Shadows Falling: The Lost #2

by Melyssa Williams

  “Ah.” We are at the Rolls Royce Phantom now, and she is just as sleek as I remember. “Hop in.”

  Hopping in is just what I do, a little hop of excitement that I can’t contain. After a rotten day, things are looking up for me. I have to cross my legs at the ankles just to keep them from happily bouncing in the car and to keep my toes from tapping. I debate asking to drive again, but squelch the desire, since I already know the answer.

  “Where to?” I ask, breezily as we pull away from the hospital. I ask out of curiosity and something to fill the silence with, not because I am well versed in restaurants. Odds are, I won’t have heard of his answer anyway.

  “There’s a nice place I know of. You’ll like it.”

  “Thanks,” I pause for a moment, “Sam. So, one of the things I wanted to talk to you about—”

  Sam shakes his head, firmly. “No inquisitions until I have a steak sitting in front of me. Be quiet, and enjoy the scenery.”

  “It’s London. I’ve seen it,” I wrinkle my nose, “especially this part. I liked Oxford better. I liked the library.”

  “We’re not going to Oxford; now hush. Good Lord, it’s like having a toddler in the car.”

  I swat at him playfully, but when he nearly runs down a dog, I leave him be. Eventually, we pull up at a wonderful looking club, and Sam gives the keys to the Rolls to a young man for parking. I eye him carefully.

  “How do you know he won’t just steal it?” I wonder aloud.

  “Turn about is fair play,” Sam replies, mildly.

  Whatever does that mean? But there is no time to ask, and the desire is gone anyway, as we have entered the restaurant. Low lighting, rich looking patrons (oh, why didn’t I ask him to let me change first? I smooth down my wretched skirt), the smell of delicious food wafting by my nostrils. The women wear jewelry that sparkles; even in the dim lighting their bracelets and necklaces catch the reflection of candles and bulbs and twinkle merrily. The men are smartly dressed and handsome. The smoke is thick, and I can’t help but cough. It seems a crude and childlike thing to do, so I try covering it up with a fake sneeze. Sam looks down at me, amused.

  “You shouldn’t have brought me here,” I hiss. “Not that I’m not grateful—and hungry—but I look so out of place! I look like the maid.”

  “You’re fine.”

  “People are going to give me their coats. Just watch.”

  “Then we’ll go through the pockets for change. Come along,” Sam nods to someone I don’t see, and he presses his hand in the small of my back, urging me to walk. We pass a sign that advertises Live Lobsters as a delicacy. Right beneath it is another that boasts, Dancing Nightly. I stifle an urge to giggle.

  When my eyes adjust to the lack of lighting and the smoke, I see who we’re following: a waiter who is impeccably dressed (I’m not even dressed well enough to be the Coat Girl on reflection). He leads us all the way to the back, and I feel like a sideshow freak on display. Gertie and Lulu would have nothing on me, I find myself thinking. In my head, I can see the sign now:

  Come see the Urchin Girl! Two bits!

  I pull at my braids, which had come down from their pins finally, and wish, desperately, for my red lipstick. I might as well be a dancing lobster; I am so out of place. Thankfully, beyond a few curious glances from the men and dismissive looks from the women, I am mostly ignored. The waiter pulls my chair out for me and even bows. I sit down stiffly and sip from the icy goblet of water near my plate. Suddenly, I choke on it and narrowly stop myself from spitting all over Sam.

  I gesture towards something, covering my mouth with my large cloth napkin. I sputter my frantic words into it.

  “What?” Sam puts down his own water and looks at me in confusion. “Are you having a fit?”

  I gesture again, frenetically, towards two women not far from us. They sip drinks, and one of them, the blonde one, catches my eye and smiles politely. I want to die.

  “It’s Lillian Gish and Mary Pickford!” I attempt to talk coherently through my huge smile. I have finished coughing and sputtering, but now I am having a difficult time speaking English. Mary Pickford just smiled at me!

  “Who?” Sam squints across the room.

  “Stop it!” I hiss, yanking his arm and nearly spilling our water. “Stop looking conspicuous! Don’t stare! Oh blimey, I can’t believe it’s them. Stop looking!”

