The Shadow Girl (5 page)

No . . . maybe . . . not sure. His name . . . I feel something. She must have known him when we were small. Maybe we did, too. . . .

Understanding that the “she” Iris is referring to is Mom, I try to recall if I’ve ever heard her or Dad mention someone named Jake. I search my memory for an image of anyone by that name that we knew when I was younger, but don’t come up with anything.

“So your mom had a boyfriend before your dad,” Wyatt says in a matter-of-fact way.

“Not necessarily.”

He frowns at the note. “Sounds like a boyfriend to me.”

If Jake was Mom’s boyfriend before Dad, Iris wouldn’t have any memory of him, vague or otherwise. But I refuse to consider that Mom might’ve been seeing someone after she and Dad married. I don’t believe it.

Find him
, Iris demands.

I refold the note and tuck it inside the box again. I have no idea how to start to find the guy. I’m not even sure I want to.

I twist the switch inside the jewelry box, and the ballerina twirls. A melody that Iris used to hum begins to play—the lullaby she sang me to sleep with at night when I was younger.

A wave of dizziness rocks me, and a vision appears.
A guy about my age, his face blurred and flickering like an old movie. A flash of teary blue eyes, a shock of black hair falling over his forehead. He reaches out to me, his mouth moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. The guy’s face crumples as I lean closer, wanting to comfort him.

“Lily?” Wyatt breathes.

I blink, and the vision disappears. Wyatt and I are nose to nose, so near to each other that his breath feathers my face.

I stumble backward and glance down at the jewelry box. The music has stopped. The ballerina no longer twirls. She stares up at me with pinpoint black eyes.

Wyatt stares at me, too, his mouth hanging open.

“Wyatt,” I whisper. “What just happened?”

His grin spreads slowly. “That was some kiss. I didn’t know you cared.”

“Yeah . . . um . . .” I swallow. “Wyatt . . .” Ohmygod. Heat shoots through me as I remember the soft warmth of his lips against mine and how nice it felt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s okay. I liked it.” Amusement tinges his voice.

“But I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident.”

Wyatt laughs. “Yeah, like you fell forward and landed on my lips.”

My gaze is drawn to his mouth, and when I realize I’m staring, I look up quickly. What have I done? I’m feeling things for Wyatt that I definitely shouldn’t be feeling for my best friend.

He stops laughing. “Hey, not everyone hates the way I kiss,” he says, jamming his hands into his pockets, his face beginning to turn red.

“I didn’t say that I hated kissing you,” I blurt out.

“You didn’t have to.” He starts for the door.

“Wait, Wyatt.” I go after him. “I’m just freaked out. It’s just—we’re not like that. You know what I mean.”

Wyatt stops and looks back at me. “Yeah, I guess I do.” He tugs off his hat and drags his fingers through his hair. “Where did that come from, anyway?”

“Good question,” I say with a shaky laugh, my mind searching frantically for an explanation that will make sense to him. “Things have been crazy, and I’ve been really confused. You’ve been so great, and I guess—”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.” Wyatt shrugs a shoulder. “I won’t lie, though. I’ve thought about it before. Haven’t you?”

“Maybe.” My blush burns hotter. “But we grew up together. I shouldn’t have kissed you. We’re—”

“Just friends. I know . . .” Wyatt trails off.

Numb with embarrassment, I return the jewelry box to the tool chest. For the first time in my life, I’m self-conscious with Wyatt, and I don’t like it. Walking quickly to the violin on the worktable, I close the case and put it in the chest, too, then lock it.

Wyatt watches me closely. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I manage a smile for him. “Let’s get out of here before Mom and Addie get back.” He crosses to me, and I hand him the key ring. “Would you make me a spare set when you go into town on Monday?”

“Sure.”

Determined to act as if nothing happened, Wyatt and I drag the tool chest into the storage closet without uttering a word. He locks the closet, then we go outside, and I secure the door.

I’m glad he can’t see my face as he follows me to the cabin because I’m furious. Not at him, at myself. What was I thinking, kissing
Wyatt
of all people? I
wasn’t
thinking. I didn’t instigate that kiss any more than I pushed the brake on my four-wheeler to avoid hitting the deer. Iris is guilty on both counts; I’m furious with her, too. Why would she do such a thing?

Suddenly, I’m certain her reason has something to do with the vision I had of the guy with black hair. And sad eyes the color of a bluebird.

6

The outing worked wonders for Mom’s attitude. When she and Addie walk through the front door, they’re chatting and Mom is smiling. I’m sitting at the kitchen table doing physics homework. Our eyes meet and a silent truce passes between us.

“How’s Cookie?” Mom asks, moving toward the open pen by the fireplace where he’s resting on his bed.

“I’m sort of worried about him. He’s mostly been sleeping since we got home.”

“Rest is important for healing,” she says, reaching into the pen and petting Cookie.

