Shadows Gray

by Melyssa Williams

  I find myself stooping to clean the glass. I know that I should leave, now, while Rose is occupied with throwing things in another room, but all I can think of at this moment is her bare feet and all this glass. I have never seen her wear shoes. I will pick up as much as I can and then I will leave. There is nothing more for me to stay for.

  Where will I go? Down the street to a neighborhood not far enough away?

  I could find Officer Walter Andrews. Will a three hundred year old murder interest him? Should my sister be locked up? Do I have the fortitude to make that happen?

  The shattering of china seems to have stopped. There is silence from the kitchen now as I cup my hands and gently brush tiny shards of flowered ceramic into them. The miniscule remains slice my fingertips in a half dozen places, like the brambles and thorns of a blackberry bush, but I do not care. Soon my fingers have tiny lines of blood running down the way Rose’s had when she chewed her nails. My ears are trained towards the room where Rose disappeared to and I can hear the soft humming of a tune.

  She is singing. As though she hasn’t a care in the wide world.

  Then my ears detect another sound: the sound of the front door opening. From my spot, kneeling on the floor behind the settee I cannot see the person who has turned the knob but I know it is not Rose because Rose has come back in the room. Smiling and looking angelic, she acts as though she has forgotten my presence entirely and passes by me at her feet without a glance.

  “Hello,” I hear her say. And then, tenderly, “I missed you so much.”

  “Hello, my love. I missed you even more,” says Luke.

  ********************

  The sound of his voice, so gentle, so familiar, so the way he sounds when he’s smiling, so full of betrayal, makes me feels nauseous. I stay frozen to the floor, on my knees, hands full of sharp and bloodied slivers of china, and I am at a loss for what to do. So I wait.

  “I brought you some cake,” Luke continues. “Doesn’t it look good? Cake for dinner, you and me. Aren’t we lucky?”

  I hear what must be Rose, clapping her hands in delight. “I love cake! With tea?”

  “Naturally. What did you amuse yourself with while I was gone? Besides tearing apart books?” I hear the teasing in his voice.

  Rose sighs. “I told you not to leave them around. I went for a walk and I put on my new dress. Do you like it?”

  “You look absolutely beautiful.”

  “Better than ever?”

  “Better than ever. Come on, let’s get some forks and have some supper.”

  Once again not breathing, I will my heart to stop thudding in my chest so loudly and stay rooted to my spot. If Luke does not turn his head far enough he may not notice me huddled on the floor, in a heap between the settee and an old chair.

  And if he does? If he does, what will I say? Or should I skip the speech and slap him as hard as possible?

  He does not turn his head. From behind them, as they walk into the kitchen, I watch them: his arm around her tiny waist, her face turned up to his with a saintly smile. When they are out of my sight I hear him chiding her for the broken dishes.

  “You can’t break things, my love,” he says. “You’ll hurt yourself. What made you so upset?”

  I will myself not to panic.

  I hear Rose sigh. “Nothing. It’s the traveling is all; you know how that makes me. I get so confused. I took care of that girl. She’s all taken care of, Luke. I did it all by myself like I said I would. Aren’t you proud of me?”

  “I’m always proud of you, you know that. You also know I hate it when you travel without me, even if you’re only gone for a day. It worries me.”

  “I come back to you, Luke; I always come back to this dreadful city. I wouldn’t leave you behind, never. Kiss me, please?” I hear her passionate sigh and then a whispered word, ‘more,’ and I feel sick.

  I raise myself to standing as silently as possible and on feet that are more like wings, I leave that house forever.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I replay my awful tête-à-tête with Rose again and again. Home again, and alone as well, I sit on my bed, hugging my pillow to my chest and feeling numb. I surprise myself by not crying; though the tears threaten to spill and my head pounds and my throat has that uncomfortable lump in it, I do not cry. I think I am too confused as to what to cry over first: Rose’s madness, the death of my mother, or Luke’s betrayal. Should I categorize my sorrows alphabetically or numerically? The thought makes me choke back a bitter laugh.

