by Bryan Davis
A raven-haired girl stepped into the foyer, clutching a three-quarter-size violin and bow. “Who is it? I heard someone mention an elephant.” Wearing blue jeans, a black Iowa T-shirt, and white athletic shoes with purple trim, she stood shoulder height to her mother, maybe four-foot-eight, definitely the girl in the photo.
“I’m Nathan, and this is Kelly, I said, gesturing toward her. “We’re kind of lost, so I was hoping I could use your phone.”
The woman stifled a yawn. “Maybe when my neighbor gets off. We don’t have a private line yet.”
Kelly spoke to the girl in a friendly tone. “Are you Francesca?”
A suspicious expression tightened her features. “Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Ten.” Her brow furrowed more deeply. “How did you know my name?”
Her mother’s brow knitted in the same way. “Yes. How did you know?”
Kelly pushed my shoulder. “We found the right place after all.” She looked at Francesca’s mother. “I know it’s kind of early, but we’re here from the music school to interview your prodigy. We heard she has the potential to become one of the greatest.”
A new smile emerged on her mother’s face, proud, but still suspicious. “Well … she is good. At least I think so.” She gave us a curious squint. “How did you hear about her?”
“From her teacher, of course.” Kelly glanced at me and began snapping her fingers. “What was the name again?”
“Nikolai. Nikolai Malenkov.” I extended a hand. “And you must be Mrs. Romano.”
She shook it with a firm grip. “Pleased to meet you.” As soon as she released my hand, she again covered a yawn. “I’m sorry. I slept terribly. Bad dreams all night.”
“It’s okay. We’re tired, too.” I lowered my voice. “Were you worried about something?”
She copied my quieter tone. “Ever since my husband died, I worry about …” She glanced at Francesca. “Well, about security, you know, being alone way out in the middle of nowhere, and since I have lupus, I can’t defend myself. I’m thinking about getting a guard dog.”
I gave her a nod. “Not a bad idea.”
“What happened to you?” Francesca asked, pointing at Kelly’s bloodstained sleeve.
Kelly quickly re-tucked her shirt’s hem. “Sorry. It must have come loose on the way.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant the blood. ”
“Where do you normally practice?” Kelly asked. “That would be the best place to do the interview and maybe get some pictures.”
“In my room.”
“Can you show me?”
“This way.” As Francesca led Kelly toward the hall, Kelly looked back, gesturing for me to follow.
When I stepped in that direction, Mrs. Romano grabbed my arm. “Wait. I can’t let you go in there without me.”
“Sure. I understand.”
She began a slow hobble toward the bedroom, her cane leading the way. “I’m not saying you’re one of them, but with all the crazy people out there, I can’t take any chances with my daughter.”
“Of course. I’d be the same way.” I placed a hand under her elbow and walked slowly next to her. Who could blame her for being suspicious? Two strangers with matching khakis showing up early in the morning claiming to be from a music school wasn’t exactly normal, especially since one of them was bleeding.
With the thumping cane accentuating her words, she looked at me with teary eyes. “You remind me of my dear husband. Whenever my lupus acted up, he would walk at my side. Until leukemia took him away from me. He was such a gentleman.” She stopped and patted my hand. “Thank you for raising that lovely memory.”
I shook my head. “Don’t thank me. Thank my father. He told me I should always treat mothers as treasures. Without them, where would we be?”
As a tear made its way to her cheek, she smiled. “You’re a lucky boy to have such a wise father.”
“Lucky?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but it wavered. “I was lucky, I guess. My father died recently. I’m still …” A sob tried to break through. I bit my lip to quell it. “Well … grieving, I suppose.”
“Of course you are.” Her hand trembled on her cane. After a few seconds of silence, she nodded down the hall. “Go on ahead to Francesca’s room. Your friend is probably wondering what happened to you.”
I drew back. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” She looked at me from head to toe. “Where’s your camera?”
I tried to hide a nervous swallow. “Camera?”
