The Shadow Girl

by Jennifer Archer

  Wyatt utters a sound of disgust. “What did he say?”

  “I didn’t give him the chance—I told him to leave. I didn’t want to listen to his excuses. But now I wish I had. I want to know what he and Dad argued about and why he came here.”

  “No, you did the right thing. He probably would’ve lied, anyway. He already proved he can’t be trusted.”

  I watch Wyatt closely. “So, you’re not mad at me?”

  He squints and scratches his chin. “Hmm. I need some time to think about that.”

  “Don’t tease,” I say, crossing my arms. “Not now. I really need to talk to you about my sister.”

  Sobering, Wyatt says, “You must be freaking out.”

  “It seems impossible. Why would they hide her from me?”

  Wyatt shakes his head. “Those things we found in your Dad’s workshop. The clothes . . . the violin . . . I guess they belonged to her instead of your mom?”

  “I guess. She was wearing two of the dresses in the video. And the violin—she played it, and ohmygosh, Wyatt! She’s incredible. But there’s more about her I haven’t told you.” Fighting a flutter of nerves, I take a breath, then say, “I’ve known Iris most of my life. I was four the first time I remember talking to her.”

  “What? But you said she died.”

  “She did.”

  Wyatt’s look of bafflement turns to disbelief. “Come on, Lil. Are you saying she’s a ghost?”

  “I don’t know what she is, exactly. But we communicate. It’s like she’s inside me.”

  He blinks, silent, waiting for the punch line.

  Desperate for him to believe me, I say, “I’m serious. I knew Iris’s name when I was little, even though nobody ever said it to me.” I tell him about the warnings she sent me before Dad’s accident and that she pressed on my brake to keep me from hitting the deer. “And she made me write Winterhaven on that note,” I finish.

  Wyatt shifts his attention to the water.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  Rubbing a hand across his face, he says, “Listen to yourself, Lil. Maybe . . .” He exhales.

  “Go ahead and say what you’re thinking.”

  “Don’t get mad,” he says slowly, “but maybe the next time your mom goes to the doctor, you should see him, too. You’ve had some hard stuff to deal with lately. First your dad, then Cookie, and now this.”

  Heat crawls up my neck. “I don’t need a straitjacket. I’m not imagining things. I can understand your doubts, but I thought you’d at least try to have an open mind. Didn’t you tell me once that something like forty percent of city police departments use psychics to help solve crimes?”

  “More like thirty-five.”

  “I remember you talking about a case you read where a woman led the cops to a lake where a victim was buried.”

  Wyatt shrugs. “They get lucky sometimes.” He gestures toward the road. “Let’s go talk to Gran about this, okay? I’m a little freaked out.”

  My blush burns hotter. “Explain how I knew my sister’s name before anyone ever told me about her. When I was a kid, I even mentioned Iris to my parents and they got all weird about it.”

  “You must’ve heard them say her name sometime and you just don’t remember.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “What about everything else that’s been happening?”

  “Like what?”

  “For one thing, the visions.”

  “Visions? What do you mean?”

  I rub my palms up and down my arms, chilled by the cool morning air, in spite of my jacket. “I told you about them. In the workshop. Writing on that note . . . ?”

  Wyatt clears his throat. “I guess I didn’t realize you saw something when that happened.”

  Eager to make him understand, I say, “It’s sort of like I have memories, but now I think they’re actually Iris’s memories. I think she transfers them to me somehow. You were with me the first time. Remember how I zoned out that morning when we played the jewelry box? When the music started, I saw a guy’s face and that’s when I kissed you. But it was like I was kissing someone else, not you. I think it was the guy who wrote the note to Iris. Her boyfriend, Jake.”

  Wyatt’s eyes are narrowed, his jaw clamped tight. “So your ghost sister made you kiss me?” he says. He turns his head, as if he’s too humiliated to face me.

  Wincing, I say, “I’m sorry, Wyatt. I’m just telling you the truth.”

  “I get it.” His voice is pinched. “You wish you’d never kissed me and don’t want a repeat. Well, there won’t be one, so you can relax.”

