Shadow Girl

by Liana Liu

  “Very impressive.” Jeffrey nods approvingly.

  I try not to blush. I don’t succeed.

  “Daddy, how long are you staying?” Ella chirps.

  “I’ll be here until Sunday night,” says Jeffrey.

  Ella counts on her fingers. “That’s only two days.”

  “No, sweetheart, it’s three days. Today is Friday. Tomorrow is Saturday. And then Sunday. Three days,” he says as he briskly butters his bread.

  “Today doesn’t count. It’s almost over.”

  “Be a good girl—no whining. Daddy’s working hard for you.”

  “I know.” Ella’s breathless chirp is no longer quite as breathless, quite as chirpy.

  “We just miss you, that’s all. Your family misses you,” Vanessa says.

  “And I miss you all too.” Jeffrey moves his gaze around the dinner table, pausing to focus affectionately on each member of his family in turn.

  Vanessa looks lovingly back at her husband.

  Henry nods awkwardly at his father.

  Mr. Morison eats his potatoes.

  And Ella smiles. It’s a shining grimace that stretches her mouth nearly beyond her face. I don’t see how anyone could mistake her expression for happiness, and yet her father smiles back at her contentedly.

  I notice I’ve stopped chewing. There is a hard lump of food stuck to my tongue. All flavor is suddenly gone. It takes my total concentration not to choke as I swallow it down.

  That night I have trouble falling asleep.

  I blame the tensions at dinner. I keep thinking about the hostility between Vanessa and old Mr. Morison. The friction between Jeffrey and Henry. The antagonism between Mr. Morison and Jeffrey. And Ella. Ella’s breathless chirp. Ella’s warped smile.

  But I also blame the food; I blame myself for eating too much. I’m not used to such large portions of meat and dairy, and dessert served with every meal. At home we eat lots of plain rice and vegetables. Sometimes there are slivers of chicken or pork. More often there is bean curd, in one of its many forms. Occasionally we have noodles instead of rice. For dessert we eat fruit, if anything.

  I miss my mother’s cooking. I also love the food here. The hunky steaks, the velvety sauces, the buttery cakes and tarts and cookies. I only wish I could digest it better.

  My stomach groans. I turn over in the floral bed.

  Then something in the room groans too.

  I open my eyes. I blink. I sit up and blink again. And again. Standing against my closed door is a dark shape, the slim shadow of a small figure I can just make out in the moonight.

  “Hello?” I say.

  Instantly, the shadow is gone.

  I tell myself it was a figment of my imagination, a hallucination, a bad-digestion dream. Like the strange sounds I heard the other night. Nothing to be scared of. Nothing at all. I lie down again. I turn over again. Eventually I fall asleep.

  And when I wake up to the morning, a clear blue morning, it does seem likely that it was all my imagination. Until I get out of bed and find my bedroom door wide open.

  5

  THE FAMILY IS OUT ON THEIR SAILBOAT. THEY WILL PROBABLY have lunch at a seafood shack on a neighboring island, almost certainly eat dinner at their favorite restaurant in town, and most likely return very late in the evening.

  This is what Mrs. Tully tells me when I come down to breakfast. She smiles maliciously. Perhaps she thinks I’m hurt by this reminder that I am not one of the family, that despite sleeping in their pretty pink bedroom and eating at their sprawling dinner table and chatting with them about their days, I’m still a hired employee.

  If that’s what Mrs. Tully thinks, she’s wrong.

  I am not hurt. I am not even reminded.

  Since my first job at the day camp, there has never been a time that I’ve forgotten my position. Not when the parents cook me lunch or invite me to dinner or give me gifts of silk scarves and fine chocolate at holiday time. Not when they gossip with me or confide in me or compliment the length and thickness of my hair. Not when they tell me to make myself at home. I never, ever forget their home isn’t my home. My home is a one-bedroom apartment in a brown high-rise building with my mother.

  But I smile back at Mrs. Tully with no malice. “That sounds like a fun day out for the family,” I say.

  She looks disappointed. Then she shrugs and goes back to ignoring me.

