Shadows Falling: The Lost #2 (11 page)

It
’s amazing I grew up sane.

Sonnet deserved everything bad I could throw her way. So, being a generous soul, I threw her a lot.

I confused her, which I found fitting. Hadn’t I spent most my life confused? Seemed fair. I walked by when she could barely glimpse me. I was good at that, being the library ghost. Once, I sat in the back of a crowded shop when she played her guitar. Like a fool, she tripped when she saw me.  I couldn’t have planned it better. I left before she could stand again. Like the mist, I was gone. I was surprised she couldn’t hear me laugh! For days after, I couldn’t stop my bubbling laughter every time I thought of her startled, hopeful face. I laughed all the way down the alleyway, my hand over my mouth. I stifled my laughter when I doubled back and saw Luke comfort her, take her tissues to wipe her tears. He was so very good at the part he played. If I had been the jealous type, I would have been fretful at the attentions he paid her. No matter. I didn’t believe his flirting, but she certainly did, and that was what mattered. Once I did become a trifle concerned, asked him if he was falling for her
—
Sonnet, I mean. He smoothed my hair back and kissed my mouth and didn’t even have to speak. I was winning again, you see.

The next time I saw Sonnet, I couldn
’t really see her. It was dark. Dark in her room, where I hid. I watched her from her closet as she readied for bed. I had known for a few days where she lived, even had studied the people who lived with her. They were a strange bunch, and I wasn’t too much interested in them. There were a couple of old men who didn’t leave the house much, a fat old lady who smelled like gravy, a completely dull married couple, and a tall, black man I found a bit frightening. Well, frightening isn’t the word exactly… I just wanted to avoid him, and he was tricky to avoid because he came and went entirely too much and at odd times. He drove a huge blue car, and once I saw Sonnet take it and drive away at a snail’s pace. She could have walked backwards faster than she drove that car. Anyway, I wasn’t interested in any of these. Only Sonnet and our father mattered, and it was becoming less about our father somehow, and all about Sonnet.

She was distracted in her thoughts that night in her room; that much was certain. It took her a bit to fall asleep. I hummed a while out of boredom, in the closet, but she didn
’t stir. I crept out and sat on her bed next to her. The last time we would have done this, we would have been small children, with different colored hair and the same eyes. Now look at us, I thought. Nearly grown. I reached for her hand and with the other, I stroked her cheek, gently. My gentleness was partly ruse, partly curiosity. I felt for no love for this girl. I simply wanted her to sleep deeply and, maybe in her sleep, remember. I remembered, so why shouldn’t she?

She murmured something in her sleep. I knew she was dreaming. What did she dream of? Loving parents? Friends? Talents? Never being alone? Handsome photographers? Didn
’t she think of me at all?

Angry, I pulled my hand from hers, and as I did so, I scratched her wrist rather brutally. I hadn
’t planned that, but my emotions had gotten the best of me. Sometimes that happens with me. I took advantage of her shock and frightened reaction and also the dark, and left like a ghost.

Indeed, I was a ghost. I slipped through their horrid little house without anyone seeing me.

No one ever sees me if I don’t want them to.

1
5

The next time I wanted her to, I was standing beneath her window. The rain came down that night in sheets, but I was patient. I knew she was restless, knew she
’d be having a hard time sleeping, knew she’d look out her window that night, knew, because I would have done the same thing, and were not we sisters? The same blood coursed through our veins. I could predict her every move.

She was so very easy to predict and play. Like the old deck of cards I used to practice my tricks, she fell so neatly into my hands just the way I knew she would.

I stood there, ever so patiently, while my yellow hair hung down in a solid mass around my face. My red dress was plastered to me, and my feet were cold. Still I waited, and when she pulled aside her curtain, I was there.

Like a painting, she stayed motionless for a time. But eventually, she whirled away from the window, and I knew I had to be quick. I ducked inside the truck Luke stole (my fear of automobiles had been lifted once I knew what they were). We waited in the dark while she drove off in her friend
’s car. She was going right where I knew she would. Hadn’t I planned this, too? Had already subtly put the idea in her head when I told Luke to take her to our temporary home? She had felt me there and couldn’t shake me. I knew she’d go back, and go she did. I told Luke to take me there, but quietly, with no lights glaring on the front of the truck. He dropped me off in the darkness, and I told him to leave us. He didn’t want to, but of course, he indulged me. He always spoils me like that. Such a good boy. He probably spent the next little while playing with his new cameras. He did have a knack for them.

