Shadow Girl

by Liana Liu

  So I go out into the hallway and tap on the door next door. When there is no answer, I tiptoe inside. Ella is curled up small on one side of her big bed, snoring. I lie down on the other side and quickly fall asleep.

  When I wake up again, the sky is blue and the sun is dazzling and Ella is peering at me. “Was it Eleanor?” she asks. “Did she wake you up last night?”

  And I must still be half asleep, because I simply answer “Yes.”

  7

  THERE IS NO TAKING IT BACK. I TRY. AS SOON AS WE ARE SETTLED in the library with our notebooks and workbooks, I tell Ella it was actually a dream that woke me up, only a dream. But she ignores my excuses. “What did Eleanor say about the party?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly, too quickly.

  “Tell me exactly what she told you.”

  “She said the party was going to be boring.”

  “She said it’ll be boring? What does that mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. It was a dream,” I say. “Now let’s get started. Open your book to page ninety-five.”

  “The party is tomorrow,” she says.

  “Page ninety-five,” I say.

  “What are we going to do?” she says.

  “We’re going to read page ninety-five,” I say.

  She huffs—very un-Ella-like—and opens her book.

  Then we get to work. Sort of. We struggle through two sections, and Ella gets most of the questions wrong. She seems to be making no effort at all.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  Ella shrugs. She is gazing past me, but I know that if I turn to see what she’s gazing at, I won’t see anything. She is looking at something much farther away.

  “Okay, let’s move on to the next section,” I say.

  She gets nearly everything wrong in that section too.

  I’m relieved when it’s time for lunch. Relieved until we get downstairs and outside and I see Henry sitting at the table in his usual seat, in his usual neon swim trunks, with his usual smirk. My whole body tenses.

  “Henry!” I say loudly, much too loudly. “Hi! How are you? Are you okay? Did you have a good morning? What’s new?”

  “Hey, Ella,” he says. “Let’s go to the beach when you get out of tutoring prison.”

  “Sure, the beach,” Ella says absentmindedly as she slouches into her chair.

  Henry looks quizzically at his sister. Usually when he asks her something, anything, she responds eagerly. Now she is as distracted with him as she is with everyone else.

  “Ellie, posture, please,” says Vanessa. “And what on earth are you wearing?”

  Ella straightens. She is wearing a shirt with cartoon animals on the front. “Benny gave it to me for my birthday last year. Remember?”

  “I remember.” Vanessa grimaces.

  “Well, I love your shirt, El,” says Henry.

  “All this foolishness about a shirt.” Old Mr. Morison shakes his head.

  Vanessa turns to me with a brittle smile. “I was thinking, perhaps you and Ella can take a break from tutoring this afternoon. I could really use your help with some party stuff,” she says.

  Mr. Morison frowns. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

  “Lucky you, Ella! You’re free!” Henry says.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” Vanessa asks me.

  Ella gazes at her plate of food.

  And I feel a sense of déjà vu. It’s as if we are back to the beginning of the summer: Vanessa nitpicking her daughter. Henry needling his stepmother. Ella in a perpetual daydream. Mr. Morison criticizing his daughter-in-law. Henry provoking me. Vanessa asking me to do things outside my job description.

  I don’t like it, this feeling that we are going backward. It’s uncomfortable and disorienting and slightly nauseating. Maybe that explains why I don’t eat much at lunch. And maybe that explains the terrible mistake I make afterward.

  Vanessa and I are in her office, compiling the final guest list for the party. While she dictates, I type. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, I blurt, “The other week I overheard this strange conversation on the phone between your husband and Lorraine.”

  “What?” She looks startled.

  But I am more startled. I had a plan, and this is not it.

  “What did you hear?” she asks.

  “I, um . . . I was in his office because I was photocopying something for Ella—remember you said I could use the copier anytime? And your husband came in and he was on the phone with Lorraine, and she was upset about someone finding out about something, but he told her there was no proof and it would be all right.” I speak quickly, confusedly, probably incoherently. Then I stop. I wait for her to respond with questions or anger or sadness. Or anything.

