“You’re going to love the Country Sun,” Liz gushes. “It’s one of my favorite rooms.”
Bullshit. Like she’s ever going to tell people, Sorry, you picked one of the crappy rooms?
I put on a smile and pray that the real Jim never shows. “Awesome.”
We breeze past more doors and more silver frames, some locket-size, some as large as plates and ornately carved, showing austere, unsmiling people who couldn’t possibly still be on this planet. Elyse’s ancestors? Or just the rich people who lived in this house, before it became an inn? Was the Suite Nostalgia Lane where the butler slept?
The Country Sun is a huge bedroom with a comfy-looking quilt on the king-size bed, a sunburst-orange-painted ceiling that matches the paint on the bed’s wooden headboard, and geese on the wallpaper. No phone. No TV. The geese appear to be wearing blue neck ribbons.
“Hey, is there wi-fi in the house?”
“Our computer with internet access is in the library.” She sounds disapproving. “But if you’re not too tired, I recommend you check out the trails in Waterfall Park today.”
“Love to, but . . .” I have way more important things to do than stare at some waterfall. I point to my sneakers. “I’m not exactly prepared to hike.”
She clucks over my supposedly lost luggage. “Airlines these days—the pilots are asleep and the bag checkers are a bunch of crooks and thieves. You hear things on CNN . . .” She trails off vaguely. “That’s why I don’t fly.”
I get the distinct feeling she’s never been anywhere near an airport, period.
“But the trails are really easy to get to.” Liz is beginning to sound like a waiter pushing the halibut special. “City people always say they didn’t realize how much they loved nature till they walked on our state-of-the-art paved trails with handrails. Why, I could walk up the mountain in these heels!”
Dutifully I glance down at her skinny-heeled pale pink sandals. Doesn’t sound much like being in nature to me, but I don’t argue. I want her to leave so I can start digging around for information.
A door clicks shut out in the hallway and I hear a man’s voice and a woman’s trilling laughter.
“That’s the Bishops.” Liz beams with pride. “They first came here on their honeymoon when Elyse was three. They come back every year for their anniversary.”
“That’s nice. I—”
“You should meet them!” She walks out into the hall where a thirtysomething couple is kissing and whispering to each other like teenagers in love. “Frank and Lucia, this is Jim’s first visit to Summer Falls.” She squints at me. “I think.”
“Oh, a virgin.” Lucia smiles. She’s model-thin with platinum blond hair down to her butt.
“Only when it comes to waterfalls.” I wink at her, hoping she thinks I seem old enough to book my own hotel room.
“Where you from?” Her bald husband reminds me of a pit bull with his reddish-rimmed eyes and alert posture.
I realize that Liz has slipped away, leaving me alone with them.
“New York.” Please don’t be New Yorkers.
“Chicago.” Frank says the word like it’s a challenge. He extends a hand and I know before I even shake it that he’s going to crush my bones. “We’re heading downtown for a pitcher of beer, if you want to tag along.”
“Beer?” Lucia nudges him. “Sweets, I thought we were going to go antiquing.”
“Baby, tomorrow. Let’s just go to Founders and chill out. You in, New York Jim?”
For a moment I’m so deep into my cover of pretending to be Jim that I consider drinking a beer with them. Then I remember: I’d need ID that says I am twenty-one, and of course I don’t have ID, period. Because I don’t know who the hell I am. Screw beer. I need to get online. “Maybe I’ll catch up later,” I say, and hook my thumb down the hall in the direction of the library.
“Just remember, all work and no play makes you crazy,” Frank cautions helpfully from behind me.
The library is a cozy room with a round blue rug in the center and dark floor-to-ceiling built-in shelves on every wall. There’s an antique writing desk in one corner with a tiny laptop on it that looks eerily anachronistic. Hanging over the desk is a retro-style poster, a side view showing an American family in a snazzy green convertible. Dad’s driving, with slicked-back hair and glasses, Mom’s blond hair peeking from a red kerchief beside him, junior in the backseat, all three aglow with delight as they gaze toward the sunset. “Summer Falls: Have a great weekend, America.”