  I touch his shoulder. “I didn’t say that. I just—it was only at first that I felt like I was kissing Jake. Then it was you. And I wouldn’t mind if it happened again, but I can’t think about that right now.” I sigh. “Please don’t be upset.”

  A scowl darkens his face. “I’m trying to understand, but you’re not making it easy. You say you wouldn’t mind if it happened again, but I saw you making out with Ty, and now you tell me that when we kissed the first time you felt like you were kissing some other guy. What am I supposed to think?”

  Knowing I don’t deserve Wyatt’s understanding, I say, “I know this is messed up. I’m messed up.”

  He looks down at his boots.

  Birds chirp high in the branches overhead. On the opposite side of the pond, two deer pass between the trees. I hear a splash as a fish jumps in the water near the shore where we stand, rippling a perfect circle on the surface of the pond.

  “I’ll go with you to talk to your mom if you want,” Wyatt mutters after a minute. “We’ll figure this out.”

  Relieved that he’s not going to walk away, I say, “Thanks, Wyatt. You’re awesome to offer, but right now I just need you to talk to me. About Iris. All of it.” Ducking my head, I catch his gaze.

  “Sure.” He kicks a rock. “So . . . uh . . . has she made anything else happen since she hit the brake on the four-wheeler? Besides forcing you to kiss me, I mean?” His mouth slants into a smirk.

  “I can play the violin,” I say, choosing to ignore his sarcasm. “I’m not sure if Iris is playing it through me or what, but I’m almost as good as she was. Possibly just as good. The first time I picked up her violin I knew exactly what to do. I didn’t even have to think about it.”

  He frowns and gnaws his lower lip.

  “What?” I say.

  “I don’t know. This is all pretty weird. Maybe I should see that video.”

  “You should.” I want to tell him that the music was like a balm to Cookie’s spirit, and how hearing Iris play it on the video had a powerful effect on me, too, but I don’t. He already thinks I’ve lost it. I don’t want to convince him he’s right. “Come over after school and I’ll play the violin for you,” I say.

  “I’ll try.” I get the impression that he isn’t sure if he should be worried about me or laugh in my face.

  “I can play,” I say, feeling defensive. “Ask Ty. He was there. He heard me. He said I was wonderful.”

  “Yeah, I saw how wonderful he thinks you are.” Wyatt jams his hands into his pockets. “Sorry. That just slipped out.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  “I said it first.”

  With a flustered laugh, I say, “That depends on when you started counting.” We stare at each other. The air is so thick with tension, I can barely breathe. “Promise you won’t tell your grandmother about any of this, okay? I’m not ready to talk about it with anyone except you.”

  “Sure. Okay. I won’t say anything.”

  We start walking at the same time, careful not to look at each other. Hating the awkwardness between us, I reach over and grab the tie dangling down from Wyatt’s stocking cap and give it a tug.

  He slides me a crooked smile.

  I smile back. Progress.

  14

  When we get home, Mom’s up and sitting at the kitchen table in front of a plate of bacon and eggs that haven’t been touched. Addie stands a
t the sink washing dishes and chattering like a magpie. Mom responds to her questions with brief, quiet answers and downcast eyes.

  I go upstairs and bring Cookie down. He’s not as spunky as he was yesterday, but at least his tail thumps the mattress when he sees me, and that gives me hope that he’s going to be okay.

  After Addie and Wyatt leave, I go straight to the shower, and as the hot water sluices down my body, I cry until I’m numb. Wyatt didn’t believe me. Ty and my parents betrayed my trust.

  Why didn’t you move on after you died? I ask Iris. What kept you here?

  Jake, she says. And something unfinished. I have to watch over you.

  When I ask, she’s unable to say what needs finishing, or why she feels I’m in need of her vigilant eye. She only knows that she has to see Jake.

  I’ll try my best to find him. Maybe he can answer our questions, I say.

  Her excitement soars through me like a shooting star, and I’m suddenly afraid of getting her hopes up. Iris hasn’t remembered Jake’s last name. I have no clue how to begin looking for him.