  Vanessa stares at me, her face expressionless.

  “It was probably nothing,” I say.

  She stares.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Then all at once Vanessa starts moving, talking, reacting. She stands up and says, “It’s fine, don’t worry, it was probably nothing.” She laughs. She sits back down. She continues dictating the guest list to me.

  And I realize that although there would never have been a painless way to tell her what I overheard—even if I’d done it according to my plan—I undoubtedly chose the worst moment of all to have this conversation: the day before the big party, a few hours before her husband is supposed to arrive.

  What have I done?

  This evening, Jeffrey Morison is very late for dinner.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here any second now,” Vanessa says. She has changed for dinner, into a dark red dress that flows around her like wine. Her face is velvety with makeup. Her hair is freshly washed and dried and curled.

  “Maybe he got caught in traffic,” Ella says. She has also changed for dinner, into a lacy white dress. She looks itchy in it. She keeps scratching around the collar and under the sleeves.

  “Maybe he forgot we exist,” Henry mutters. He has also changed for dinner, into a collared shirt that is only slightly wrinkled.

  “My son believes it’s only his time that’s valuable,” old Mr. Morison grumbles. He has also changed for dinner, into freshly ironed attire, but even his neat clothes cannot disguise his tiredness. His skin is sallow, his lips pale, his eyes unfocused. He should be in bed.

  “Sweetie, stop scratching,” says Vanessa. “And sit up straight.”

  Ella drops her hands from around her neck and shudders up against her chair.

  “Granddad, are you feeling all right?” Henry asks.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” snaps Mr. Morison.

  Mrs. Tully comes in with a platter of salmon and a deep dish of creamy noodles, but Vanessa sends the food back to the kitchen, telling her to keep it warm until her husband arrives, that he should be here any second. There is a bowl of salad on the table, but no one seems to dare touch it, or even look at it.

  Finally, there is the thud-thud-thud of footsteps in the hallway, and I feel the same déjà vu I felt this morning, but this time it’s mixed with something else. Foreboding.

  Jeffrey Morison enters the room.

  “Daddy!” Ella gets up and hugs him.

  “Jeffrey.” Vanessa does not get up.

  “Hello, my pretty girls!” he booms, his voice genial. But his expression is not. He looks annoyed. He looks tired. His hair looks sparse and greasy. His mouth is pinched. He sits down awkwardly, heavily, as if his body aches.

  “Dad,” says Jeffrey. “Are you well? You’re looking a bit under the weather.”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” Mr. Morison responds stiffly.

  “Son,” says Jeffrey. “I thought you were still in the city.”

  “Nope. I’m back,” Henry mumbles.

  “And you!” Jeffrey Morison directs a strained smile over to me. “You’re still here!”

  “Yes.” I smile back at him. I try to make mine less strained, but I don’t succeed.

  “Yeah, she’s still here,” Henry says. He
doesn’t smirk.

  Jeffrey Morison glances around at the blank plates on the table. “You haven’t started eating yet? You shouldn’t have waited for me. I’m famished. What are we having?”

  Instantly, Mrs. Tully appears with the tomato soup, then a platter of salmon and dish of noodles. Then a leek frittata, sautéed vegetables, fried calamari, and a rosemary flatbread.

  “Mrs. Tully, you’ve really outdone yourself,” booms Jeffrey Morison.

  “It’s nothing.” Mrs. Tully reddens and giggles.

  “Daddy, how was your week?” Ella asks in her breathless chirp.

  “Not too bad, sweetheart. Could be worse,” says Jeffrey. “But things are very busy right now. I’m afraid I have to get back to the city tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Vanessa says. “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, dear. Tomorrow,” he says.

  Her face turns very pale. “Are you serious? We haven’t seen you in two weeks and you’re not even staying twenty-four hours?”