  “You told me to look!” Sam laughs. “Quit having a coronary. Are these chums of yours?”

  “Chums?” I stare at him, incredulous. “Chums? Me? Chums with Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish? Are you knackered?”

  “You’re squeaking.”

  “That’s because I cannot believe you just asked me that. Of course we are not chums! What a ridiculous notion. Are you truly telling me you don’t know who they are?”

  “Sorry, little one. Not chums. Enemies then?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. They’re movie stars! Huge movie stars! Haven’t you ever seen a picture?”

  “Ah. Yes, of course, a good many of them. Can I have my arm back now?” He disentangles himself from my clutches, but I barely notice. I am staring dreamily at the women, out of the corner of my eye.

  “You look like you’re having an epileptic fit,” Sam continues, mildly.

  “I’m trying not to stare. Just keep talking to me, and I’ll keep my head pointed your direction. I’ll smile and nod a lot. Go ahead!”

  “You’re going to give yourself a headache. Leave the poor things alone, and let them eat their supper. What do you want to eat?”

  “Whatever.” I dismiss my options with a wave of my hand. He’s right though; I can feel my head begin to ache a bit from my awkward position. I am about to give it up and finally concentrate on Sam and food when they both stand and push their chairs into the table. “They’re leaving. Oh my, they’re so beautiful. They’re coming over here!” I begin to squeak again, frantically this time. “They’re coming over here! Sam! What do I do?” I want to slide under the table and disappear.

  “Don’t ask me,” Sam has lit another cigarette and looks at me, amused. “Hello, ladies.”

  It takes all my will power to keep my knees from turning to jelly and sliding down my chair, into a puddle on the floor. I smile, weakly.

  “Hello, yourself, handsome,” Miss Pickford says, in a voice smooth as honey. Her bias cut gown shimmers like a mermaid’s tale. It is cream colored and has nary a crease as it hugs her small hips and clings to every curve. Long strands of pearls dangle over her breasts, and when she turns a little to wave farewell someone across the room, I get a peek at the back of the gown: a deep V that ends at the small of her back, with a cheekily placed bow. She isn’t as tall as I would have thought, given her larger than life impression in the pictures, even in her high heels. I can’t help noticing her glamorous cosmetics: liner that wings up at the edge, and lashes that can’t possibly be God’s gift. Her shade of lipstick looks like mine, which gives me some small comfort. It’d be a larger comfort had I been wearing any tonight.

  “And hello to your little dame.” Miss Pickford winks at me. “I thought you might like an autographed photograph? I saw you recognize us.”

  I swallow very loudly. “Thank you, Miss Pickford!” I manage not to squeal this time. Instead, I sound like a bleating goat. Too loud, stammering, and full of longing. “Thank you so much. I, I just loved you in Coquette. It’s my favorite picture! Well, after La Boheme!” I hastily turn to Lillian Gish to shower my awkward praises on her next. She smokes a cigarette from a long-handled, decorated holder as I bleat on. “The whole orphanage got to watch that one! We had a benefactor who paid for us all to go. It was lovely.”

  Lillian is dressed in the same type of gown as her friend, only in a deep jewel-tone blue color. She shimmers like peacock feathers, and her heels are silver, and her necklaces are diamonds instead of pearls. Her hair is dark and exquisite, curled just so.

  “That is sweet. Who shall I write it to then? Hold this, handsome?” Miss Gish hands h
er cigarette holder to Sam, with a smile. Was she flirting?

  “Umm.” why do I feel as though I’ve lost my own name? “Lizzie, Miss. Thank you, Miss. So much, Miss!”

  “Perhaps the orphanage would like a stack of these. Do you think, Mary?”

  “We could arrange that,” Miss Pickford muses, as she signs her photograph with a flourish and hands it to me. “And you’re very beautiful, Lizzie. Have you thought of going into the movies?”

  I gape. Like a flounder, my jaw hangs slack. Am I drooling? I snap out of it. Was there room in pictures for a drooling lobster?

  “No, Miss. I’m a nurse.”

  “Well, keep it in mind. You have a very unforgettable look about you. Come along, Lil. We don’t want to keep the boys waiting. Goodnight, handsome. Goodnight, Lizzie.”