The connection’s superslow. Dial-up.
I type “Summer Falls” into Google and skim the Wikipedia entry.
Summer Falls, Colorado, population around 5,000, including the surrounding areas of Green Vista, Eagle’s Creek, and Pleasant Valley. Established 1903, first mayor and official founder William Phillips Preston.
Economy
Though it was established as a mill town, poor oversight and numerous fatal incidents involving human error led to the mill finally closing in 2011. Tourism is the remaining source of revenue.
The heat, elevation, and general laid-back vacation culture has led to tourists comparing visiting the town to being high on a pleasant and relaxing drug, and the board of tourism only encourages this myth. The town culture is relaxed to the point where indulging in a midday nap is accepted even in school or the workplace. “Heatnaps,” as they’re called, happen spontaneously at seemingly random times throughout the day and evening, during any season. (As visitors can attest, the weather remains in the 60s and 70s even when the rest of Colorado is seeing snow and ice. See the Summer Falls Effect.) Townies claim Walt Disney stole his famous slogan, “The Happiest Place on Earth,” from Summer Falls, but there’s no evidence to back this claim.
People nap at any time of day here? Heh, I could see that.
But how could it be warm all winter long in Colorado?
I click on the Summer Falls Effect.
Some climatologists have theorized that the location of nearby glacier Kiowa, combined with the valley effect, is responsible for creating a unique microclimate that defies all expectations for the region’s latitude and altitude.
It goes on for a few more sentences, but they’re full of even more terms I don’t understand.
Controversy
The Summer Falls Effect has come under criticism by numerous traditional climate scientists, including Megan Coen, Yonatan Zunger, and Hans Andersen, who has famously called it “bunk science.” Yet its detractors have offered no competing theory to explain the unusual microclimates in this part of Colorado.
I kind of have to agree with those guys. I mean, how could a freaking glacier—a mountain of ice—make the place warmer?
There’s a video embedded; I hit Play.
A slender woman with a blond bob and gold jewelry smiles at the camera from atop a windy hill. “One thing that helps create the fascinating weather patterns in Summer Falls, Colorado,” she says, speaking slowly and thoughtfully, “is the paradoxical effect of the nearby glacier’s location.” The camera pans out to a majestic mountain of ice. I can’t help but laugh when I see it. She’s a persuasive speaker, but the theory really does sound moronic. “You see, while it is cooling the surrounding air, winds whipping down into the valley will heat up with compression, similar to a drainage wind like the Santa Ana winds in California—” She uses her hands to gesture, and as the wind blows on the neckline of her peasant blouse, suddenly I see something way more interesting than her cleavage.
I turn it back a few seconds and freeze the frame. Just above her pale, elegant collarbone is an Egyptian eye tattoo. I look down at my own. What does it mean that I have the same tattoo as some batty climate scientist? Maybe we’re both part of some secret society? Or maybe we just both thought that tattoo design looked cool. But there’s no way to know till I get my memory back.
I watch a clip from the Colorado Historical Association next. The camera zooms in and out of a somber black-and-white photog
raph, men with their hats in their hands, women in veils as they stare at twin caskets. Everyone wearing stiff, formal facial expressions that you just don’t see anymore. “We called him Old Man Preston,” says a gruff, aged male voice, “because he was the boss, like a father to the whole town. But of course he died pretty young, in his forties. He and Mrs. Preston were on their boat during a rare storm and they both drowned. Never even found the bodies, though with today’s search equipment it would have been easier. But our founders had given us one more gift: They’d invested every penny they were worth back into our town, and so the Great Depression never hit us like it did everyone else. The mill kept going, and it kept us going. . . .”
The next site, a travel article, takes forever to load. Impatiently I leaf through a three-ring binder left on the desk. Flyers for local restaurants. The official Preston House glossy brochure features a portrait of Calvin Coolidge and his wife vacationing by the lake. There are also brochures for local attractions. One catches my eye: Summer Falls Ghost Tour.
