Shadow Image

by Martin J. Smith

  “At ease, soldier.”

  “Sorry. Been that way since this afternoon.”

  Brenna shrugged. “I should find out what she was painting.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Bren. It could mean absolutely nothing.”

  “Explain it to me,” she said. “You never talk much about what you’re working on, anyway.”

  Christensen smiled, recalling her earlier hesitation to reveal professional secrets. “It’s complicated.”

  “Grow up,” she said, smacking his arm. “I filled you in on my day.”

  True enough. “Okay,” he said. “The way I explained it in my grant proposal was pretty simple. Language is the brain’s most highly evolved form of communication. But with Alzheimer’s patients, especially advanced-stagers like Floss Underhill, the brain stops processing the information they need in order to talk about things like you or I might, like they did before the disease. Alzheimer’s leaves their brains this weird jumble of disconnected wires and phantom thoughts. It devastates their short-term memory—that’s why she can’t remember how to button buttons or what she had for breakfast—and they have no context for a lot of their long-term memories. She might remember things, but she won’t know what they mean.”

  Brenna was listening as intently as he’d ever seen her. “Blink,” he said.

  “I just want to understand.”

  “Representational art is a different kind of communication, much simpler,” he said. “Images bubble up randomly and find their way onto the canvas. Sometimes they have deep meaning, sometimes they don’t mean anything. The artist usually doesn’t even know where they came from.”

  “Wait.” Brenna held up her hand for him to stop. “So how do you tell what the images mean, if they’re significant or not?”

  Her mind was quick, intimidatingly so, and she had a chess master’s vision. Watching it all work fascinated him. “That’s what makes this study so tricky, see. I can’t rely on the artist to articulate it, or even understand it. So that leaves two options. The first is my own research into the patient’s life. When I get to the point where I’m ready to do case studies, I’ll try to learn as much as I can about how they lived, their family, what they did professionally, their hobbies.”

  The moonlight accented the delicate curve of her breasts. “And the other?”

  “Hmm?”

  She lifted his chin. “The other option?”

  “Oh, um, their family.” He found her eyes again. “Their memories still work, so if it goes the way I hope, family members will be a great resource for interpreting the images.”

  He hugged her, awkwardly but tight. She ran her hand up the side of his head, pulling his face to her warm neck. He tried the spot, and suddenly her hand was on the inside of his thigh.

  “Your opinion,” she whispered.

  “Hmm?”

  She bit his earlobe, held it with her teeth, and pulled him down as she lay back on the pillows. Their eyes met as he kneeled over her. “So someday Floss might just, you know, out of the blue, paint a picture of what happened on the deck,” she said.

  “Maybe. You never know. Depends.”

  “On?”

  “Someone would have to work with her. Even then, it’d be a total crapshoot.”

  She ran a hand down his ribs to his hip, ready to guide him. It rested there lightly until he started to move, but then her elbow locked, holding him away.

  “Hey, wait a minute—”

  She leaned up and kissed him, but on her terms. “I need a favor.”

  Chapter 8

  The ancient gas stove was days away from working, but at least the refrigerator was humming away. The day before, Christensen had found two vital appliances in a misplaced carton—the toaster and the coffeemaker. He’d unpacked enough bowls and silverware to make cereal an option, but they were already dirty. He was thinking frozen waffles. Why not be a hero with the kids?

  “Where’s my mom?” Startled, he turned and found Taylor standing unsteadily in the kitchen doorway. The pants and shirt of his soccer pajamas were on backward. Annie pushed past him in her oversized Penguins T-shirt and took her place at the table.

  “Morning, Mr. T! Your mom had to go to work a little early today.” He knelt down and gathered the boy into his arms, but not before dealing four Eggos into the four-slice toaster and pushing the handle down. “And she told me to give you that.”

  Taylor seemed to enjoy his affection. Any affection. Christensen tried to hug Annie, too, but she pushed him away and complained about his morning breath.

