Shifting Shadows

by Sally Berneathy

  Of course, she didn’t really believe any of that, but if her husband wanted her back, she should go. That was her duty, wasn’t it? A woman married for better or worse...forever. This man had been her husband. He cared about her, wanted to take care of her. A simple lack of feeling couldn’t have been bad enough to end a marriage.

  “No, I can’t.” She blinked in surprise as the words came out of her mouth. Even so, she knew she had spoken the truth. She couldn’t go back to him...at least not yet.

  Though Phillip’s expression didn’t really change, it seemed to harden. His grip on her hands tightened imperceptibly.

  “I can’t right now,” she temporized. “How can we work things out when I don’t remember what went wrong? Why did we get a divorce? Why do you suddenly want me back?”

  He released her hands and leaned back, looking not at her but into empty space. “Yes,” he agreed, “you’re right. We should discuss it. I knew I had to have you back when I came out here, found the door broken down and feared that something had happened to you. I knew then how important you are to me. But I’m not sure I can tell you exactly why we got a divorce. It was for a lot of reasons. I spent too much time at work. Our interests changed. We didn’t communicate enough.” He refocused on her. “But that’s in the past. We can work it out. Just give me a chance.” His words were passionate, but his eyes were pale and distant, again the reflective mirrors she’d seen in the sunlight.

  “Please,” she said, “give me a little time. I promise to reconsider us, our marriage.”

  He stood abruptly, smoothing the creases from his suit.

  “All right. I guess I’ll have to settle for that for the moment. Where would you like to go for dinner?”

  “I don’t want to go to dinner,” she said, bristling at the way he took her acquiescence for granted then automatically cringing when she realized she’d defied him.

  He looked at her curiously but made no move to harm her. He wasn’t Blake, she reminded herself—if Blake had ever existed.

  “Then I’ll go pick up something and bring it back here,” he replied.

  “I’m not very hungry. There’s so much going on. I’d like to stay home tonight, alone.”

  “Alone.” He raised one eyebrow, making the word a question.

  “Alone,” she repeated. “I need a chance to think, to sort things out.” To deal with the memories that had suddenly deluged her, memories of having been abused by Blake.

  “Tomorrow night,” he said.

  She didn’t want to go to dinner with him, but he could give her more pieces of Analise, and she needed that. “Tomorrow,” she reluctantly agreed.

  When he finally walked out the door, out of her house, relief washed over her. She stood on her porch and waved as he drove away, then turned to go back inside. But she froze halfway. Next door Dylan sat on his own porch in front of an easel, apparently absorbed in his painting.

  He’d been watching her again. She wasn’t sure of many things right now, even her own identity. But she was certain of that one thing—he’d been watching her again with those eyes like deep wells that beckoned her to dive in, perhaps to drown.

  She darted inside, locking the door behind her, pulling all the curtains closed. Even then she fancied she could still feel that dark gaze on her, piercing her, drawing her to him, and she had to fight an impulse to open the curtains wide and let it in.

  Dylan watched the curtains closing, watched Analise shutting him out. He laid his paints down, ceasing any pretense of work. What was she doing in there that she didn’t want him to know about?

  Phillip had left after a surprisingly short time, and with his going, some of Dylan’s tension had eased. When he’d seen Phillip standing beside her car, when she’d run to him, he’d barely been able to restrain himself from rushing over there, from grasping Phillip’s throat and squeezing until he saw the life leave those unnatural eyes.

  He clenched his fist and had to resist smashing his canvas in frustration. He didn’t try to stop the anger. He only marveled that he no longer seemed able to direct any of it toward Analise. His heart insisted on believing in her innocence in spite of all the evidence.

  He was beginning to think she really did have amnesia, beginning to believe that fantastic story about Elizabeth Dupard. However, she had said she’d fallen from the top of the stairs as though she remembered it. If she was innocent and she did remember tumbling all the way down the stairs, that could mean—

  He set his jaw firmly, not wanting to face what the possibility of her lying about her amnesia could mean. He’d come into this situation assuming she would lie. So why should he be so upset now to see possible proof that she had?