Addie closes the front door, a sack of groceries propped on her hip. “We had the tastiest chicken salad at that new café on Main.” She makes her way into the kitchen and sets the sack and her purse on the counter.

“Don’t rub it in—I had a PB and J,” I tease.

Addie glances toward the hallway. “Where’s Wyatt?”

“He went home so I could finish this assignment. I don’t want to fall behind.” I hope she doesn’t notice my red face.

“You’ll have plenty of time to catch up,” Addie says. “No need to hurry just yet if you don’t feel up to it.”

“I’d still like to graduate next week like I’d planned.”

Turning to Mom, I ask, “Do you think that’s possible? Me graduating next week, I mean? If not, it’s okay. I understand if you don’t feel like looking over my assignments for a while.”

Mom gives Cookie one last pat on the head, and stands. “You’ve never made below a B in your life. When your assignments are completed, let me know and I’ll give them a look. I have a feeling it won’t take long.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say.

My parents have been my only teachers since first grade. It’s up to them to decide when I’m ready to graduate. Or just Mom now. That’s how homeschooling works, at least where I live. The state of Colorado expects me to study four hours a day, and certain courses are required, but that’s about it.

“Your father wanted me to make a diploma for you, and he was going to build the frame,” says Mom. “I’ll still do my part. We can have it framed at Hobby Shop in Silver Lake.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

Pulling a bag of flour from the grocery sack, Addie clears her throat, then says, “I’m sure you two would like some time alone. After I put this cobbler together, I’ll pop it in the refrigerator and you can cook it whenever you’re ready. Then I’m going home. I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”

“That’ll never happen,” says Mom. “We appreciate all you’ve done for us, don’t we, Lily?”

“You’ve been great,” I say, sending Addie a smile.

Mom tries to help unload the groceries, but Addie shoos her away, so she wanders over to me. “Need any help with your lesson?” she asks hesitantly.

I realize she’s trying to smooth out the last wrinkles of tension between us. “No, I’m doing okay,” I tell her. “But, thanks.”

She glances at the open physics book. “I’m not sure I’d be much help to you with that, anyway.”

I know we’re both thinking that Dad was the one with a knack for science and math. He taught me those classes. Mom’s strengths are history and English and the creative subjects, like writing and art.

And music, I remind myself, thinking of the violin hidden in Dad’s workshop.

When the cobbler ingredients are all on the counter, Addie steps out onto the porch to call Wyatt. I try to focus on my classwork, while Mom stares out the windows at the dense blanket of spruce trees beyond the deck. I almost forget she’s standing beside my chair until she touches my shoulder.

“Where did you get this?” Her fingers stroke down the sleeve of the red flannel shirt I’m still wearing. How could I have forgotten to take it off?

“You—um—left Dad’s shop unlocked. The wind blew the door open so I went to close it and the shirt was out.” Shame rains down on me. I hate lying. Especially to Mom.

She shakes her head. “I remember locking up.” After a pause, she asks, “Did you take anything else out of Dad’s shop?”

Her sharp tone sparks anger inside of me. “No, Mom! Why do you even care? What’s out there that you don’t want me to see?”

She pulls her keys from her pocket and heads for the door.

The moment she steps outside, I unbutton the flannel shirt. If it upsets her so much, I’ll put it away.

“What’s wrong, sugar?” Addie asks as she comes in from outside and sees the look on my face. “Your mother didn’t stop to say ‘boo’ when she passed me on the porch. Is everything okay?”

“She went out to the shop again.”

Addie sighs. “I thought an afternoon away from here might put an end to that.”

“I know. Me, too.”

I’m tugging my arm from a sleeve, when invisible fingers slide down my spine again, caressing the shirt’s fabric. Shivering, I pull the sleeve back up my arm.

I know, Iris
, I think.
I feel it, too
.

The shirt is like a security blanket, the soft flannel reassuring. It’s almost as if it was made for me. Or I was made for it.

Addie leaves early in the evening, and Mom holes up inside the shop until after dusk. I’m not sure what finally makes her decide to return to the cabin, unless it’s the sweet scent of Addie’s cobbler baking in the oven.

I turn on the television and raise the volume to fill the empty space between us. The silent treatment is our usual M.O. when we’re at odds. But tonight it’s worse than ever. We can’t even look at each other.

On the television, the actors’ voices seem too loud and their laughter mocks us. “Lily,” Mom says, and I brace myself for the confrontation I’ve been expecting. But instead, Mom lifts the braid off my shoulder and rubs the spiky ends between her stiff fingers. “You should cut your hair,” she says in a distant voice.

I turn to her, anxiety slithering through me. “I don’t want to cut it.”

“You should.” She drops my braid, sits back, and murmurs, “You’d look wonderful.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Your father thought you were adorable with short hair.”

“I’ve never had short hair,” I say. “Not since I was a baby.”