“Aren’t you going to take pictures?”
I patted my shirt. “I forgot to bring it.”
“I have one you can borrow. I’ll get it and meet you there. And I’ll bring a couple of Band-Aids for Kelly. Poor girl looks like she’s been in a knife fight.”
As Mrs. Romano shuffled away in the other direction, I strode ahead and turned into my bedroom, at least what had been my bedroom, or would become my bedroom.
I scanned the inside. Instead of a huge mirror on the wall, a bright mural decorated the smooth plaster, a painting of a serpentine musical staff with happy-faced notes climbing on the lines like mischievous spider monkeys. I deciphered the notes — the first measures of “Brahms’ Lullaby.”
The artwork appeared to be designed for someone younger than Francesca. Maybe it had been there quite a while.
Against the wall opposite the mural, an open trunk sat on the floor, the same trunk that once held Dad’s camera and Mom’s violin. I stepped closer and looked inside. Sheets of handwritten music covered the bottom, maybe an inch or so thick.
“Where have you been?” Kelly asked.
“Just talking with Mrs. Romano. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem. We’ve been chatting.” Kelly looked at Francesca. “How long have you played violin?”
Francesca’s expression was now softer, more relaxed. “Six years.”
“Six years?” I repeated. “Do you remember why you started?”
“Why does anybody play?” She stared at me, her eyes filled with mystery. “Are you a musician?”
“Yes.” I glanced at Kelly, then returned my gaze to Francesca. “Yes, I am.”
Her serious aspect deepened. “Then you know why I play.”
“You’re right. I do.” I looked into her beautiful brown eyes. “Because your spirit has to sing. Every musician’s heart bears a song from the creator, and he spends his life trying to duplicate that song as an act of worship. His ultimate dream is to play it flawlessly for an audience of one at the great throne in heaven.”
“That’s exactly what my teacher says.” Francesca raised a pair of fingers. “But there are two songs in your heart, one for God and one for the woman who will be your wife.”
I resisted the urge to look at Kelly again. “My wife?”
“My teacher says if a musician marries another musician, they harmonize their songs into one, but when he marries a non-musician, he creates a new song for her and teaches it to her heart.”
“I have heard that before from a very wise woman.” I reached for her violin. “May I?”
She laid the violin and bow in my hands, her expression solemn. “Only if your spirit teaches me its song.” As she released her instrument, she blew on my bow hand. Her breath tickled my skin, sending shivers up my arm. The sensation brought tears to my eyes. This ten-year-old girl, somehow, some way, was truly my mother.
She looked at me with sparkling irises. “My teacher always blows on my fingers. He says music is the breath of God.”
My body flushed with warmth. As hot prickles covered my skin, I tried to shake off the emotional surge. I couldn’t break down and cry. Not now.
I closed my eyes and raised the violin to my chin, reliving my childhood as I adjusted to the instrument’s smaller size. Then, playing long, gentle strokes, I interpreted the mural on the wall and gave life to the lullaby. The violin sang like a nightingale, whispering a melody of comfort, securit
y, even sadness, and my mind repainted the lovely portrait of Mom playing the same hymn as I lay in bed.
Barely opening one eye, I peered at Francesca. She played the part of the captivated child as she gave her own interpretation, swaying on her toes like an enchanted ballerina, every movement capturing the heart of my spirit’s song.
“You’re very good!”
Mrs. Romano’s voice jerked me back to reality. I lowered the bow and nodded. “Thank you.”
She leaned her cane against the wall and hobbled in. “I guess you really are music students. I tried to call Nikolai to check you two out, but his secretary said he never returned from his quartet’s performance last night.”
“Where did he perform?”
“At Ganz Hall in Chicago. Maybe he fell ill and stayed an extra day. He has been rather sickly lately.”
I felt my back pocket for the newspaper. Should I tell her about the murders? Could Nikolai have been one of the victims? If only I’d had a chance to get a look at the bodies in the coffins.