  I hear Israel come home: there is no mistaking the heavy tread of his boots. Dad is light on his feet and Dr Smythe has a soft stride as well. Israel practically marches.

  I tell myself to run to him but my body ignores my commands. I can’t move from this bed.

  His footfalls approach until our bedroom door opens and I manage a shaky smile to greet him.

  “What a day,” Israel yawns, tossing his coat onto the desk. “I thought twenty first century America was busy. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I saw today.”

  “No? Wouldn’t I?” I reply grimly. “I could say the same to you.”

  “Oh? Did you try to talk an old lady out of using leaches so often she’s weak from loss of blood, too?” He grimaces. “Forget spiders – I’m definitely moving leaches into the number spot of creepy things I don’t like.”

  “No leaches, just imaginary tea parties with insane sisters.”

  “What?” He looks at me in concern. “What in the world is that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like. I found Rose here, here and now. She’s,” I pause. “She’s really…how would we say it in modern terms? She’s really messed up, Is.”

  “Messed up how?” he sits beside me on the bed, causing it to sag and me to lean into him.

  “In every way possible,” I give a strangled laugh that is more like a sob. “She killed our mother. She knows how to control traveling and she went back in time,” I feel as incredulous as I sound at the words coming out of my mouth, “and pushed our mother off that cliff. She’s mad. I’m not diagnosing her myself; she spent I don’t know how many years in Bedlam.”

  I feel, rather than see, Israel take a deep breath and I match my breathing to his. Our chests rise and fall together as we sit.

  “How will you tell Noah?” Israel finally breaks the silence.

  “I don’t know. As gently as possible, I guess. How do you tell someone their daughter is back from the dead, killed your wife, and seems to want revenge on everyone else?”

  “Revenge?”

  “She’s been toying with me. Was in my room that night I got the scratches on my arm. It must have been her who locked me in that house and left me there. I thought someone was trying to keep me from getting close to her but it must have been her. Unless of course, it was Luke.”

  “Luke? Now what are you talking about?” Israel sounds as baffled as I feel.

  “Oh, right. Forgot to mention that lovely part. After our little tea party and after she started throwing dishes at me, guess who walked in?”

  “Is this where I say, Luke?” Now he sounds less baffled and more forbidding. “How long have they been…?”

  “Together? And believe me, they are together in every sense of the word.” I laugh harshly. “Who knows? But I feel extremely stupid.”

  “He wasn’t worth it, Sonnet.”

  “Worth what?”

  “Worth your love.”

  “I didn’t love Luke,” I smile up at him in surprise. “Never did. I found him sweet and funny and fun to be around and maybe when I thought he cared about me it may have gone to my head a little, but no one was falling in love, Is. You don’t have to worry about a broken heart.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Good,” he practically growls. “Then I can stop waiting to do this.” And he dips his head and kisses my lips, soft and sweet and slow. And for a moment at least, everything slows to a wonder
ful, perfect halt and all is right with the world.

  ********************

  Later, I tell Dad about my time with Rose and about Luke’s betrayal of us. Though my mind still feels cloudy from confusion, and possibly from all the kissing Is and I have been doing, I explain things as best I can and for a long while Dad is quiet as he sits across from me. His tall legs dangle in front of him and his long arms dangle to his side, like a dejected marionette. It is a while before he speaks and when he does, his voice sounds hollow.