  “Who was on the phone?” Taylor asked.

  What was the name? Rankin? Raskin? “Somebody for your mom,” he said, thinking, Some arrogant prick who felt perfectly free to call without apology at six-thirty on a Monday morning: somebody who dismissed me like I was the directory-assistance operator. The Underhills’ anxious political strategist, Brenna had explained after she hung up. The sheriff’s investigators were asking neighbors about the relationships between Underhill family members. They’d also heard from a contact Downtown that other deputies were pursuing trust documents that might show who, if anyone, might benefit from Floss Underhill’s death.

  Brenna was already dressed and heading out the door to her office when she got the call. “Mercer’s people aren’t letting up,” she said. “They just want me to stay on top of it. I may be late.” She blew him a kiss as he sipped French roast from the first mug he’d found in the first kitchen box he opened. It read “World’s Greatest Mom.”

  He flipped on the countertop television and made school lunches as the kids ate, swabbing peanut butter onto whole-grain bread, studding it with banana wheels, and drizzling honey over the top. When he looked up, Annie and Taylor were licking the syrup from their paper plates. Tomorrow, he’d start watching their sugar intake more closely.

  The jolly banter of G’ Morning Pittsburgh! filled the cluttered kitchen. “Coming up, news headlines at seven!” said the impossibly dimpled co-host. “We’ve got the morning traffic hot spots, and our own Tim Mausteller will be along with his umbrella index.” She wrinkled her nose at the camera. “So don’t go away!”

  Christensen muted the commercials with a confident wave of the remote. No one was predicting rain today. “If you’re done, guys, I want you both upstairs to get dressed and do your teeth. It’s supposed to be warm today, so you can wear shorts if you want to. Annie, bring me the hairbrush when you come down, okay?”

  “More syrup,” she said, pointing to a place on her spotless plate. “Just a little pile right there.”

  “You’ve had plenty,” he said. “Upstairs. Don’t forget the hairbrush.”

  His eight-year-old stared coolly over the edge of her plate. “The magic word?”

  “Sorry. Please bring me the hairbrush.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s watch that.”

  She would rule the world someday, he knew, possibly with an iron fist. Annie was a formidable intellect even now, with the unshakable confidence of a Zen master and the mood stability of a Texas thunderstorm. Her logic was always flawless, her arguments airtight. He suspected that even her most vulnerable moments were simply ways to manipulate him to mysterious ends that he could never fully appreciate. She allowed him a role in her life, but it wasn’t a lead, and she never let him forget she was directing. For now, Annie regarded the occupants of 732 Howe Street, as well as her entire third-grade classroom, more like subjects than peers. She considered herself supremely benevolent in dealing with their shortcomings.

  “My momph!”

  Taylor sprayed waffle mulch as he pointed at the TV, trying to swallow an Eggo wad and talk. “Lowda! Lowda!” He reached across the kitchen table for the remote and got the mute button after cha
nging channels twice. When he found the right station again, Brenna’s face filled the screen. For a moment, Christensen had the unsettling feeling that she’d simply come back after forgetting her car keys or her Starbucks travel cup.

  “—on the injuries to Mr. Underhill’s mother?” someone asked from off-camera. A microphone topped by a stylized 2 hovered near Brenna’s face.

  “Turn it up, Taylor,” he said.

  Taylor changed channels again, then in a panic began pushing buttons randomly. The set blinked off. Christensen snatched the remote from the boy’s hands too quickly. “You’re doing a good job, T, but maybe it’s not working. Mind if I check it?” He found the right channel on the second try.

  “—sustained some injuries during the fall, none permanent or in any way life-threatening.” Brenna was wearing her Professional Face. “The Underhills look forward to having her home in a few days.”