  One thing was absolutely certain. He couldn’t let her out of his sight even though staying so close to her might be disastrous. She was too damned attractive, especially now when she seemed so vulnerable. It was becoming far too easy to slip into unguarded, unplanned conversation with her, to try to bring out her smile.

  Even in the suits she wore to work, the blue jeans at home, she’d always been alluring. That had been something he’d had to fight from the first day he’d moved in next door to her. But yesterday, when he’d found her in that skimpy gown, seen the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips and the long, sleek lines of her legs as she clung to him—

  He picked up his paints and tried to immerse himself in the process of creation, to avoid thinking of her and the way she looked at him with undisguised, innocent desire in her eyes.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the contours of her house in his painting, the ideal picture if she should accuse him of keeping too close an eye on her. But he couldn’t seem to get the lines right. It wasn’t what he wanted to paint. He wanted to work on the other paintings, the ones that seemed to grow of their own volition from the fibers of his brush, the ones of her.

  But he wasn’t going to, didn’t dare. Those pictures, especially the portrait, revealed too much, more than he could deal with.

  Determinedly he studied the architecture of the graceful old house, the big tree in front of it. It would be a good painting, something he could admire when this was all over. He’d probably never be able to look at her portrait again. He ought to destroy it now.

  But he couldn’t concentrate on the house. His eyes strained to see through the walls, to the woman within. What was she doing now?

  He clenched his teeth, forced himself to remain seated. He would not march across the yard, slide a credit card into that simplistic lock, invade her house, make her talk to him, touch her, hold her, kiss her lush lips—

  No! That was not why he was here.

  He took his materials inside but moved his chair close to the front window, in position so he could watch her door, the side of her house, see the light in her bedroom and know when she went to bed.

  A car passed, and he tensed, leaning forward, but it didn’t stop. Phillip hadn’t returned.

  He wished Analise hadn’t pulled the curtains. But was that, he questioned himself brutally, because he needed to see what she was doing or simply because he wanted to see her?

  *~*~*

  Passing the hall mirror where she’d been so terrified of her own image, Analise hesitated and looked again, raising a hand to touch her cheek. She felt the hand. The face belonged to her. She recognized it now. But still it seemed to be more a mask than her real face. The tale about a former resident of her house clung stubbornly.

  And the journal that she’d hidden in the attic—if it existed—might very well be the source of her fantasy. If she found the history of Elizabeth Dupard recorded in a book, perhaps exposing the origins of her fabrication would shock her back to reality.

  She located a flashlight and went up the stairs, determined to find the answers if they were there. But she hesitated at the door. Illogically, she felt a little sad that she might lose Elizabeth, lose a part of herself.

  She forced herself to turn the knob. The door swung open easily, and she sh
one the beam of her light into the dimness that stretched before her.

  Except for a few boxes in one corner, the attic was empty.

  Everything was gone—her baby furniture, the big rocker where she’d sat to write in her journal, the drop-leaf table, the trunks full of old clothes that she and Rachel had laughed at but loved to dress up in. She could visualize all of it, knew exactly where everything had been, how the rocker had wobbled slightly, the way Grandmother’s green velvet dress had felt beneath her childish fingers, the musty smell that clung to the old clothes.

  But at the same time, she could see the attic as Analise had first seen it—dusty with a few pieces of old furniture and odds and ends, like the lamp table downstairs and the clock on the mantel. She looked at her hands, her long, slender hands, Analise’s hands, and remembered holding the clock almost reverently, polishing it and restoring it to its proper place in the parlor.

  Her gaze was drawn inexorably to the low window at one side of the room. With a thrill of excitement she crossed the floor and knelt in front of it. She’d been with Papa when he’d replaced it. A hailstorm had broken the glass, and he’d removed the entire frame to repair it.