  They are gone, in a cloud of perfume and glamour, before I have enough wits about me to respond. I stare after them in shock, my photos clutched to my chest.

  “Hallelujah, they left. Now we can order! I kept looking at all that beauty, and all I could think of was steak, steak, steak.” Sam beckons for the waiter, who had been hanging back patiently.

  “You’re cracked. How can you even think to eat at a time like this?” I feel dreamy.

  “You’re cracked. When would be a better time? I’m ordering for you since you look like you’ve severed all ties with reality. Two steaks, medium rare—”

  “Well-done,” I interrupt, still in my dreamy, sing song voice.

  “Don’t listen to her; she doesn’t know what she wants. Butter beans, a whole mess of ‘em. A couple of potatoes, drowned in cheddar and onions. Do you have some of that brown bread? A big plate of that, please. Coffee. Apple pie. Off with you, young man, and step lively! I don’t want to faint from hunger in your fine establishment, but I may, so for the love of God, be nimble!”

  The waiter scampers off. Literally, he scampers. I marvel at his sprightliness before finally shaking myself out of my icon induced stupor.

  “That was wonderful! Really. The best night of my life.”

  “We must get you out more,” Sam teases. “You haven’t even tried the steak yet. It will erase all memories of movie stars right out of your head.”

  “I doubt it. I won’t even taste it. I’m just… shell shocked. They were just lovely, weren’t they?”

  “I suppose so. If you go in for glamour and jewels and minks and all that jazz.”

  “Oh, you don’t?” I laugh. “What do you go in for?”

  “Braids and lipstick.” He winks. “Every time.”

  17

  The meal is nearly wonderful enough to erase my memory of my star sightings, but not quite. I imagine every line of Lillian’s gorgeous gown as I tear into my steak with reckless abandon. The entire potato in, my stomach finally stops growling, and I can come up for air. I savor my beans, one by one, and resolve to find the answers to my questions. That is, after all, the whole point of tonight; movie stars and brown bread aside.

  “Why doesn’t she speak of you? Rose, I mean. You said you know her well?” I am very interested in my question, but I pretend nonchalance as I experiment with how many beans can be stabbed on one fork.

  “Quite. And I haven’t read the diary, so I don’t know.”

  “A long time you’ve known her? Her whole life?” Nine beans, but they’re terribly squished. I feel bad for ruining their perfect, buttery roundness.

  “No, not that long. It only feels like it. Are you going to finish your pie?”

  “Yes. What do you make of what she thinks she did to her family? Is she telling the truth, do you think?”

  “Which part?” Sam inquires, dryly. “The part with Mommy Dearest, or Father Goose, or Big Sister?”

  “Any and all of it. Well, let’s start with the mother.” I drum my fingertips on my lips as I rest my chin on my hand. Elbows on the table would never have happened at the orphanage, I remember out of nowhere. “Do you really think she killed her? Her own mother? She said herself she was very confused that day. She thought she saw Mr. Rochester or some such literary character. Maybe the whole thing was in her head?”

  Sam pushes his plate away and leans back in the chair, regarding me. “What do you think?” He turns the table on my inquisition smoothly.

  “Oh, no, I asked you first.”

  “I asked you second.”

  I scowl. “Someone has to be mature here.”

  “Not it.”

  “Fine. I’ll go first. I think she invents wild things in her head and imagination to keep herself occupied in the hospital. We already know she comes up with some pretty crazy scenarios, so we can judge from that; we can’t believe everything she says.”

  “So, you’ll just disbelieve all the frightening things? Is that it? Not face them. I see.” He looks—disappointed in me.

  “Don’t be condescending. I’m simply giving you my version of things. But fine, all right, let’s say she really did kill her mother that night. How’d she get there? How’d she get out of Bedlam?”

  “How’d she get out this last time? Doesn’t seem to be a problem, does it?”

  “Why do you keep answering questions with questions? It’s terribly annoying.”

  “Is it?”

  I throw a piece of bread at him. “You’re impossible.”

  Sam smiles and raises his eyebrows. “Not impossible. Quite possible and highly likely.”

  I roll my eyes and dig into my pie. It’s melt in your mouth good, with cinnamon and brown sugar. We don’t get food like this at Bedlam. I’m so full; I feel I could burst.