  “There’re some things I need to take care of.”

  “What things?”

  “Important business.” Jeffrey Morison jabs an enormous forkful of noodles into his mouth, so enormous that his cheeks swell as he chomps. Perhaps he thinks he can stop his wife from complaining if he crams his own mouth full.

  But Vanessa cries, “Of course! Because business is always more important than family, isn’t it? I made plans for us to celebrate your birthday this weekend.”

  He swallows his food. “We can celebrate next weekend.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Why? My birthday isn’t until Wednesday.”

  “Because . . . because . . .”

  I glance around the table. Henry appears utterly focused on his food, attentively cutting and chewing. Old Mr. Morison is observing his son and daughter-in-law with curiosity. And Ella—once I look at Ella, I can’t look away.

  Ella is neither feigning interest in her food nor watching her parents. She is staring at the wall. No, she is staring through the wall. Her forehead is crinkled. Her eyes are dreamy. Her lips are fluttering. As if she is murmuring to someone. But no sound emerges from her mouth. And there is no one she could possibly be murmuring to.

  “Because,” Vanessa says, “I’m throwing you a surprise party tomorrow night. And you better be there. Or else. You bastard.”

  The dining room goes absolutely quiet.

  Then Jeffrey says, “A surprise birthday party? What the hell are you thinking?”

  “It’s your birthday. You’re my husband. What do you think I’m thinking?”

  “How many people are coming? How much have you spent on this?”

  “I do something nice for you, and this is how you react?”

  “You know I don’t like surprises!” Jeffrey shouts.

  “No, I don’t know that!” Vanessa shouts.

  As they shout, Henry continues eating, Mr. Morison continues observing, and Ella continues doing whatever it is she is doing. I wish I understood what it is she’s doing.

  “Anyway,” shouts Vanessa, “one person who is not coming to the party is your friend Lorraine. I guess she knows that you hate surprises.”

  “Are you listening to yourself? Do you know how ridiculous you sound?” shouts Jeffrey.

  “Don’t call me ridiculous.”

  “Then don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Fuck you, Jeffrey. Fuck. You.”

  I look at Ella and see her face freeze. Eyes shut tight. She is so still that it seems like she isn’t breathing. She is so still that it frightens me. I am so focused on her stillness that it takes me a moment to register what happens next.

  The bowl of tomato soup explodes.

  Perhaps explodes is not the right word, but I can’t think of a better one. The glass bowl shatters with a crash, shards scattering across the table. The red liquid blasts in every direction, splattering us all. We jump up from our chairs, shrieking with surprise.

  Except Ella. She is motionless. Her eyes still shut. Soup bleeding down her cheek.

  “What the hell just happened?” Jeffrey Morison bellows.

  No one answers him. None of us can possibly answer him.

  “Mrs. Tully!” Vanessa screams.

  Mrs. Tully runs into the room, surveys the mess, and runs out. A minute later she returns with a garbage bag and paper towels and cleaning spray.

  Henry gets up and starts picking up the broken glass. Old Mr. Morison dabs at the soup stains on his nice shirt; there is a particularly large splotch on his chest. Jeffrey and Vanessa stare wrathfully at each other, seemingly unaware of the activity around them. Ella is motionless.

  I step carefully over shards and tomato and touch her shoulder. “Come on, Ella,” I say quietly. “Let’s go upstairs and get cleaned up.”

  She opens her eyes and nods.

  I walk her to her room and tell her to take a shower. Then I take a shower too. My body feels very cold. I turn the water very hot, stand right under the spray, and watch the pink swirl slowly down the drain.

  When I come out of the bathroom, Ella is waiting for me, sitting on the floral bed, in her pajamas. Her hair is dripping and her face is flushed. “It was Eleanor,” she says.

  I get a towel and drape it over her dripping hair. “What was Eleanor?”

  “She did it.” Ella shrugs and the towel slides off.

