Lifelike

by Sheila A. Nielson

  There was something contagious about Cassandra’s complete surrender to the joy of what she was doing. I quickly caught fire too, rocking out like a bobble-head on caffeine. Once the adrenaline started pumping, even exhaustion couldn’t hold me back.

  Cassandra egged me on like some kind of crazed cheerleader. “That’s right. Show them what you’ve got! Swing it like you mean it!”

  With great satisfaction I felt the sweater dress swish above my knees in a circular motion. Cassandra was really starting to get into her inner beat. With each sweeping rotation of her hips, her behind would hit the dressing room drape, sending it fluttering outward just a little bit further each time. Since we were both fully dressed, I decided to go with the moment and not sweat the small details, like whether or not the shop’s clerk was currently on the phone with store security. I’d never had the luxury of feeling well enough to do all of the totally irresponsible and completely idiotic things kids my age do every day of their lives.

  It felt better than I could ever have imagined.

  Cassandra suddenly stopped dancing. Her mouth came open in surprise as she stared at me—or more specifically, my collar bone. I glanced down and saw to my horror that the neckline had managed to slip down again, revealing the sickly, dark mass of contusions underneath. Luckily, the port was still mostly hidden. I grabbed at the collar and pulled it back into place. But it was too late.

  “How’d you get that?” Cassandra asked in a horrified hush.

  I turned away from her, pretending to read the price tag. “I was in an accident.” I said, slowly.

  “By the look of that bruise, you’re lucky to be alive,” Cassandra said with a laugh.

  Uncomfortable silence filled the small confines of the fitting room.

  Keeping grief and sorrow bottled up was like trying to hold poison in my mouth without swallowing it by accident. If I really wanted a chance at life, then I had to begin ridding myself of that poison. No matter what the cost.

  I stared down at the price tag in my hand as if trying to burn holes in it with nothing but my eyes. “My brother and my parents died in that accident.”

  The words, when spoken, cut me so deep, my heart felt like it would give out and stop working altogether out of sheer agony. Something inside me almost wished it would—that way the suffering would end. But it didn’t. And that was the worst part. Living with a heart that wouldn’t stop aching.

  The silence continued. I wondered for a moment if Cassandra had left the fitting room. No, she was still there. I could hear her breathing in soft, shallow breaths. I forced myself to turn and face her.

  With her back pressed into the dressing room curtain, Cassandra watched me, tears slipping quietly down her freckled cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand only to have them quickly replaced with more. Her lips trembled, and yet, she cried without making a single sound. A skill that takes a great deal of practice.

  Cassandra had talked about her father’s death so easily—like it was no big deal to her anymore. I could see now that Cassandra remembered only too well what a grieving heart felt like. She really, truly understood. Reaching out, Cassandra hugged me, gathering into herself all my greatest sorrows like fragile eggs. Then—slowly—she released me and wiped at her red eyes as she spoke a little too quickly.

  “I think you should try that red top with those jeans next. They’d look amazing on you.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  “No problem,” Cassandra said. I was pretty certain she knew I wasn’t thanking her for the compliment.

  “Rock Canyon Bakery.” Cassandra eyes widened as she read the name of the store in front of us. I watched in fascination as her pupils dilated to double their normal size. It looked like she was about to have a seizure or something. “They’ve got white chocolate macadamia nut cookies!” she all but squealed. “Must—have—NOW!”

  Grabbing my arm, Cassandra dragged me bodily through the front door. An old-fashioned bell chimed overhead as we stumbled inside. The tantalizing scent of sugar cookies and buttercream frosting mixed seductively in the warm, rich air. Standing behind the counter was a teenage boy, maybe a year older than us.

  “Do you smell that?” Cassandra demanded as she breathed in the smell of freshly baked cookies.

  My mouth watered embarrassingly. Man, did I need an energy boost at that moment. Aunt Victoria had forgotten to give me any pocket money as she dropped us off. All that sugar—and I didn’t have a single cent to buy any.