  I spend the day working. At this point, I should be familiar enough with Ella’s strengths and weaknesses and interests to make my lesson plans for next week. So I page through her workbooks, searching for patterns in her right and wrong answers. But the only pattern is that she answered nearly every question wrong. I’m ready to give up when Doris calls.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks after we say hello.

  “What do you mean? Nothing’s wrong,” I say.

  “You sound upset.”

  “I’m fine! Everything’s fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! The house is huge and I have my own bedroom and my own bathroom and there’s a library and game room and wine cellar and a swimming pool and every day we eat lunch outside in a gazebo.”

  “Wow, that sounds amazing.”

  “It really is!” I say, but I don’t say it right. My voice wobbles. There is somehow both too much enthusiasm and not enough.

  “Come on,” she says. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  I sigh. “Well . . . the tutoring isn’t going so great.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I describe the trouble I’ve been having with Ella. “I don’t know what to do. She’s so closed off.”

  “Poor girl,” she says.

  “You mean rich girl,” I say.

  Doris is disapprovingly silent.

  “It’s a joke,” I say.

  “You have to keep trying,” she says. “You’re a great tutor. I’m sure you’ll get through to her eventually.”

  This is why I hesitated before telling Doris. Because I knew she would say something kind and optimistic. Then I would think how ridiculous she was for being so kind and optimistic. Then I would feel guilty for thinking my best friend was ridiculous. Especially since she is only being kind and optimistic. And I am not.

  “Okay,” I say. “Anyway, are you still volunteering at the hospital?”

  “Yes, but only for another month. Then I want to get a head start on my reading for the fall. I ordered my textbooks today!” She gleefully tells me she’s already gotten the syllabus for one of her classes and the first assignment is due the first day of class.

  “Wow. Everything’s happening so fast.”

  “I know,” she says. “Sorry I missed your call yesterday. What were you going to say about your brother?”

  “What?” I grimace. I was hoping she’d forgotten.

  “You know. In your message you said that your brother said he ran into me, then you were going to say something else about him, but you didn’t.”

  “Oh, I was just going to say . . . he’s a creep.”

  Doris sighs. “Andy isn’t a creep. He made some mistakes, but he’s trying to change. He was really nice to me when I saw him the other day.”

  “Of course he was nice to you.”

  “You have to give your brother another chance. Family is important. It’s the most important thing.”

  I think: You have no idea what you’re talking about.

  I say: “You’re right. Well, I should get back to work now.”

  “Okay. Good luck. I miss you. Let’s talk again soon, okay?”

  “Yes. Thanks. Bye.” I hang up.

  Doris Chang and I have been best friends since the second grade. We have a lot in common: her parents, like my parents, are immigrants; we both study a lot and work hard and do well in school; we are responsible and polite; we like to plan and prepare. People sometimes ask if we’re sisters, though I don’t think we look alike, aside from the fact we’re both skinny Chinese girls with long black hair.

  But over t
he past few years something changed. Now when we’re together—volunteering at the soup kitchen or studying for an exam or hanging out with our other nice friends—I sometimes feel uncomfortable, like I don’t belong, like I’m not truly one of the girls, giggling girls who faithfully believe that family is the most important thing and that if you don’t give up you’ll eventually succeed. Because . . . I guess . . . I’m not one of them anymore.

  I start pacing around the room, back and forth, back and forth, and the bedroom, this spacious bedroom, begins to feel small, pink walls closing in, the floral prints stifling as if they’re pungently perfumed. Then I can’t help thinking about what happened last night. The groan. The shadow. The open door.

  I’d been trying not to think about it, but now I can’t stop. I remember when I first met Vanessa and she asked if I was superstitious. I told her I wasn’t, and I’m still not. Yet I suddenly need to get out of here. Out of this pretty room. Out of this perfect house. As far away as possible.

  I go to the beach. It’s my first time going, but it’s not hard to find; there’s a winding path that leads to a narrow set of stone steps that leads to the sand. Then there’s the ocean, so clear and so blue, even clearer and bluer than it appears from the house. It’s beautiful.