We’re proud of our hauntings here, I read from the brochure. Explore each spooky, supernatural spot in town. Note: All our spirits are friendly!
There’s a list of nine below, each with a cheesy little graphic. One has a picture of a pair of beaded moccasins. One has a chocolate chip cookie with a bite taken out. One has a baby stroller.
Tomoko Nakamura, 1988. This young mother was visiting Summer Falls from Kyoto, Japan, when she slipped on the trail wearing high heels, and her infant daughter fell from her stroller, tumbling partway down the cliff side. In a mad effort to rescue her daughter, she tumbled to her death. The baby, who had fallen only a few feet and been caught in some tree roots, survived. Mysterious double-wheel tracks are still regularly found in the dirt near the trails.
The woman with the empty stroller.
The woman who wasn’t there.
I drop the binder on the desk.
It’s got to be a coincidence.
No. It’s too specific to be a coincidence. Elyse would have had to know about that story, and if she were lying about that and about seeing the woman, that would mean she was lying about everything . . . that she was some kind of con artist.
Impossible. Never mind the fact that I’m conning Liz and the Bishops, pretending to be New York Jim without my conscience feeling much of a pang. Elyse isn’t like me, or even like most people. She keeps telling the truth, even when she knows it’s going to make her sound crazy or otherwise bite her in the ass.
I believe in Elyse.
And I hate to say this, but now believing in Elyse means I have to start believing in ghosts.
Chapter 9
ELYSE
My room is in the east tower. It is the east tower. By the time Liz leads me up the twisty stairway with its creaky old banister, her smile’s lost half its wattage. She winces at me in the open doorway. “Sorry, I know you like the door and window closed, but it was just so hot today—”
“I don’t care,” I cut in. “I just need to remember.”
I push past her into the room. It’s circular, and so tiny it would give me claustrophobia if not for the open window, its magenta curtains billowing out toward the lush green grounds. I have to crane my neck to check out the high, domed ceiling. Like a miniature cathedral.
It could have been such a cool bedroom; it could have been amazing. But it’s gross.
For starters there’s the bubblegum-pink carpet, soft pile two inches high. Like some kind of shaggy alien grass. A white four-poster bed with a cream-colored canopy—a Victorian eight-year-old’s dream. Candy-striped walls, bare of posters or personality. The only proof that we’re still in the twenty-first century is the desktop littered with fashion magazines.
I shake my head, trying not to cry. “I don’t remember this place at all.”
“But honey, you love your room.” She says it in a don’t-be-silly voice, gently correcting. “You’re always sitting up here, nose stuck in your book . . .” Her smile fades a little around the edges, disapproving. “Going to need glasses soon if you keep it up.”
I’m so sick of her denial, and I’m about ready to snap at her that having amnesia is way worse than needing glasses, but the news that I like to read stops me silent. It’s the first thing I’ve heard about myself and my life so far that I don’t despise. What kind of books do I read? I wonder. Fantasy? True crime? Newsy nonfiction? I scan the room for shelves, but all I see are the magazines arrayed on the desk, a chorus line of teased blond manes, bubble boobs, and exaggerated pink pouts. Maybe I check out novels from the library one at a time. I try to picture myself in this room, reading, sitting sprawled on top of the turned-down pink comforter, propped up on lacy pink throw pillows. . . . Something occurs to me. “Do you always make my bed for me?”
She blinks at me. “I thought you made it.”
“When?”
“Well, this morning . . .” Her voice trails off uncertainly. “Don’t you always make your bed in the mornings?”
I look away, sparks of hot shame flaring in my belly. She still doesn’t know. My own mother doesn’t know that I was gone all night. What would she think of me, if she knew I woke up entwined with a strange boy, at the home of a crazy magician? Screw that, what am I supposed to think of her, a parent who doesn’t care enough to keep tabs on her own kid?
“You haven’t even asked much about my memory,” I say. “Aren’t you worried about me?”