  The camera panned back. Christensen recognized the ground-level view of Grant Street, the metal-and-glass entrance of One Oxford Centre. The reporter and camera crew must have caught her on the way up to the sixteenth-floor offices of Kennedy & Flaherty. He recognized the reporter, too, but he couldn’t remember his name. The word “Live” flashed over and over at the bottom of the screen.

  “We understand the Allegheny County sheriff is investigating the possibility that Mrs. Underhill’s fall was suspicious in nature. Any comment on that?”

  Professional Face. “I’m not aware of details of any investigation, if there is one, into this difficult situation,” Brenna said. “The family is just relieved that she’s going to be okay.”

  The reporter waited. Brenna waited. She knew how to play the game.

  “Is she in trouble?” Annie asked. Christensen shook his head, held an index finger to his lips.

  “They’re telling us, quote, the investigation is continuing, unquote,” the reporter persisted, “which obviously suggests that there is some concern on their part about how Mrs. Underhill was injured.”

  Brenna smiled. “Obviously, Mr. Underhill is concerned about how his mother fell, too, as we all are. We’d certainly hope the sheriff shares that concern as well.”

  “Any evidence this was anything other than a suicide attempt?” the reporter asked. Christensen could tell he was getting frustrated.

  “Not that we’re aware of,” she said.

  “But you’re a criminal-defense attorney. You’ve also been involved in several high-profile cases that bear striking similarities to this one, all of which involved disabled elderly people. Why did Ford Underhill’s campaign office refer us to you?”

  “I can’t speak to that. I’m not involved in Mr. Underhill’s campaign.”

  “That’s our point—”

  “The family’s main focus right now is getting Mrs. Underhill back home, and we’re cooperating fully with the sheriff’s office to clear up questions about the fall. Any speculation beyond that right now would be inappropriate. Thank you for your concern, though.”

  She smiled when she said it. The reporter surrendered as Brenna turned and walked into the office tower. The camera shifted from Brenna’s back to the bulldog face of Channel 2’s Myron Levin, whose name appeared suddenly at the bottom of the screen. “Again, Kelly, that’s Underhill family spokesperson Brenna Kennedy with the latest on the—” Levin cocked an eyebrow—“perplexing fall on Saturday that injured the mother of Democratic gubernatorial front-runner Ford Underhill. Back to you.”

  Kelly looked worried. “We’ll certainly keep Mrs. Underhill in our thoughts.”

  “We certainly will,” offered co-anchor Rob. He looked worried, too. “Thanks, Myron.”

  Taylor’s fork hung halfway between his plate and his mouth, as it had since his mother’s face first appeared on the screen. He’d seen his mom interviewed on television before, each time with the same dumbfounded amazement. “Awesome,” he said.

  Christensen patted him on the back. “You know that lady?”

  “Brenna looks fat on TV,” Annie said.

  Christensen noticed the stove clock and checked it against his watch. “Whoa guys, it’s ten to eight. Finish up, get your clothes, brush your teeth, and let’s get out the door. Hate to rush you, but the bell rings in ten minutes.”

  “She should tell them just to show her face,” Annie said. “She has a pretty nice face.”

  “Upstairs,” he said.

  New living arrangement aside, the morning was building to a familiar crescendo. Christensen collected the paper plates and put away the syrup and margarine. He turned off the coffeemaker, rinsed the silverware, and dropped it into the kitchen’s ancient dishwasher, which was half full of plates and bowls unpacked at random in moments of need. He poured Cascade into the soap holder, shut the door, and clicked the dial to normal cycle. The machine groaned once and stopped with an unhealthy noise. He spun the dial again. Kachunk, it said. He tried again but it made no noise at all.

  Even if he had time to tinker with it, he didn’t have the slightest idea what might be wrong. He scribbled a Post-it note for Brenna—“Bren: It went kachunk and stopped. Help!”—and stuck it on the dishwasher door. “Everybody ready?” he shouted.