I waited until she went upstairs and then snuck in the house quietly. For a moment, I flirted with the idea of pushing her down the stairs. Hadn
’t I done that once? Pushed someone? Our mother, wasn’t it? But it wasn’t stairs, I don’t think. Sometimes I forget.

But I didn
’t push Sonnet. I whispered her name, and that seemed to frighten her sufficiently. I was so very close to her, and the fool couldn’t see me. I swung the door shut, with her trapped inside the little room. She was playing into my hands perfectly! I had already nailed the window shut, and there was no way out.

I turned the key in the lock and locked her inside. She was silent for a moment as she realized what had happened, silent for a moment before she tried the knob. Then came the banging, the kicking, the crying out.

I couldn’t help myself; I laughed a bit as I left and wondered if Luke had found any cake for me.

Poor big sister, I think. What a mess she found herself in, if this crazy retelling was to be believed. Or perhaps none of this ever happened? Was it all in Rose’s head? Who could even know?

I think Mr. Connelly might. I think it
’s time he came clean about some things. Rose hasn’t mentioned him once,
not even once,
in her diary. If he’s known her like he’s claimed, shouldn’t she speak of him once or twice or a hundred times?

I resolve to confront him as soon as possible. Either he doesn
’t know the depth of Rose’s illness, or he knows but doesn’t care.

I
’m not sure which is worse.

The only row Luke and I ever had was after that night. He was irritated with me for locking Sonnet in. I got angry. He got angry. He wanted to go home, he said.

“
Home? Home, where? Where is home?” I shouted at him. Normally, I don’t shout, not now that I’m older and grown up. Shouting isn’t ladylike. But sometimes, I forget myself, like I forget everything else.

He was done playing this silly game, he said. I was acting like a child, he said. I couldn
’t believe he could be so harsh with me. Weren’t we having fun?

He left.

I felt cold and sick inside.

I think I have always been cold and sick inside, but that was the first and only time I knew it.

Oh pet, we all knew it all along, I think. I want to read further, but I pace myself. There are questions that need to be answered by a certain cigarette
-smoking individual.

********************

“What business do you want with him?” Mack had asked earlier, impertinently, I think. Or concerned? I couldn’t tell which.

“
None of your beeswax, doctor,” I drawled out the last word, even though I knew it was immature of me. He didn’t even have the decency to look affronted.  The nonplussed nonchalance of youth strikes again. Anyway, I got nowhere in my queries of Mr. Connelly last night.

It dawns
on me this morning, as I braid my hair, that I don’t even know Mr. Connelly’s place of residence. He never spoke of himself. What had he told me? That he was rich and bored. I muse on that a bit while I unbraid my hair, in an attempt to look older. I study myself in my cracked mirror, as I sweep it up and pin it. I look like a little girl playing dress up. More red lipstick helps, but still. Will I always be so small and insignificant looking? I indulge myself and allow a few moments to picture myself sweeping down a staircase at Mina’s house in one of her dresses, my hair piled high and glittering with diamonds. All right, the diamonds are a bit much. No diamonds then. My hair would sparkle all on its own.

Naturally, there would be a handsome prince waiting at the bottom, his heart beating only for me. I
’d lose my shoe at midnight and...

All right, silly girl
, enough fantasies. The hair becomes braided again in order to ground me and my imagination, and at the last minute, I wind the plaits around my head and pin them. There. A sort of compromise.

I look like a Swiss maid.

Heavy sigh, and my mind drifts on to a different sort of fantasy: one where I am dressed in a smart uniform, capable of leading teams of nurses, skilled in the surgery, saving lives. I’d write a book perhaps, and smoke a pipe while writing it, in my own amazing library, one that went up to the ceilings, and had ladders!  Yes, this was more my style. Perhaps my handsome prince would be in possession of a heart defect or something delicious like that. I could save him by inventing a cure. Why, I’d practically have to marry him after that kind of bonding. It’d be cruel not to.