She shakes her head brightly. “Nope. Your memory’s going to come right back. I know it is.”
“Okay, well, I want to believe that too. But it’s been hours. . . .”
“Everyone has these moments, sweetie. People don’t like to talk about it, but it’s normal.” She steeples her hands and breathes into them. Letting me know some part of her is worried, despite her cheery exterior.
Instantly I feel guilty for judging her. Liz doesn’t seem uncaring, just distracted. She’s probably exhausted, what with running this place—and for all I know she’s a single parent, raising me alone. “You haven’t mentioned my father,” I say, looking her in the eye. “Does he live with us?”
Liz flinches, and I know I’ve offended her. “Daddy’s down at Tim’s Hardware,” she says, a little stiffly. “Getting a new shower rod for the guest cottage.”
“Daddy?” I can feel my nose wrinkling. I’m sure I don’t call my father that, like some spoiled little princess. Then again I was sure I didn’t wear tight, body-hugging white skirts too.
The fashion-mag models’ eyes seem to follow me as I cross the room to examine every cleared, shiny surface for a clue of myself. My attention pounces on a pink wastebasket by the desk. What kind of papers did I throw away—essay drafts, notes from friends, love letters? But when I lean closer to inspect its metal bowl all I see is my own blurry reflection. Empty. Damn it.
Every second in this room makes me feel so uncomfortable that I let myself imagine hurling myself out the window just to get out. But I didn’t survive one fall and run my ass off to die stupidly now. Instead I let out a groan of frustration and, like a renegade wiper blade, my arm sweeps across the desk hard. The magazines crash into the basket with hollow metallic clunks.
Liz’s shoulders seize at the violent sound and her small, pretty face shrinks into itself. “No need to get so upset.”
Guilt tugs at a string in my chest. “Sorry to freak you out,” I say. “But I am upset. I’m confused. I’m trying to understand. Trying to remember . . . me. My life. And looking at all this stuff isn’t helping. This place looks like a little girl lives here.” A creepy little girl. The kind who enters pageants.
“Well, you were seven when we decorated it. Don’t you remember how much fun we had together painting those stripes, trying to get them to line up perfectly . . . ?”
Right. What seven-year-old would find that fun? “The only thing this room reminds me of is a dollhouse. Or maybe a doll prison,” I add, thinking that the vertical pink stripes resemble bars. “Liz, I need y
our help. What else can you tell me, or show me, to jog my memory? Anything that might make this feel real.”
“Of course.” She nods, twice, and you can just see her trying to compose herself. “Family photo albums are in the front parlor,” she says finally. “It’ll help remind you of all the good times we’ve had.”
“I hope so.”
When she’s gone downstairs to fetch them, I open the closet door and flip through dozens of white scented, satin hangers, checking out every outfit. Most of my wardrobe is cotton, like what I’m wearing. It’s not skimpy, that’s not the problem, but it manages to be tight and revealing anyway. Also I’m color-challenged. Most everything I own is white, though sometimes I branch out into black. It’s unnerving. Did I not get the memo that clothes come in real colors?
The shoe selection’s more promising. Two pairs of delicate sandals—skinny heels and flimsy straps—arrayed on a shoe tree serve as closet jewelry, but on the floor are hiking boots, rugged rafting sandals with Velcro around the toes and ankles, and three pairs of running shoes in various stages of wear. I’m amused to see one muddy sneaker half hidden under a white prom dress.
As I’m bending to scoop up the shoe and its mate, some pencil markings low on the closet wall catch my eye. I pull aside the dress and discover the markings start at two and a half feet and reach halfway up the wall to the closet shelves where I store purses and jewelry. Someone—maybe Liz or my father—has been marking my height over time. But the highest mark isn’t much over five feet, which means they must have stopped years ago. Unless . . . I stand directly in front of it, my hand following the line from the top of my head to the wall. It matches the level of the marking.
“Oh my god,” I say out loud as the revelation hits me. “I’m short.”
Glimmer Page 4