  The kids rumbled down the stairs looking like a Disney mule train, Taylor beneath an overstuffed and weighty Hercules backpack, one of Annie’s discards, and carrying a lunchbox that looked like the disembodied head of Mickey Mouse. He’d insisted on it over Christensen’s objections. Annie was strapped into her silver Action Rangers backpack with matching lunchbox.

  Christensen tested the weight of Taylor’s pack. “What’s in there, buddy?”

  “Rocks.”

  The phone rang. “Let the machine pick up,” Christensen said, but too late.

  “This is Annie speaking,” she said. His daughter nodded, shrugged, and handed him the phone with a scowl. “It’s not for me.”

  Christensen jammed the phone between his shoulder and his ear. “Hello?”

  “Yes, uh, I—geez, I was expecting just to leave a message on Brenna’s home answering machine.”

  Christensen paused, struck by the odd sensation of déjà vu. He recognized the man’s voice, so familiar, so recent, but couldn’t match it to a face. “She’s not in right now,” he said, “but you can probably reach her at her office.”

  “No, I know that. I just—” The caller hesitated.

  “Or I can take a message,” Christensen said. He grabbed the Post-its from the table.

  “This is, uh, a reporter friend of hers.” Bingo. Myron Levin. “I need to talk to her as soon as possible.”

  Nothing made sense. This was the same toad who’d just ambushed Brenna outside her office five minutes earlier, no question. Why was he calling here? “Like I said,” Christensen said, “if you call her office—”

  “I left a message there, too, but, uh, just tell her I really need to talk to her.”

  Christensen could see the kids through the open front door, waiting for him by the Explorer. “May I say who’s calling?” he baited.

  “Myron. She’ll know. Tell her it’s about an interview with Enrique Chembergo.”

  Christensen scribbled quickly, but stalled at the name. “You’re going to have to spell that one for me.”

  Levin spelled the name, then said, “Just say the gardener. She’ll know.”

  “And you want to line up an interview with this person?”

  “No, no,” Levin said. “I already talked to him. So just tell her that. Tell her he knows what happened, but not why. Actually, since I’ve got you on the line, any chance you could get that message to her, like, now? Her secretary just took my name and number, but I’ve got some information I really think she might need.”

  “I’ll do my best,
” Christensen said. “Where can she reach you?” He wrote down Levin’s cell phone and pager numbers, then read them back to make sure he had them right. Through the front door, he could see the kids drawing faces in the accumulated dirt on his car.

  “Appreciate the help,” Levin said.

  “Listen, is there a problem—” The line clicked and went silent, leaving Christensen with his mouth open and, for some reason, the hair on his arms standing on end. “Hello?”

  Despite the rush, he listened until the dial tone returned. He wasn’t sure why.

  Chapter 9

  Christensen steered the Explorer through the flock of minivans gathered in front of the Westminster-Stanton School and wheeled into an open spot near the first-grade classrooms. He kissed a hugely embarrassed Annie good-bye in front of a swarm of fellow third-graders and walked Taylor to room 14, where his second-grade teacher, Mrs. Gehrls, seemed to think it perfectly reasonable for a 48-pound transfer student to arrive with a backpack of apparently equal weight. They watched the boy struggle out of the straps and hang the load in the cupboard.

  “Rocks,” Christensen said.

  The teacher nodded sagely. “I see.”

  He expected tears, or at least trembling hesitation. Taylor could be fragile. When they told him they intended to become a family, Brenna said the prospect brought on three days of relentless anxiety and nausea. He was doing well in his school in Mount Lebanon, even had a few friends, and the idea of changing homes and schools at the same time really threw him. But now, as Taylor walked down the aisle of his classroom, he seemed almost calm. He rearranged the clump of red hair on top of his head and took an empty seat at a cluster of four small desks. He folded his hands on the desktop and seemed to wait patiently for class to begin. Christensen didn’t fully appreciate the depth of his anxiety until, trying to get a good-bye hug, he had to pry the boy’s locked fingers apart.