  I step from the shower and wrap up in a towel. Downstairs, Cookie barks once, as if calling out a greeting, and I hear a car engine outside. Doubting Mom will answer the door, I dress quickly. But the doorbell never rings.

  I’m heading for the stairs when Iris whispers, The window.

  The urgency in her tone sends me hurrying to the window at the far side of my bed. I peer out at the meadow across the road where Mom and Ty stand facing each other in the pale spring grass. Mom leans on her cane, her posture rigid. She jabs a hand toward Ty and says something. He jams the hammer he’s holding into his tool belt and says something back.

  Mom lifts her cane, takes a step toward Ty, and says something else that sends him walking past her, headed for the cabin. Mom stays in the meadow, watching him.

  I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. Iris, what’s happening?

  I don’t know.

  Dad’s toolbox sits on the ground beneath my window. Ty reaches it, puts the tool belt inside, closes the box, and picks it up. Taking long strides, he starts around to the front of the house.

  I run downstairs and throw open the door as he’s rounding the corner. “What’s going on?”

  He glances down at the toolbox and mumbles, “I need to put this away.”

  I wait in the yard, but when he returns from the storage shed, Ty passes by, heading for his car without uttering a word or even casting a look my way.

  Starting after him, I say, “Why were you and Mom arguing? Where are you going?”

  He opens the car door and moves to climb behind the wheel, then pauses. “Your mom asked me to leave.”

  “She—why?” Anger flares in me. “Did you threaten her, too?”

  He looks so sad that I almost regret my harsh question. “I shouldn’t have come back. I don’t want to upset you anymore,” Ty says.

  I’m torn between wanting to hurt him, and wanting to throw my arms around him and tell him I’m sorry. “What’s going on, Ty?” I ask, unable to disguise my frustration. “I didn’t let you explain before. Now’s your chance.”

  “I’d only make things worse between you and your mom,” he says, sounding miserable. “I hate to leave town like this, but maybe it’s best.”

  “Leave Silver Lake? Right now?” He nods, and something hot and sharp explodes in my chest. “I won’t see you again?” I’m surprised that possibility upsets me so much after what he did.

  “I should be with my family,” Ty says quietly. “I’m heading back tomorrow.”

  “But you can’t! I mean, we haven’t—” My voice breaks. “I don’t even know why you came here.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “You were right about the clothes in the chest,” I say quickly. “It turns out I had a sister who died before I was born. The violin was hers. Tell me the truth. Did you know about her?”

  The sound of gravel crunching on the road draws our attention, and we both shift to see Mom making her way toward us. “Come inside, Lily,” she says.

  I return my focus to Ty, lowering my voice so Mom won’t hear. “At least tell me if you got what you came for—whatever it was you wanted from us.”

  He shakes his head. “No, but I found something else important. Something I’d never put at risk.” Getting into the car, Ty starts the engine, then lowers the window. In a thick voice he says, “’Bye, Lily.”

  I watch his car disappear down the road, trying not to cry and wondering what he meant. Was he talking about me? How could his being here put me at risk? I turn to my mother, and my tears slip free. “What were you two fighting about?”

  “Forget him, Lily. It’s for the best.”

  “For you, maybe, but not me! Dad knew Ty, didn’t he? Did the two of you live in Massachusetts before I was born? Did you come to Silver Lake after Iris died?”

  “Lily . . . stop.” Her face crumbles. “I’m not going to discuss this. You’re upsetting me.”

  “You! What about me? Do you think all your secrets and lies aren’t upsetting? It’s not fair! I have a right to know. Why did Ty come here? To find Dad? Does it have something to do with Iris?” I give her a minute to answer my rapidly fired questions, and when she doesn’t, I say, “What really happened to her, Mom? Was her boyfriend involved in it? Do you know Jake?”

  Mom recoils at the mention of his name. I think she’s surprised at how much I’ve learned.

  I wait another few seconds for her to answer, then stomp past her. “I hate you right now. I really do. I’ll just find out on my own.”

  “You’ll only get hurt if you listen to what he says. You trust people too easily.”

  “You’re right. I trusted you,” I shout, running up the cabin steps and onto the porch.

