent, dependable, and motivated to describe him. She’s obviously impressed, especially since one of them said that he started college on a full academic scholarship. Mom calls Ty and offers him the job.
On Tuesday he arrives at eight o’clock sharp. I’m already at the table with my work spread out in front of me, and Mom is looking over my assignment. Each time I get up to take a break or tend to Cookie, she watches me as if she thinks Ty’s a coyote and I’m a rabbit, and he’ll gobble me up.
At least monitoring my every move keeps Mom out of Dad’s workshop. She doesn’t even escape out there when Ty leaves at three o’clock after clouds move in and it starts to sprinkle.
Disappointed that I didn’t get a chance to talk to Ty before he left, I decide to go see Wyatt. I haven’t heard from him since our ride up the mountain. I don’t want him to think I’m avoiding him.
When I arrive, Wyatt’s helping Addie paint the guest room purple. Addie insists the shade is eggplant and scoffs each time Wyatt makes a snide remark about the color.
I grab a paintbrush and join them. While we work, Addie chatters on about everything imaginable, but Wyatt barely utters a word, which is unusual for him. I try to draw him into the conversation, without much success. More than once, I catch him watching me, or he catches me watching him, and our gazes lock for a moment before we both look away. Each time it happens, I wonder if his pulse is ticking as fast as mine.
Addie finally runs out of things to talk about and starts singing under her breath, but I’m so caught up in trying to figure out what Wyatt’s thinking that I don’t pay attention to the song. I also don’t notice purple paint dripping from my brush onto the white baseboard until it’s too late. I grab an old rag off the floor, and stoop to wipe up the mess when Iris says, Listen . . .
I go still and immediately recognize the lullaby Addie is singing. It’s the song on the music box, I tell Iris. You used to hum it to me at bedtime when we were little. It’s not so strange that Addie knows it. It’s a well-known song.
Yes, Iris hisses, sounding urgent and confused. But I remember it on a violin. Did you play it?
You know I can’t play the violin, I silently remind her, baffled by the strange question. It must’ve been Mom, I say.
Then why does the music seem to flow out of me instead of in?
She starts humming along with Addie, and suddenly the tune transforms in my mind. Notes cry out from vibrating strings and quiver inside of me, the sound as clean and airy as morning light. A hazy image appears. A hand holding the bow as it flies across the strings. Long, feminine fingers so much like mine. Mom’s fingers when she was younger, I think, yet it’s as if I’m looking down at them like they’re my hands, not hers.
“Oh, Lily! Your jeans!”
Addie’s voice breaks my trance. I startle and glance down. I’m still stooping, still clasping the rag in one hand, the paintbrush in the other, but now purple droplets dot one knee of my jeans. “O
hmygosh, I’m sorry! I’ve made a mess all over your baseboard, too.”
Setting the brush in the pan beside me, I rub the rag across the wood, my hand shaking. Iris, you’re freaking me out. What are you trying to tell me?
I think I’m channeling your memories.
Coldness sinks into my bones. They aren’t mine.
I’m at the door of the Blazer ready to drive home, when Wyatt steps onto the porch holding a box stamped with Snowflake Bakery’s logo.
“I’m almost a week late, but here you go.” He comes down the steps and hands it to me. “Happy birthday, Lil.”
Inside are a half-dozen red velvet cupcakes—my favorite—the white icing covered with sprinkles. I flash back to my text-message conversation with Wyatt on the morning of my birthday, before my world fell apart. Looking up at him, I blink back tears.
“Double sprinkles,” he says quietly. “Just like you ordered.”
“You only promised me one.” I manage to smile.
“You don’t really think I’m going to let you eat cupcakes without me, do you?”
Raindrops suddenly start to fall. We run to the covered porch and sit on the top step beneath the eave, side by side. The rain comes down softly, clearing the air, making everything fresh and new again. “This is a much better gift than the minnow bucket you gave me last year,” I say with a laugh, biting into a cupcake.
Wyatt licks icing off his finger and sends me a sideward glance. “You know you loved it.”
“Yeah, right. Just what every girl wants.”
“You aren’t like other girls.” His voice drops as he says the words, stroking intimate awareness through me. Holding my gaze, Wyatt lifts the box. “You want another one?”
I laugh at him, my heart pattering like the rain. “You’re kidding.”
“I never kid about food, Lil, you know that.”
Shrugging, I say, “They are my birthday present, and I don’t want to be rude.” I smile and reach into the box.
Just as quickly as it appeared, the awkwardness between us subsides, and as dusk creeps in, Wyatt and I eat another cupcake, knowing that Addie will scold us for ruining our dinner if she catches us. Laughing and whispering like we used to when everything was easy.
I don’t tell Wyatt that Ty came to work for us, or that I found Winterhaven, Massachusetts, on the internet. I don’t mention the vision that gripped me less than two hours ago while we were painting. I let all of that go. I want to enjoy being just us. Right now, that’s enough.
Mom has enchiladas in the oven when I arrive home, but I’m not hungry after the cupcakes. She eats only a few bites herself before walking toward the door using her cane, explaining that she’s working on a sketch.
“You’ve been sketching a lot,” I say, anxious to stop her, to keep her here. “I’m glad your hands are feeling better. It’s been a long time since you’ve been able to do your artwork. More than a year, right?”
She opens the door and looks back at me, blinking too fast. “Something like that.”
“It’s weird that the arthritis either bothers your hands or your hips, but not both at once, isn’t it?”
She lifts a shoulder. “There’s no rhyme or reason to this damn disease.”
Crossing to her quickly, I say, “Can’t you sketch in here? You’ve been spending so much time out there alone. I miss you.”