  “Can I help you?” The teenage clerk’s voice held the merest hint of a South African accent. He leaned comfortably on the counter with one elbow, his eyes locking suddenly with mine. He had a nice face, gorgeous dark skin, and short, curly, black hair. I shook my head slightly at him, only to find myself shoved quickly aside by Cassandra.

  “White Chocolate Macadamia, please. Is there any way for you to warm it up in the microwave or something?” Cassandra said. “I like my cookies sizzling hot.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” the boy said to Cassandra, but his eyes smiled in my direction. “I’ll just stick it in the oven for a couple minutes.”

  “Pretty please, with sprinkles on top?” Cassandra said.

  “No problem.” He took out a small square of white paper and carefully picked up the biggest and thickest cookie on the White Chocolate Macadamia rack. He glanced over at me. “And what would you like?”

  “Oh, I can’t—I mean, I didn’t bring any money,” I said with a helpless shrug.

  “On the house.” His grin was as warm and melting as the cookies he was selling.

  “Won’t you get in trouble with your boss if you give the merchandize away for free,” I asked.

  “My family owns the shop,” he said. “As for the cookie, consider it a free sample—encouraging you to come back for more another day. It’s good business. My father does it all the time.”

  Unsure, I glanced at Cassandra. She was looking at me funny, sort of intent with one eyebrow slightly raised. Seeing she would be absolutely no help to me, I glanced back at the boy behind the counter. “I guess I’ll take a chocolate chip cookie, then. But only if you’re sure you won’t get into trouble.”

  “It’s no problem,” he said. He picked out a chocolate chip cookie as big and fat as Cassandra’s and carried both cookies into the back room to heat them up for us.

  “Ask him for his phone number,” Cassandra hissed at me the second he was out of sight.

  “What?” I whispered back in surprise. “I thought you had a bae back home already.”

  Cassandra rolled her eyes as if silently asking heaven to grant her patience. “Not for me—for you,” she said.

  “Me?” my voice squeaked this part so loud we both froze for a moment, glancing apprehensively toward the open kitchen door. Cookie boy is nowhere to be seen.

  “He’s totally been coming on to you since we walked in the front door,” Cassandra whispered to me.

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “You didn’t see him offer me any free cookies, did you?” Cassandra demanded under her breath.

  Even as she said it, I knew she was right. The charming smiles, the hint about my coming back for more cookies. He was flirting with me and I, being the complete social outcast that I was, hadn’t even picked up on it.

  If life were simple, it would have been an easy choice. A gorgeous hunk flirts with a girl—she gets his phone number—happily ever after.

  But I wasn’t just any girl. I was a person with a terrible secret. What if we went on a date and I really liked him? What would happen to any boy I allowed to get close to me, after I died?

  I thought of Jack. Aunt Victoria had dated lots of men over the years, and yet she’d never been able to move on from her first love. She still wore his engagement ring. Jack’s death changed my aunt’s whole life. Could I really bring myself to do that to someone? Especially someone who seemed as nice as the boy behind the cookie counter.

  “His phone number�
��get it!” Cassandra ordered me under her breath.

  Just as I opened my mouth to protest, the boy reappeared. Cassandra and I fell into a silence so sudden and complete it was totally obvious to everyone within a mile that we’d been talking about him. Guilty as sin and sharp as play dough—that was us, all right.

  “So, do you live around here?” Cassandra asked the boy a little too sweetly as he handed over the piping hot cookies. Now that I knew the truth, I felt a little uncomfortable taking mine.

  “My father and I came here three years ago to start this bakery,” he answered.

  “Then you must know all the local hangouts for teens and stuff. Wren just moved here,” Cassandra said brightly. I tried to step on her toes to shut her up, but she kept right on going despite the pain.

  “Hey, I know,” Cassandra talked fast. “Write down your name and number, that way Wren can call you and find out what’s going on in the community.”

  I tried to stomp on Cassandra’s toes again, but she was ready for me this time, jerking her foot out of harm’s way before I could even bring down the heel of my shoe. I grimaced to myself as a tingling pain shot up my leg.