  “Stay away from Ty,” she calls after me. “He used you. He used both of us.”

  Pausing at the door, I look back at her. “How, Mom? What is going on?”

  She opens her mouth and takes a step toward me. But just when I think she’s finally going to talk to me and give me some answers, she draws back. “I’m your mother,” she says. “You have to do what I say. I don’t want you talking to Ty Collier anymore, do you understand? Your father would agree with me about this.”

  “No, I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything.” I walk into the cabin and slam the door.

  Ty doesn’t answer any of my calls. I’m so upset that while Mom is napping, I take one of her sedatives from the medicine vial and gulp it down with a glass of water. Thirty minutes later, I understand why she loves them so much.

  The fog is quiet. It absorbs all sensations. Weightless and numb, I curl into the vaporous mist and sleep for hours or maybe only minutes, until the haze parts and a guy’s face appears, hovering above me . . . a vision . . . a revelation . . . the answer to a thousand prayers. I’ve been waiting for him all of my life. Searching for his blue eyes in every person I’ve met since I was little, longing to touch his black hair and feel it brush my cheek.

  Jake, I whisper to the wavering apparition. Jake Milano, I love you. Don’t let me go.

  I wake up with a jerk, and sit straight up in bed, wide-awake now, stunned. The slant of sunbeams through my bedroom window tells me I haven’t slept long. “Milano,” I whisper, and Iris spins like a cyclone inside of me. “That’s Jake’s last name, isn’t it?”

  Yes! she breathes. We thought we had forever . . .

  Not only do I know Jake’s last name, I remember him. I know him. The sound of his laughter. The scratch of the rough calluses on his palms, the soft touch of his fingers. I know the press of his mouth and the warmth of his body. He loves to drive too fast and sing too loudly and push himself to the point of puking as he runs around a track. He’s afraid of failing, of not meeting his parents’ expectations. And he’s afraid of losing the girl he loves.

  But he knows he’s going to.

  “Oh my god,” I whisper. The memories seem to be as much mine as
Iris’s. But how can that be? How can I know these things if Jake is from my sister’s past, not mine?

  We have to find out what happened to you, Iris. It’s weird, but I feel like I’m a part of it somehow. What should we do?

  Jake can help us, she says with certainty. Somehow, I know it.

  “Someone else can help us, too,” I say aloud.

  I can’t let Ty leave Silver Lake. Not until he tells me what he knows about my parents.

  I call Silver Lake Studio Apartments’ office and ask the desk clerk if Ty checked out. When she says he hasn’t, I start making plans to slip away to see him. Mom doesn’t make it easy for me. She stays close all day, keeping an eye on me. In the evening, I lie and tell her I’m driving into town to meet Sylvie, and she insists on going along. I tell her no, and we have another argument that sizzles like the lightning splitting the sky outside.

  When she forbids me to leave, I get so angry that I bolt upstairs to my bedroom, determined to grab my keys and go anyway. But the sight of my open laptop in the middle of the bed stops me short. The Winterhaven Chamber of Commerce site is up on the screen. Not again. Did I pull up the site earlier today? Did Iris do it?

  Don’t leave. Look for Jake first, she pleads.

  A crash of thunder rattles the windows and rain taps the roof as I settle in front of the computer. A search for “Jake Milano, Winterhaven, Massachusetts” produces a link to a store called Milano Lawn & Garden Center. The contact information doesn’t include any names, only a phone number and an email address.

  The rain falls harder, transforming the windowpanes into wavering dark pools. I place my fingers on the keyboard, ready to send an email, but I don’t know what to say. So instead, I type Iris Winston into the search box, realizing that if my sister was a child prodigy violinist, articles might’ve been written about her. Nothing relevant appears, so I type: child prodigy violinists in the 1990s. Links fill the screen about child prodigies in general, about savants and extreme precocity in children, but nothing specific to Iris. I skim past a Wikipedia entry about a little boy in France, and another about an American girl I once saw featured on the news. I’m about to give up when, at the very bottom of the screen, the name Iris jumps out at me in a link to a YouTube video.