  “What?” I pick up the towel again and wrap it around her head.

  “Eleanor broke the bowl and threw the soup on us.”

  “No, it was just a freak accident.”

  “It was a warning,” she says. “She’s going to do something worse at the party.”

  “No, she isn’t. Because Eleanor doesn’t exist,” I say.

  Ella frowns. Her face is very small under her towel turban. Then she says, very, very, softly, “I’m scared.”

  “Oh no, Ella. Don’t be scared. It’s going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.” I pat her back reassuringly. I don’t know what else to do or say.

  Because the truth is: I’m scared too.

  8

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, IT’S PAST MY BEDTIME AND I’M EXHAUSTED, but I’m not in bed; I’m not even ready for bed. I am sitting at the dressing table with my laptop, reading intently. But every few minutes I get so overwhelmed, I have to get up and take a lap around the pink room. Then I sit down again and continue reading. I make some notes on a sheet of paper. When I have all the information I need, I shut my computer. I stare at my notes.

  Should I actually do this?

  I don’t know what else to do.

  So I run downstairs to the kitchen and get a few supplies. Back in the pink bedroom I pick a pair of scissors from my pencil box. I pull a pillow out from its floral pillowcase and take the pillowcase. From the bathroom, I grab the small metal trash bin, take out the bag of trash, and put everything I’ve collected inside the bin.

  I carry it all to the door, place my hand on the knob. I stop. There’s something else I need. I turn back around. I see it. I move slowly toward it, almost against my own will, as if hypnotized. I lift the porcelain ballerina figurine from the dressing table and gently place her at the bottom of the bin.

  Then I walk next door, knock, and go inside the room. I sit on the bed, next to the small lump under the covers. “Ella?” I say softly. When she doesn’t stir, I say her name slightly louder.

  “Hmm?” She wiggles out from under the blanket and blinks sleepily at me. Her eyes are red and swollen, her face blotchy. She looks as if she cried herself to sleep.

  “Sorry to wake you,” I say.

  “Is it Eleanor?” Her voice is raspy.

  “No,” I say automatically. Then I correct myself. “I mean, yes. Sort of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re going to set her free!” I announce.

  I expect Ella to gasp or shout or bombard me with questions, but she nods calmly. “Good idea,” she says.

  “I brought everything we need.�
� I show her the steel bin. “Ready?”

  “Shouldn’t we do it in your room? Since that’s Eleanor’s room?”

  “Ella, you’re a natural at this.”

  “I know.”

  In the pink bedroom, we sit on the floor, cross-legged and facing each other. I unfold the floral pillowcase and lay it flat between us. On top of it I place a candle in a glass jar I got from the kitchen. I take out my page of notes, the pair of scissors, a box of matches, a blank sheet of paper, and a black marker. Lastly, I take out the ballerina figurine and balance her next to the candle.

  Ella watches me closely but says nothing.

  I carefully use a match to light the candle. The flame sputters out instantly, and a twisting snake of smoke rises from the wick. I try again. It goes out again. I try once more, my hand trembling. This time, the flame catches and keeps burning.

  “Weird,” I say.

  Ella says nothing.

  “Okay, so on this piece of paper, let’s write down all the things we wish for Eleanor. I’ll start. Peace,” I say, and use the black marker to write PEACE.

  “Fun,” says Ella.

  “Good one.” I write FUN.

  “Not to be mad,” she says.

  “Not to be scared,” she says.

  “Not to feel bad,” she says.

  I write everything down. “Great.”

  To my surprise, Ella keeps going. I’ve never heard her say so much so quickly.

  “Not to have to do things she doesn’t want to do,” she says.

  “To have lots of friends,” she says.

  “No one is mean to her,” she says.

  “To do whatever she wants,” she says.

  “I want her to be happy,” she says.

  “Me too,” I say. I write HAPPINESS. “Anything else?”

  Ella shakes her head. The page is full. I set it down on the floral pillowcase.