  “Your mother knew and I knew that Rose wasn’t right. Prue knew, of course, but you were just too young. We hid her as best we could from people; she was so violent even as a tiny thing, barely walking. Old Babba threatened to take her away from us. She had the ‘Sight,’ or at least claimed she did. Seeing into the future and all that. She warned us nothing good would come from Rose, that she would bring nothing but misery and death to us, but naturally we wouldn’t listen. She was our child, our little girl, and we loved her. Sometimes she would seem almost normal, like a typical child, other times she’d lash out, or even worse, seem as though she was in a trance. She was like your grandmother when she would get like that. You come from a special line of madness, Sonny. It’s time you knew that.” His voice is so wavering and apologetic. His hands still dangle uselessly by his side and it is strange to not see them actively straightening his collar or fingering his whiskers or smoothing his hair. He seems broken, like someone has snapped his strings.

  “Truth be told, we were all a little scared of her,” Dad continues. “You were the only one who wasn’t, and we had to shield her from you as much as possible. She got pleasure from hurting things and we didn’t know what she’d do to someone as trusting and loving as you were. Oh, we let you play with her of course, but we were always right there ready to scoop Rose up, or take you elsewhere if she started getting upset.”

  “She seems to think she can manipulate traveling,” I interject. “Do you think that’s possible? The whole reason we’re here is because she led us here somehow. And if she really did kill Mother, she had to go back in time to do it.”

  “I don’t know the answer to that. I know your mother always felt a traveling spell coming on. She would get headaches that lasted for days until she could hardly stand it anymore and she knew it was coming. She didn’t know how to manipulate things to get where she desired though. She didn’t have time to learn,” his voice broke a bit. “But she said her mother knew.”

  “The mad grandmother?” I ask, skeptically.

  “Yes. She died in an asylum. She was mad as a hatter, but not dangerous. She lost her memories as an old woman and with it the ability to travel somehow. She must have spent the last twenty years locked up. She was taken care of and seemed content enough the last time your mother and I saw her. She didn’t know Caroline anymore, didn’t know me. We were strangers to her. Somehow seemed kinder to leave her in one spot.”

  “Well, Rose seems to be dangerous,” Israel interrupts. “And she seems out for revenge. I don’t think it’s safe to stay here and we shouldn’t bet on Prue being safe either.”

  “Are you talking about getting out of here? Getting out of London?” I ask. My hand is cold in his and I’m so grateful for the warmth. I’m so grateful for him.

  “I don’t see any other alternative. We should be able to disappear. As far as I can tell, it’s some kind of coincidence that she found us in America to begin with.”

  “She could have traveled far enough in time to get records and track us that way.”

  “Everything legal from that time is under the name Emily Winn, remember? And she doesn’t know me or know you’d be with me.”

  “Wait. The night the police brought you home, Dad,” I turn my attention back to him. “Did you tell them your name? Did they take you to the station before they brought you home?”

  “I probably did.” Dad begins to stroke his mustache in a worried fashion. “I was drunk, you know.”

  “Yes, we know.” Indulgently I pat his hand. “Then that’s how she found us. Police records of some sort. It’s not that difficult to find someone with a computer and a name. So she traveled back to kill Mother and then she came to us to scare me and mess with me. But why’d she bring us here next?”

  “1887 London.” Israel shakes his head. “There has to be something special about the here and now.”

  “Besides the corsets?” I mutter, sitting up straighter as a whale bone is sticking into my rib. “Because that seems like revenge enough to me.”

  “Wait,” Dad’s fingers freeze to his mustache and his eyes widen. “1887? Is that the year now? I didn’t think to ask. I knew the basic era of course, but 1887? December. Boxing Day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then this is a pivotal night in history.”

  “Is it?” I reply slowly, wondering what he’s getting at. “What of it? I’m racking my brain and nothing from history is standing out.”

  Dad unfolds himself from the chair and it’s as though his puppet limbs come to life. “She’s out to hurt everyone who she thinks deserted her. She’s had opportunity to hurt you, but hasn’t taken it. What if she wants to hurt us by hurting the ones we love?”

  “Dad, I still don’t know what you’re getting at. What about the date has you so upset?”