  “My name is Asante, and I’d be happy to give you my number,” he said, eagerly reaching for a pen. As he neatly printed out his name and number on a small yellow sticky note, Cassandra wiggled her eyebrows up and down at me a few times. I focused on Asante, trying to ignore her. He finished writing and handed me the note. I looked into his brown eyes and smiled as best I could. My face was as hot as the fresh-out-of-the-oven cookie I held in my hand.

  “Thank you,” I said in sincere gratitude.

  “Call anytime.” His voice was soft and welcoming.

  And suddenly my heart was fit to break.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I checked out my new clothes in the mirror the next day. The emerald green top Cassandra begged me to buy made my ginger-red curls seem brighter and healthier. My face had that slightly rounded look that all leukemia patients have about the cheeks and jaw, but not enough to be noticeable yet.

  “Would you say I’m pretty?” I asked the groom doll sitting on the vanity in front of me.

  Oh, come on, Wren. You’re dying of cancer, for crying out loud. Looks aren’t exactly important at this point.

  So why was I feeling so self-conscious about it all of a sudden?

  I gave Xavier’s doll an embarrassed sidelong glance. Its eyes were fixed down and to the right, as usual. A twinge of disappointment shot through me. Where was the warm, cozy feeling I’d come to associate with Xavier’s ghostly presence? He hadn’t come to me during the night and I missed him when he wasn’t around—more than I cared to admit.

  Involuntarily, my eyes fell on Asante’s phone number which I’d carelessly tossed onto the bedside table before getting into bed the night before. I glanced quickly back at my own reflection captured within the mirror, trying to understand the uncertainty I saw flickering behind my hazel eyes.

  A first date. A first kiss. A ghost could not give me those things—but a living boy could.

  I gave out a weary sigh as I headed for the door. My violin sat propped against the far bedroom wall, exactly where I’d left it after playing for Xavier. I grabbed it and lifted it to my chin.

  The bittersweet notes of “Ave Maria” rose up, swirling around me—so sad and yet plaintively hopeful. I imagined the melody spreading its way through the sprawling rooms of Kensington House, echoing through the halls like distant elfin music. I hoped Xavier could hear my song calling out to him, letting him know he was not alone.

  I stopped playing, the whole house falling into silence once more. Carefully, I placed the violin back in its place propped against the wall.

  Until next time.

  As I came downstairs, I noticed Gabrielle standing beside Fiona. The woman stood as still as the doll, her eyes fixed intently upon something in the distance. I followed her gaze to an elderly couple reading an information card attached to one of the displays in the next room. Even as I watched, the older woman laid her gray head tenderly against the balding man’s shoulder.

  Gabrielle’s gaze was intense, like the elderly couple held the water she needed while crawling on her hands and knees through the broiling hot desert. Gabrielle’s attention flickered in my direction as she finally noticed me. I glanced at the older couple then back at her raising my eyebrows in silent question.

  “Look at them,” Gabrielle said, softly shaking her head. “How many years do you think they’ve been happily married?”

  “Fifty, at least.”

  “They were enjoying your music a moment ago. He even tried to get her to dance with him.” Gabrielle sighed softly to herself.

  It was the sigh that finally helped me understand. Gabrielle wanted a love like that. Hopeless and romantic, the kind that didn’t die as the waning years took their toll. She wanted it so bad, she could almost taste it.

  “Those two are a product of another generation entirely. A bygone era that will never come again,” Gabrielle said, hugging the blue file folder she held in her arms a little tighter. “A woman doesn’t need a man to be happy and live a fulfilled life.”

  I thought about Aunt Victoria, who had lived her whole life alone. It hadn’t stopped her from being happy. The life choices she’d made—they’d made a difference to so many around her.

  “You’re right. A woman doesn’t need a man to be happy. But it can’t hurt to be open to the possibility of both kinds of happiness. Can it? There are guys around that still believe in lasting love.” The firm conviction in my voice caused Gabrielle to glance at me in surprise.