“I don’t want to move my things,” she says. “I won’t be long.” Mom gives me a brief hug before stepping out onto the porch and closing the door.
Discouraged, I give Cookie his medicine, then watch television for a while, sitting on the floor and stroking his head. After he goes to sleep, I go up to my room, turn on my laptop, and look at the pictures on the Winterhaven website until I can’t hold my eyes open. I fall asleep curled up on my bed, strangely at peace as the images of Winterhaven flicker on the backs of my eyelids like a slideshow.
Sometime after midnight, I awaken to the sensation of Iris shuddering through me, as if she’s trying to shake me to consciousness. Your mother, she whispers. Something squeaks downstairs—a floorboard or a door—and I realize that I’m hearing Mom creeping into the cabin. She’s back. You can go to the workshop now.
But the thought of going out there in the dark and possibly falling into another trance disturbs me too much. I’ll find a way to sneak out to the workshop again tomorrow. Maybe I can figure out what’s going on then.
I try to fall back to sleep, but can’t. Instead, I lie awake for a long time, worrying about Mom and pondering the vision I had when I was at Wyatt’s today—how it seemed like I was the one playing the violin, not my mother. Of course, that’s impossible, in spite of Iris’s insistence that she’s channeling my memories. I’ve never played a violin in my life.
9
On Wednesday morning, I try to get Cookie to go outside, but he nips at me. Cookie’s never nipped at anyone before, least of all me. I don’t think he hurts physically that much anymore; he’s been walking easier on his own. It’s his state of mind I’m more worried about. It’s as if he and Mom are slowly dropping into the same dark pit.
Cookie circles the interior of the pen like he can’t find a comfortable spot. I wish I knew how to help him.
Sing him the lullaby, Iris suggests. It used to calm you when you were out of sorts.
I begin humming, but the sound of my voice doesn’t soothe Cookie.
It’s not enough. Something’s missing . . . the violin, says Iris.
Her words tap a clogged vein in me, and the music flows free, streaming through me again—the lullaby played on a violin. Soothing. Powerful.
When the sound in my head fades away, I’m left shaken.
With a groan, Cookie finally lies down on the soft pallet in his pen. I pet him for a while, trying to understand what I just heard and what Iris meant. But minutes later, when his breathing steadies, I still don’t have any answers.
At a loss, I go into the kitchen and sit down at the table, hoping my studies will take my mind off everything else for a while. As I’m opening my textbook, I hear Ty drive up, and a few minutes later his hammering starts. Mom drags herself out of her room still in her pajamas, looking groggy and pale. She’s rubbing the knuckles on her right hand, her fists cradled close to her body.
A heaviness fills my chest. She seems as bad off as Cookie. It’s more than her lupus. Dad died exactly a week ago, and I’m having a hard time today, too. I push aside the book on Greek philosophers and the paper Mom assigned before the accident and tell her, “Good morning.”
“Morning,” she mumbles.
I push my chair back. “Let me get you some coffee, Mom.”
“I can get it,” she says with a strained smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She pours herself a cup, then turns to me.
I lift my book. “You want to talk to me about this or read over my paper?”
“No, that’s okay. When you’re through, let me know. That’ll be good enough.” She shuffles past me to the couch.
I take a breath. “I’m really missing Dad this morning.”
“I know, honey. Me, too.” Mom sits down, clenching the mug between her hands, as if its warmth relieves the pain in her fingers.
“I’ve been thinking about him so much. His life, I mean. There’s so much I don’t know. Not just about him, but about you, too.” Sending her a cautious smile, I continue, “What were the two of you like when you were dating? You’ve never talked about it.”
She lowers the mug to her lap. “I don’t know, honey. It was so long ago.”
“Did your parents like him?”
“Yes.” Her eye twitches.
“Did his parents like you?”
“We got along well enough.”
I sigh. “It’s so weird. I don’t even know what my grandparents looked like. Do you have pictures?”
“We never took many pictures,” she says, the words rushing out.
“Surely you have wedding photos. I’ve never even seen them.”
I know I’m pushing, but I can’t stop myself. “You don’t even have any from when you were kids? It’d be fun to see what you and Dad looked like back then.”
“We never got into photography. I’m sorry.” Impatience gives her voice an edge.
I scoot back my chair. “There’s not even an old school picture?”
“I’m sure we have a few somewhere, but do we have to look for them right now?” Mom sets the mug down on the coffee table a little too hard. “I’m really not up to it, Lily. Okay?”
It’s clear that the subject is closed, as far as she’s concerned. Reluctantly, I return to my studies.
Soon the sounds of Ty working lift my mood—and kill my concentration. Each time he walks across the roof, I look up at the ceiling. Whenever he climbs down and passes by a window, I hear the tune he’s whistling, then catch myself humming along and tapping my toe to the beat. It’s not the noise that distracts me from studying as much as his presence. I can’t stop wondering if he’s thinking about me, too.
I’d go out and keep him company if I thought Mom wouldn’t interfere. I don’t want to give her an excuse to fire him, and paying attention to me instead of his work would make it easy for her. Yesterday, she warned me about watching out for “older guys,” as if Ty were in his twenties instead of only a year ahead of me. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s already had a semester of college that bothers her. She’s always been overprotective to the extreme. She and Dad both, really.
At noon, Mom and I are making ham sandwiches at the kitchen counter when Ty’s hammering stops. A second later, I hear his car door slam. “We should offer Ty a sandwich. He’s going to get sick of eating lunch at the Blue Spirit Inn every day,” I say, referring to the only restaurant nearby.
The Shadow Girl Page 8