  “It’s Emme,” he says, grimly. “This is the night that some legends say Jack the Ripper murdered his first girl. I think it could be Emme.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  If my hands were cold before, they are frozen solid now. Although my first instinct somehow was to pull away from Israel and run out in the night, he has held me fast. Now I’ve begun to shake as the weight of my dad’s words sink into my flesh, through my skin and soft tissue, right through the marrow and bones of my very self. My heart feels as though it is in a vise.

  “Just hold on,” Israel whispers into my hair as he holds me tight. Maybe it’s his rock hard arms that make me feel as though I’m in a vise, albeit a welcome one. “We’ll figure this out.”

  “It’s quite possibly his first victim and most authorities believe she never existed because the body – if there was one – disappeared. She was never truly identified the way the other victims were. The press called her Fairy Fay.” Dad’s history lesson sounds like a professor, but his voice is shaky and full of sadness. “What a time to remember my trivia…” he trails off.

  You look like a fairy princess. In a corset.

  That’s what the boys call me.

  “Emme Fay,” I whisper. This time I do pull myself out of Israel’s grasp, but he reaches for me again and holds me still a moment longer.

  “Coats,” he says. “It’s snowing. We can’t help her if we freeze to death on the streets looking for her.”

  I know he’s right, but I hate the precious wasted seconds, the miniscule time it takes to find and then button my long coat. The costly moments it takes to wind a scarf around my hair and ears. I hate the cold, hard fact that there is no telephone, no way of communication, no instantaneous way of locating Emme, no warning for Bea. I hate what I already know we will find. Because the name is right. The timing is right. The story is right. Who else but one of the Lost would be hard to identify? Would only have a nickname? What kind of body just disappears besides the Lost? She doesn’t belong here. It would be as if she never was. As if she never existed. She would be a legend.

  The door slams behind us as we run.

  ********************

  I am beginning to hate winter. I don’t want to be cold any longer. I want to wake up tomorrow in a tropical paradise, with Emme by my side. We can swim in the ocean and wear grass skirts. Grass skirts; inwardly I laugh at what Emme would say to that. They would go the way of my poor Garfield T-shirt.

  My mind can’t settle down. We run through the night, my long dress a bother that whips around my legs as I force them to move faster. Dad is leading because he has checked in with Bea only yesterday and knows the way. I have been too
nervous to venture near this part of town since the first time and now the guilt I feel for it eats away at me and invades my every thought.

  “What other details do you know, Dad?” I shout to him, as we run. The three of us and our six long legs eat up the ground beneath us.

  “I can’t think of anything else. No one even knows if Fairy Fay ever really existed, much less was murdered. The real Jack the Ripper murders begin in earnest soon.” His voice is muffled by the time it floats back to me on the air. “I can’t believe I didn’t connect the time period earlier.”

  You’re better at history than I.

  Emme’s words come back to haunt me. Why didn’t I see this before? One of the most famous stories in history is going to begin with the death of Emme.

  When we reach the door to Bea’s home, our breath comes in ragged, gasping puffs. My lungs ache. Israel bangs on the locked door with excessive force and shouts Bea’s name. It seems an eternity before Joe swings open that door and when he does, Is shoves me inside and slams it shut behind me without a word. He and Dad leave me there with a confused Bea, and I know the reason.

  They do not want me with them because they do not want me to find Emme’s body.

  I don’t know what to say to Bea and for once I am incapable of lying. I sit a sleepy Joe up at the table with a pile of cookies in the hopes that the sugar will keep him occupied and awake (we cannot very well allow him to be the only one to sleep tonight) and go back to Bea. She knows something is wrong and her eyes are frightened and her hands shake. I place my hands on her face at first as I speak the words I don’t want to say, and then I have to move them to her shoulders because her legs give out. We both sink down to the couch and I hold Bea, the closest thing to a mother I have ever had besides Prue, and we await the inevitable.

  Unbidden, more words, choppy and incomplete, enter my mind.

  Cheer up, ducky! The possibilities are endless!