  With a child’s delight, Elizabeth had exclaimed over the hiding place she discovered, the spaces between the attic floor joists that had been revealed when Papa removed the wide windowsill. He’d laughed and agreed to leave the thick board loose so she could slide it in and out, hide her treasures beneath it.

  That was where, in later years, she’d kept her journal. Excitedly she tugged on the wooden sill, but it didn’t budge. The flashlight’s beam revealed that several layers of paint had sealed it in place.

  She sat back and examined it...and the memory returned of doing the same thing a few weeks ago. She’d still been unpacking and arranging things and had brought up a box of Christmas decorations to store. After stashing them in the corner, she’d been inexplicably drawn to the attic window, had experienced an eerie knowledge that the sill was movable, would provide her with a much-needed hiding place.

  But it hadn’t moved, and she’d dismissed the odd experience.

  Analise rocked back on her heels as she considered this latest memory. Was her mind playing tricks again? Was this an instance of déjà vu or had Analise somehow known about Elizabeth’s hiding place?

  How could she? Unless she’d lived Elizabeth’s life, and the house had brought back memories of that life.

  She shook her head to dispel the strange ideas. She had no evidence there really was a hiding place under the board. It could all be a part of her fantasy.

  She went downstairs to the kitchen and selected two knives, one large and sturdy, the other small and pointed, then located a hammer. She could and would prove or disprove this particular element of her delusions. If she tore out the windowsill and found nothing, she’d have to accept that she was Analise and only Analise. Elizabeth Dupard was a fantasy.

  Returning to the attic, she positioned the flashlight so it shone on the area, kicked off her shoes and bent to her task. The paint was thick and rubbery, effectively disguising the cracks between the boards. Chipping away, she reflected that she was making quite a mess to clean up as well as to repaint.

  Finally all the seams of the boards were exposed. She sat back and ran a hand across her forehead. Though it was not overly warm in the attic, she’d begun to perspire, only partly from her exertions.

  If a hiding place existed, what would that prove? That she had read or heard about it somewhere? But if Analise had found an old journal, read it and replaced it, such a book couldn’t be hidden here. The layers of paint hadn’t been disturbed in years.

  Whatever the truth was, she had to know.

  She slid the blade of the large knife into the crack then smacked the handle with the hammer, driving it down, breaking through the remaining paint. A few more whacks in strategic places loosened the board.

  In fear and eagerness, she grasped the windowsill and tugged. After a moment’s resistance, it slid out. She pushed it aside and shone the flashlight directly into the space beneath.

  The flashlight’s beam revealed a dusty, leather-bound journal.

  Chapter Seven

  Tentatively she reached down to touch it, fought back tears when she found it real and substantial. Slowly she brought it from its hiding place, cradled the thick book in her hands, gently blew away the dust.

  The brown leather cover was cracked and dry, but she recognized her journal. Papa had given it to her for Christmas in 1905. He’d told her how important it was that she record the events of the rapidly changing world and the still young century in which they lived.

  Hesitantly, fearfully, joyously, she opened the cover. On the flyleaf in the familiar copperplate handwriting she’d labored so hard to learn were the words Journal of Elizabeth Catherine Dupard, December 25, 1905.

  By the flashlight’s beam she read the faded writing on the first page:

  Papa says I should write about all the important things in the world, and so I shall! Surely Christmas is important, is it not? Today was wonderful. We had ever so many lovely gifts, and Mama made her ham with the delicious honey sauce.

  The words flowed on, and Analise read them and remembered the stories in vivid detail.

  The winter they were snowed in for three days.

  Papa says we are having the worst blizzard since he was a little boy. Truly it sounds frightful with the wind howling and banging the tree limbs against the house. When I look out, all I can see is swirling snow. I can’t even see Rachel’s house.

  But even though I know it’s terrible outside, I feel so deliciously warm and safe sitting in front of the fire and drinking hot cocoa with Mama and Papa. I find it hard to hate the storm.