She extended her arm. A camera dangled from her hand by a strap. “It’s a Nikon F Two. Do you want me to show you how to use it?”
I recognized the camera immediately — Dad’s. Could it have been a gift from Mom? I traded glances with Kelly, but her furrowed brow told me she had no more answers than I did.
“It’s really not hard,” Mrs. Romano continued, pointing at the camera body. “All you do is focus and press the button. The flash is electronic. You have to turn it on first, of course.”
“Are you a photographer?” Kelly asked.
“Not really. It was my husband’s hobby before he died.” She gestured for us to gather together. “Squeeze in, and I’ll take one of the three of you.”
Keeping the violin and bow pinned under my arm, I stood next to Kelly and behind Francesca. When Mrs. Romano turned on the flash unit and raised the camera to her eye, the sound of wood on wood banged from the house’s main entry.
I jerked my head toward the noise. “What was that?”
“The front door,” Mrs. Romano said as her finger reached for the shutter button. “Happens a lot when it’s windy. Must be a storm coming.”
“I hear footsteps,” Kelly whispered.
I clutched her hand. “We’d better — ”
The camera flashed, bright and blinding, far brighter than any normal camera. Kelly squeezed my fingers. “What’s that?”
A dark human-shaped shadow appeared at the bedroom doorway. A new flash exploded from its hand, and a loud popping noise echoed all around. Mrs. Romano twisted and bent, her body warping like a reflection in a circus mirror. The entire room contorted into a kaleidoscope of colorful swirls.
Seconds later, the swirls spread out and repainted the room with new details — the wall mirror, my desk and poster bed, and the sprawled bodies of our dead twins. As each detail crystallized, the bands of color thinned out and swept over the two corpses. The bodies pixelated until the multihued dots blended into the flow. The swirls orbited the room twice and plunged into the mirror where they created a splash of color that spread across the surface and slowly faded.
When the movement settled, I rocked on my feet, dizzied by the chaos. Setting a hand on the wall to keep my balance, I felt a glassy surface — the mirror. I glanced down at my body, still clothed in khaki, and Francesca’s violin still tucked under my arm.
Kelly clutched the front of her safari shirt. “We’re back.”
“What happened to my room?” Francesca asked. “It’s so different.”
Kelly set her hand at the side of her mouth and called, “Daddy!”
“Clara!” I shouted.
Francesca joined in. “Mom!”
Tony stormed into the room, his eyes bulging. “Kelly! Nathan! But you were — ” He staggered backwards. “I mean, I saw you — ”
Clara careened around the doorway. She stopped and stared. “You were dead! Your eyes were burned out!”
“Yeah, it looked pretty bad didn’t it?” I spread out my arms. “But we’re alive.”
She rushed forward and embraced me. “Thank God!”
I returned her embrace, then pulled back and gestured toward Francesca. “This is Francesca Romano.”
“Romano?” Tony said. “My father bought this house from the Romano estate when the old lady got plugged by a burglar back in — ”
“Daddy!” Kelly barked. “Hush!”
Clara bowed her head toward Francesca. “I’m pleased to meet you, young lady.”
“I’m pleased to meet you as well.” Francesca’s eyes misted. “But I need to find my mother. Do you know where she is?”
“No, I don’t.” Clara looked at me. “Do you?”
I let out a sigh. “I guess I’d better start from the beginning and tell you everything.”
Kelly shuffled close to me and whispered, “Do you really want to tell my dad the truth?”
“I have to. He’s already seen too much.”
I pulled out the desk chair for Kelly and gestured toward the bed for the others. “Have a seat. This could take a while.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“So,” I concluded as I paced in front of the mirror, “we don’t know what happened to Mrs. Romano. We don’t know how we got into that alternate universe or how we got back. We don’t know how several hours could pass there and only a few minutes here, and we don’t know how we took over the clothes of the other Nathan and Kelly or where they went, but Francesca is proof that it all really happened.”