Mom blinks, and I get the weirdest sense that she just returned from some faraway place. Standing abruptly, she crosses her arms, like she’s protecting herself.

“Mom?” I dig my fingertips into the couch cushion. “The morning of my birthday, before Dad and I drove to the lookout, I heard the two of you talking.”

She’s quiet for a long time, and then she says, “He was afraid you would.”

“What was he going to tell me when we got home?” When she doesn’t answer after a few seconds, I try again. “After the accident, before Dad lost consciousness, he said something about the two of you thinking you’d done the right thing, then he asked me if it
was
right and if I’ve been happy. What did he mean?”

“I don’t know. He must’ve been mixed up.” She grabs the television remote from the coffee table and begins flipping through the channels.

“But what were you talking about when you said you gave up everything for me?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Mom turns the television off, lays down the remote, and stands, then starts toward the hallway. “Your father is gone and we have to learn to go on without him.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” I call after her. “Going on with your life by locking yourself in his shop every day?”

The click of her bedroom door is my only answer.

That night, I curl up on the couch close to Cookie’s pen, intent on sneaking out to the workshop after I’m sure Mom’s asleep.

The log walls creak and groan as the cabin settles in, and quiet yelps slip from Cookie’s throat as he dreams by the fireplace. I worry that he might be in pain, but I’ve already given him his dose of medicine. He’s just been so out of it today, so listless.

Iris, though, is anything but lethargic. She’s edgy tonight, as restless as the wildlife that creep in the shadows around the cabin after dark. But I’m too tired to try to calm her down. My muscles relax and my eyelids droop.

Just as I’m falling asleep, the fire snaps and flares, and she whispers,
Wake up!

Startled, I sit upright.
What’s wrong, Iris?

Go. The workshop. Look for answers.

I rub my eyes.
About Jake?

The secret. He must be part of it.

I stare into the glowing orange embers in the fireplace, feeling reluctant to dig any further. What if Jake wrote that note to my mother?
Babe
. I cringe. If Jake is the young guy I saw in the vision, then they did know each other before Mom married my dad, because he didn’t look any older than me. Why did I feel the urge to kiss him? And how is he connected to Iris? None of it makes sense.

Go
, Iris breathes.

Slipping from beneath the blanket, I tiptoe into Mom’s room. The jeans she wore earlier are draped over a chair in the corner, her ring of keys creating a bulge in one pocket. Holding my breath, I ease across the floor and retrieve the keys without making a sound.

Back in the living room, I take a lantern-style flashlight off the mantel, put my coat on over my pajamas, and stuff my feet into my boots. My breath catches when the hinge squeaks as the front door opens, but Cookie doesn’t stir and I don’t hear Mom, so I step outside and close the door gently behind me.

Once I’m in the shop, I turn on the flashlight and set it on the floor. I don’t want to use the overhead lights and risk Mom looking out and seeing a glow streaming from the windows.

Dragging the toolbox out of the closet, I remove the violin case and the jewelry box and place them on the floor, close to the light. I sit in front of the case, crossing my legs on the dusty plywood planks, and open it. The sight of the instrument’s gleaming, honey-colored wood makes my pulse stutter. But as much as I want to, I can’t bring myself to touch it again. What if I have another freaky vision of that guy? A part of me is terrified for that to happen. Another part wishes it would so that maybe I can figure out if he’s Jake.

Iris flickers inside me like snowy static on a television screen, constant, unbroken. Waiting. I raise the lid on the jewelry box. The ballerina pops up and gives me a blank stare.

“Sorry to bother you,” I murmur to the tiny doll. “I’d just like another look at that note, if you don’t mind.” Retrieving the scrap of paper, I unfold it, place it on my knee. A pencil lies nearby on the floor. Dad was always using them out here; he must’ve dropped it. I pick it up and trace the name
Jake
on the note, wondering who he might be.

“You know who Jake is, don’t you?” I say to the ballerina, staring into her pinpoint eyes. Sighing, I give the peg beside her one twist. She twirls, and music trickles through the quiet workshop like water in a brook.

I flinch at the sound and reach to stop the song, but before I can close the lid, my elbow knocks over the lantern and the bulb flicks off. Darkness swoops over me like the wing of a giant black bird.

The music continues to play, weaving a ribbon of heartache around me so tight that I can’t move, drawing me someplace where nothing exists but the melody . . . where nothing else matters.

I’m unsure how much time passes before Iris brings me back. I open my eyes to the darkness again and a sensation that I’ve traveled to a place I once knew. A place that felt like home.

We have to find Jake,
Iris says.
He’ll help us.

I fumble around on the floor until I find the lantern. With one rattle, the bulb engages and faint light quivers. The note from Jake lies atop the violin case. Written in pencil in my own handwriting beneath his name, just above the ragged torn edge of the paper, are the words:
Winterhaven, Massachusetts.