  That same year they’d had an epidemic of measles and Elizabeth had become ill.

  I was home in bed for three days feeling awfully sick, but no red spots came like Rachel had. I was glad because she said they itched frightfully. But then I heard Mama and Papa talking. She said if the spots didn’t break out, I’d never be well. A few minutes later Mama came to my bed and offered me a cup of something hot. I asked her what it was, and she said, “You know how much you like gingerbread? Well, this is ginger tea. Quick now, drink it all down in one big gulp.”

  I do love gingerbread, especially with lemon sauce.

  And while I didn’t feel like eating or drinking anything, I drank the tea to please Mama.

  It didn’t taste like gingerbread! It burned all the way down to my stomach, and before I knew it, measles were popping out all over! Mama knows such a lot about everything!

  She skimmed the pages, felt a nostalgic loneliness as she read the everyday minutiae of her life.

  Then in 1911…

  I don’t know how to tell this. It’s been a month, and still I can’t stop crying, can’t accept it.

  Dear, sweet Papa is gone. He caught a cold, like we all do every winter. But he got sicker and sicker and finally took to his bed. He didn’t even go in to the bank to work. He got so pale and stopped eating or even talking. All he did was cough in a way that sounded like his chest was tearing inside. When he breathed, it was loud and raspy, and I knew it must hurt him.

  The doctor came and said he had pneumonia. He gave him medicine, but Papa got worse. Mama and I took turns sitting by his bed, holding his hand and trying to make him drink water, a spoonful at a time. Usually he didn’t even wake up. When he did open his eyes, I’m not sure he saw us.

  Then the doctor came back and said we had to put him in hospital. They took him away, and he never came back.

  She remembered the pain, felt it as acutely as if it had just happened, as if she had been there. She could see Papa’s ashen face, hear his racking cough and labored breathing. She had to pause for a moment and remind herself that her own beloved father was alive and well. It was Elizabeth’s father who had died.

  She knew that. She just didn’t believe it.

  Spellbound, she read on.
The next entry was only a couple of weeks later.

  I thought I couldn’t live with the pain of losing Papa, but now things are even worse. Mama says we don’t have any money. If we can’t find some boarders to take in, we’ll have to sell the house and move to St. Louis to live with Uncle Otis and Aunt Martha.

  How it must grieve Papa if he’s looking down on us.

  Even as she finished reading that page, before she turned to the next, a chill darted down her spine. She remembered what had happened next.

  Surely Papa is watching over us from above! Blake Holbert has asked Mama for permission to marry me! He’s come calling several times since his father died two weeks after Papa, but I never dreamed he’d offer for me. His father owned the factory, the town! And now Blake owns it all. He’s a very rich man and ever so handsome. He says he’ll be a good husband to me, and he’ll take care of Mama. I can’t believe he wants to marry me when he could have any girl in town, but of course I said I would!

  Elizabeth had recorded her excitement and anxiety over the prospect of being a bride. Blake was devastatingly handsome. Every girl in town envied her. But there were secrets about marriage that Mama told her would only be revealed by her husband. Elizabeth and Rachel whispered and giggled, but really knew nothing.

  The entries changed immediately after the wedding. As she read the details, Analise relived the uncomprehending fear, the sense of weakness and vulnerability as Blake exercised the rights of a husband in 1912.

  I made Blake angry again, only this time was worse than ever before. This time he didn’t stop at shouting or slapping me.

  When he came in from work, I could tell he was upset. I tried to be careful not to make it worse, but my gravy was lumpy. He threw the bowl at me. I ducked, and it hit the wall. Then he screamed at me for making a mess, and he grabbed me and shoved my face in it, then hit me again and again. I started to cry, and that seemed to make him even more furious, but I couldn’t stop. He dragged me upstairs and into bed, and I can’t tell the rest. I never knew married life was like this. Mama said there were things only my husband could tell me about, but I know Papa didn’t hit Mama, and surely he never did those other things.