  “You’re really no help to me at all.” I grumble. “Lord, this pie is heavenly.”

  “I’m sure He had a hand in it, at least with the crust. How does the diary say she keeps getting out of the hospital?”

  I swallow, and wonder how he’ll react to the response I’m about to give him. “Well, she says she—” I don’t know whether to lower my voice, laugh a little, sound skeptical, or simply come out with it. I choose the latter. “She says she can time travel.” There I said it. I had been worried it would sound silly, and now I know it does.

  “Well, that would explain it.”

  “You’re not surprised?” I certainly am.

  “I told you. I’ve known Rose for a long time.” Calmly, Sam butters the bread I had tossed at him.

  “Actually, you said it hadn’t been a long time,” I argue, crossly. I’m too full, and I push my last few bites of pie away. “Make up your mind.”

  “That’s just it. A ‘long time’ is rather relative, don’t you think?”

  “No. No, I don’t. I may be willing to believe she murdered her mother and terrorized her sister, but I’m certainly not going to entertain any thoughts of time traveling. I’m sorry. I’m just too practical for that kind of nonsense.” And I’m disappointed in him if he isn’t.

  “You think it’s merely a symptomatic side effect of—” Sam looks uncomfortable, and I realize he is not meeting my eyes; rather, he is staring at my shoulder somewhere, or maybe my forehead, but not my eyes. “Of her condition?”

  “Her condition? All right, we’ll call it that if you like.” I can think of other names: madness being at the forefront. “Her condition is not unlike most others at the hospital really.”

  “They all think they can time travel?” This is said wryly. “I had no idea it was such a common condition. Can I finish your pie?”

  “No, and all right, already! Here. Naturally, they don’t all think they can time travel, but we once had an old woman who thought she was the Queen of Persia, and we all had to bow to her whenever she came in a room. And then there was the man who thought rats were living in his clothes. That was an interesting case. Constantly undressing himself. Not good!”

  Sam chuckles around his mouthful of apples. “I can imagine.”

  “Yes, well, no you can’t. Did I mention he was nearly four hundred pounds? Yes, imagine that.”

  “I’d rather not! Your point being wh
at?”

  “My point being this: everyone in Bedlam has delusions; otherwise they’d be nice, quiet members of society and not locked up, right?”

  “You could use better locks. What?” He feigns innocence. “That should be your next point, is all I’m saying.”

  I glare at him. “Look. If it’s our fault Rose is missing, then I’m sorry. But I’m hardly the security team, am I? I’m the one helping you, so don’t continually get your jabs in with me. Take it up with Miss Helmes.”

  “Hell, no! That woman scares me. And like I said, Rose will turn up. I’m only teasing you about the locks.” Sam reaches over and squeezes my hand, reassuredly. I pretend his touch doesn’t make me glow inside.

  “Well, it isn’t funny! I’m worried about her. I feel like I know her somehow, because of the diary. She’s in my head.” I run my fingers through my hair until they snarl on what’s left of my braids. I pull out the bands and a stray pin, and comb through the mess with my fingers. “And I have to say, it’s not always the nicest feeling to have her there.”

  “I know.” Sam lights up yet another cigarette, and leans back in his chair. He’s watching me comb through my tangles, and it feels an intimate sort of inappropriate thing to be doing at dinner. I put my hands down. “Believe me, I know the feeling. Look!”

  I turn, and watch a striking woman in a deep, red gown, positively dripping with accessories, take the nearby stage. As she steps up to the large, silver microphone, several men whistle. Other than those whistles, a hush falls over the crowded restaurant. A five piece band is near her, all the men dressed in perfectly pressed, white suits and black ties. The tips of their shoes even put Sam’s to shame, they shine so well. The band leader waves his arm, and they start to play a lively tune. I watch the beautiful lady sway and wait for her cue. Her hand cups the microphone like she would cup a lover’s face, and she looks completely at home on the stage. Once she begins to sing, she sounds like an angel.

  “She reminds me of Sonnet.” I smile.

  “What? Damn!” Sam jumps up and wipes at his trousers, where he evidently has just deposited his coffee.