  “Hello there!” someone bellows behind me.

  I turn around to find old Mr. Morison. Even on the beach, he is neatly dressed, though his ironed pants are rolled up above his ankles. His bare feet are long and scrawny, speckled with sand and age.

  “Oh! You’re not on the boat!” I feel as though I’ve been caught misbehaving. I have to remind myself that this is my day off; I’m not doing anything wrong.

  Mr. Morison shrugs. “Enjoying this lovely weather?” he asks.

  “Very much. I’m just taking a break from working on lesson plans.”

  “Ah, yes. How is the tutoring progressing?”

  “It’s going great!” I say.

  “Excellent. I’m glad to hear it. My granddaughter is a good girl, but she’s had a tough time of it lately. There was some trouble at school this year.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Her friends got her into some mischief, then named her as the ringleader. Can you imagine? I love my granddaughter, but she is no ringleader.” He frowns out at the ocean.

  “What did they do?”

  “It was just some schoolgirl nonsense.” He turns his frown toward me. “Of course it’s her parents’ fault. Why Jeffrey married that woman, I’ll never understand, though I suppose she’s an improvement over his first wife, with her diets and her nerves. My son has terrible judgment. What he’s doing to the family name . . . it’s shameful!”

  “Um. Is that a lighthouse?” I point to a distant structure that is clearly a lighthouse.

  Mr. Morison looks. His expression relaxes. “Yes, that’s the old lighthouse. It’s no longer in use, hasn’t been for decades. Our property includes an acre just beyond it.”

  “I heard your house originally belonged to the Arrow family.”

  “That’s right. Lionel Arrow built this house for his family. He and his wife had five children, all boys, five troublemaking boys. Poor Lionel. If only he’d had a daughter. If only I’d had a daughter. They’re different, you know. Daughters will always love you and take care of you. Like Ella. She’s a good girl. And you, you’re a good girl. I can tell. You love your father, don’t you? You’ll always take care of him.”

  I nod noncommittally. “The taxi driver said there aren’t any Arrows here anymore. Is that true?”

  “Indeed. Those troublemaking sons squandered the family fortune, and eventually they all left. I was able to get this property at a very good price. No more Arrows on Arrow Island. Except for the bodies, of course.” He chuckles, or maybe coughs. Either way it’s a creaky, phlegmy sound that goes on for too long.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  “Perfectly fine.” He thumps his chest and says, “The Arrow family cemetery is up on the hill, just beyond the lighthouse. The place is quite neglected, but an interesting spot nonetheless. It’s unfortunate you can’t go have a look around.”

  “Why not?”

  “You aren’t afraid?”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Well, perhaps you should be.” Mr. Morison gazes at me disapprovingly, his eyes fierce, his eyebrows pinched together. “It’s dangerous.”

  Then I feel a pang of fear. “What do you mean?”

  “The path goes directly past the lighthouse, and because my son hasn’t maintained it at all, the structure is extremely unsound. It could collapse at any time,” he says. His voice is low. Raspy. Angry. A moment later, he excuses himself and heads back to the house.

  That night I go to bed early. I take a hot shower in the beautiful bathroom, put on my pajamas, and climb into bed. I’m exhausted. But I don’t fall asleep. After a while, I get up, go to the door, and check that it’s firmly closed. It is. I climb back into bed. I still don’t fall asleep. Not because I’m afraid. I just can’t.

  When the Morison family comes home, I hear Ella in the hallway, breathlessly chirping, “Daddy, Daddy! Come tuck me in!” I hear Jeffrey Morison’s jovial reply: “Be there in a minute, sweetheart, after I make a couple of quick phone calls.”

  Several minutes later, he thuds down the hall. A minute later, he thuds back.

  Hours pass. I still don’t fall asleep. Finally I get up again, grab the chair behind the dressing table, carry it across the room, and wedge it in front of the door. I feel utterly ridiculous. But I tell myself I’m not afraid; I’m just being . . . cautious.

  This time, as soon as I climb back into bed, stretch flat on the mattress, pull the floral quilt up to my chin, and turn my head against the pillow, I fall asleep.