I glanced at her as she sat on the bed next to Clara. Although she kept a stiff upper lip, as the saying goes, deep lines in her forehead gave evidence that she was worried about her mother.
Tony stared at me with his mouth partially open. He hadn’t spoken a word since I began my story.
Seated in the desk chair, Kelly twisted a rubber band between her finger and thumb. “We don’t even know the whole point of it all. Why did that stage appear in the mirror in the first place? And who could’ve been in the coffins? We think they were two musicians, but which ones? And who is the girl in red who keeps showing up?”
Clara drummed her fingers on the bed. “All this alternate universe talk makes me dizzy, but if you and Kelly had dead bodies in this world, and you’re still alive, maybe there’s hope for your parents.”
“You mean maybe they switched places like we did?” I shook my head. “It’s too weird to hope for. And I wouldn’t know how to begin looking for them.”
Francesca slid off the bed. “Can you use the mirror again?” she asked as she walked toward her reflection.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She touched the surface with her finger, creating the image of two Francescas making friendly contact. “Does it just show places in your mind, like in your dream, or does it come up with the places by itself?”
“I’m not sure. At first I thought everything came from my head, but I couldn’t have dreamed about the broken violins without someone putting the thoughts in my mind.”
She looked at me with Mom’s familiar eyes. “Maybe just remember what you did before and try to do it again.”
“Easier said than done, but I’ll try.” I imagined the coffins on the stage again and replayed the other Nathan’s words. I crossed the same way as before. I had a dream, it showed up in the mirror, then music, a flash of light, and zap, I’m here. That had to be a clue, a big clue.
I scanned the four sets of eyes staring at me. “Hang on. I’m thinking.”
“I know,” Kelly said with a smirk. “I feel the heat rising.”
I gave her a wink and returned my gaze to the mirror. Music and light were the keys. Whenever something weird happened in the reflection, music played and light flashed. But would it work every time? If so, how could I figure out where the next passage would lead?
I glanced at Francesca again. Still staring at herself in the mirror, she seemed mesmerized. Her eyes sparkled with light as she murmured, “Something’s h
appening.”
The image in the glass wrinkled, changing the surface to a jigsaw pattern. As it smoothed over again, the room in the reflection altered, and Francesca’s reflection broke away. She withdrew a sheet of paper from the trunk and set it on a music stand, her back to us.
Lifting her violin and bow, she concentrated on the sheet and played. After a few strokes, she picked up a pencil from the stand and made a mark on the handwritten score. She then lifted her bow again and played on.
“That’s me in the mirror,” Francesca said, pointing. “I’m playing my birdsong piece.”
“Birdsong piece?” I squinted at the music, but it was too far away to read. “Can you hear it?”
She nodded. “Can’t you?”
“I can watch your fingers and imagine it, but I can’t hear anything.”
Tony rose to his feet. “So that crazy museum guy was right after all. This mirror shows your thoughts.”
“Did you just think about your room, Francesca?” I asked.
“Yes.” She picked up her own violin. “I was thinking about going home.”
I glanced from one Francesca to the other. Was the mirror now reflecting her thoughts? Maybe there was a way to take her home and check on her mother’s safety. “Can you play the same piece?”
“I don’t have it memorized,” she said as she raised her bow, “so I’ll be a step behind.” While watching her twin in the mirror, she played a series of short high notes, making her violin chirp like a songbird. The melody filled the room with the bright sounds of an early spring morning.
I walked to the lamp on my desk, ready to make the bulb flash, but the music stopped. I swung back to Francesca. “What happened?”
She touched the mirror with a finger. “I heard a door slam and a loud popping sound. Then I hid under my bed, like I was scared of something. But then it all disappeared.”
I looked at the mirror. Once again it had reverted to a reflection of my room and everyone in it. In the reflection, Tony, seated on the bed, propped his foot against the trunk … the open trunk. “Well, if you ask me, I think — ”