  “Well, if you find one, let me know, huh?” Gabrielle’s laugh was edged in sarcasm.

  I stared at her in silence. Gabrielle had no idea that the fulfillment of all her dreams was quietly working daytime security at this very moment. Matt was the kind of guy who believed in everlasting love. I was certain of it.

  Realizing that she was crushing her blue file folder, Gabrielle shuffled through it a moment to check its contents for damage.

  “What’s in there?” I asked, not wanting to think about how unjust life was anymore.

  “I’m preparing a press release on the discovery of the secret closet and the bride doll. I thought it might be fun to include some photographs of the real members of the wedding party to go along with the dolls.”

  “You’ve got actual pictures?” She had definitely piqued my interest.

  Gabrielle reached into the folder and flipped silently through the photographs as she talked. “I went through every picture we found in the secret room, as well as everything we have stored here in the museum, and pulled the best stuff.”

  Gabrielle took a grainy black and white photograph from the middle of the stack and gingerly handed it to me for closer inspection. It looked like some kind of lawn party, with lots of Victorian ladies and gentlemen picnicking beneath tent-like canopies. Recognizing the gazebo in the background, I realized the picture was taken on Kensington Estate.

  “That’s Emily there in the middle,” Gabrielle said, moving her finger to a young girl in a ruffled dress who seemed to be the center of the group’s attention. The girl’s face matched the picture hidden inside the Stanhope lens. Only in this photograph, she had her eyes shut and her mouth open.

  “Oops. They caught her yawning. It must have been a really dull party.”

  “Actually, I think she’s singing,” Gabrielle corrected me. “In those days, party guests would come up and perform as part of the entertainment. Emily was supposed to be quite the talented little singer.”

  I lost all interest in Emily Kensington’s stellar karaoke skills as I noticed a young man lounging in the grass at her feet. Xavier Kensington smiled up at his little cousin in rapt attention, all his pride and love for her glowing on his handsome, sunlit features. If anything could have proved to me that Xavier had not murdered Emily—it was this one unguarded moment, caught forever on film.

  “I�
�m pretty certain that is Rosalyn Worthin’s mother and father in the corner there,” Gabrielle said, drawing my attention to a tiny couple standing at the back of Emily’s audience.

  The elegantly dressed man and woman were about five feet apart from one another. The elderly Mr. Worthin stared at the ground, his thoughts seemingly far away. His much younger wife stood with her back to him, her cool features expressionless as she gazed over the heads of the crowd before her.

  An icy cold sensation gathered in the hollow of my throat. If Mr. and Mrs. Worthin were at the party, that meant one other person must have been there as well.

  “Which one is Rosalyn?” I tried to make it sound like it was no big deal. Like I couldn’t care less what Rosalyn Worthin looked like when she was alive.

  “Rosalyn’s not there,” Gabrielle said. “I’ve studied every guest with a magnifying glass and none of the young women in that picture even remotely resembles her. Gabrielle paused a moment, frowning down at the photograph in my hand.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I searched through every box we found in the secret room and couldn’t find a single photograph of Rosalyn among them,” Gabrielle said. “There weren’t any pictures of Rosalyn among Margaret Kensington’s things in the attic either.”

  Gabrielle flipped hurriedly through the pictures in the blue file. “Victoria had Matt print off a picture of Rosalyn from the Historical Society’s records.” Gabrielle pulled out a sheet of glossy new photo paper with a scan of a very old photograph printed on it. Gabrielle lifted it up so I could see. Rosalyn Worthin smiled out at me in all her black and white glory. I stared back at her in stunned silence.

  It was so much worse than I could ever have imagined.

  Rosalyn had masses of light blond hair piled up into a Rapunzel like twist, with wispy ringlets framing the unearthly beauty of her flirtatious face. She looked like something out of a dreamy Jane Austen novel. Angelic. Irresistible. No wonder Xavier was in love with her.