  In my dream I am sitting in the corner reading when the man comes over, takes the book from my hand, and snaps it shut. He tells me I need to stop fooling around, wasting time, messing about. He tells me I need to study harder, help my mother more, get along with my brother better, be a good girl. The same things he always used to scold me about.

  But then his voice changes into Mr. Morison’s, and he says that I’m his daughter, and so I should be taking care of him. He says I have to promise to take care of him forever.

  Before I can promise, he raises his arm, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s going to hit me, but then his hand opens to show me what he’s holding. It’s the porcelain ballerina figurine he gave me for my sixth birthday. The one that broke. She lies in pieces on his palm.

  My father screams: Look what you’ve done. It’s all your fault! What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you?

  I jolt awake. Heart thrumming. Eyes burning. I sit up and look across the room for my mother, for the comfortingly familiar sight of her in her narrow bed. But all I see is my own self in the mirror: black tangle of hair, face swollen with sleep, bony limbs in a garden of pink. For a moment I have no idea where I am.

  Then I remember.

  I’m at the Morisons’ house on Arrow Island.

  I’m Ella Morison’s academic tutor for the summer.

  I repeat these facts to myself as if they are lessons to be learned.

  Then I get out of bed and go to the door. The chair is wedged against it, precisely where I left it the night before. I return it to its place behind the dressing table. I go to the window and pull back the curtains. Sunshine pours into the room. It’s a beautiful day.

  I’m at the Morisons’ house on Arrow Island.

  I’m Ella Morison’s academic tutor for the summer.

  It has been three and a half years since I last saw my father.

  And I have no idea if I’ll ever see him again.

  6

  AT THE LAST MINUTE, SUNDAY-NIGHT DINNER BECOMES SUNDAY afternoon dinner because Jeffrey Morison has to rush back to the city to prepare for a meeting scheduled for the next morning. Consequently, the meal is not up to Mrs. Tully’s usual standards. The meat is dry and the vegetab
les are hard. The bread crust is sallow and slightly soggy.

  Mrs. Tully is very apologetic about the inferior food. She is obviously embarrassed, so I tell her, “The asparagus is delicious.”

  She frowns at me as she leaves the dining room.

  “Daddy!” chirps Ella. She’s wearing another pink dress tonight, even frillier than the first. “Who’s your meeting with tomorrow?”

  “Well, sweetheart, I’m meeting with some people from the SEC.”

  “What’s the SEC?” she asks.

  “The Securities and Exchange Commission. They’re a governmental agency that monitors finance and business—”

  “Jeffrey, what’s this meeting about?” Mr. Morison interrupts.

  “Nothing to worry about.” Jeffrey shrugs.

  His father shakes his head. “That attitude is going to get you in trouble.”

  Jeffrey winks at Ella, who is listening to them with an anxious expression. “Really, sweetie. It’s nothing to worry about,” he says. “Trust me.”

  She nods solemnly. “I trust you, Daddy.”

  “Which reminds me,” he says. “Henry.”

  Henry jolts up in his chair. “Yes, Dad?”

  “I finally heard back from Vice Principal Kristoff. He’s traveling this month, but he’s willing to meet with you at the beginning of August. So you better email him as soon as possible if you want to graduate.”

  “Yes. Yes, I will. Thank you.”

  “Don’t screw this up, Henry.”

  “I won’t, Dad. I promise.” Henry’s face is calm and his voice is steady, but the fork in his hand is trembling. Apparently when Vanessa said he’d finished his senior year “more or less,” she meant less.

  “All right then.” Jeffrey Morison consumes the last of his dinner in three big bites. He gulps down his glass of wine. He stands up.

  “Really, darling? You can’t stay until we’re all done eating?” says Vanessa.

  “I have to go. I want to beat the traffic.”

  “But Jeffrey,” she says, her voice wavering.

  “Daddy! When are you coming back?” chirps Ella.

  “I’m going to Europe for some meetings next week, so it’ll be the weekend after that.” Jeffrey leans over to kiss her cheek.