A glance at my clock told
me my dreams have cost me my punctuality, and I race to the hospital, the laces in my boots undone and flying in the breeze that my feet make as I run. By the time I arrive, my lovely hairdo is a wreck; I don’t have to look in a mirror to know it’s frizzy and fuzzy, and one of the ends of the braids is sticking up. I lick my hand hurriedly and smooth it down as best I can and stoop to lace my dirty, black boots. The hospital is eerily quiet, and I see no one at first. I hang my cloak and finish smoothing my hair.

“
Good morning,” says a sharp voice.

My eyes adjust to the gloom of the room, and I am startled to find Mina
’s mother there. I met her once, briefly, and it’s safe to say we didn’t exactly fall in love with one another. She’s a tall woman, imposing, and nothing like her daughter. She’s a bit rude, a bit insensitive, and altogether very rich. Add to that, she doesn’t approve of the time Mina spends here, and yours truly will never measure up.

“
Mrs. Dobson,” I greet her as warmly as possible and extend my hand in my usual fashion. Not surprisingly, she doesn’t even glance at it (I would have fainted), but she does do me the courtesy of cracking a thin smile.

“
Lizzie, is it?” My name feels brittle and distasteful rolling off her sharp tongue.

“
Yes, ma’am,” I feel obligated to drop a curtsy and do so. The woman feels like royalty, I a peasant, or an orphan, a peasant orphan. Why can’t I be a rich orphan? Or a peasant with family? Talk about drawing the short straw in life. Really, I have nothing good going for me at all. It’s depressing.

“
I’m told Mina has invited you into our home.” Mrs. Dobson seems to be choosing her words very carefully; either that, or she is speaking slowly because she feels I am dimwitted. “I do not approve.” She lets those words sink in. “You are not
—
not someone I feel comfortable with, my dear. No fault of your own, of course. Just as you probably wouldn’t feel comfortable there, yourself, would you?” She leaves no time for reply, and her words sail on, oblivious to me. “I think it is best that you rethink what you are doing and where you would like to be in the future. Everything we do now is a road to our future, isn’t it, Lizzie? A block, a beam, a brick in the road. We must be careful to build the right road, mustn’t we? There are very specific destinations in providence for you, my dear. Very specific, and they lead to specific places. We mustn’t play around with roads that lead to nowhere. Such a waste of time, and time wasting is a sin.”

I am unclear what my response should be, or indeed if my very presence is even required in this one
-sided conversation, so I merely stand still, an orphan with her arms behind her back, hands clasped, seen and not heard, just like I was taught all those years ago. I feel eight years old again.  I wouldn’t be surprised if she boxed my ears next, or took away supper.

“
Of course, I’ll speak with the doctors, as well. Perhaps I’m mistaken, but I’m sure I’m not. I doubt they’ll want to let you out of their sight anyway, will they, dear? Such a busy time at the hospital, and so much to do, so many treatments to administer, I suppose.” She exaggerates every syllable as though it will lend sincerity to her words.

A busy time? I let my eyes wander around to the stillness. If I concentrate, I suppose I can hear Mr. Limpet
’s wheelchair creak. Yes, we’re certainly bustling. I don’t know how the doctor could spare me; why, the whole place might fall apart without me here to change linens. Someone’s corners could come untucked, and then where would we all be? Up a creek without a blanket, that’s where.

“
I agree, Mrs. Dobson,” I say, cheerily. “Balls aren’t really my cup of tea, as you well know. I’m much better suited to cleaning out the fireplace, and besides, the mice here are dreadfully difficult to catch. For the coachmen, I mean.”

She blinks.

“Anyway, ma’am, I tried telling Mina the same sort of thing, but you know how she gets. She has it in her head that having an orphan around will be good for, I think she said, your social reputation? Some such thing. Evidently, Jane Wilcox took a servant girl under her wing recently and everyone is all agog at such charity. I heard her social status went through the roof. Such silliness! But I quite agree, ma’am, it is entirely unnecessary and inappropriate for me attend your function.”

Mrs. Dobson looks taken aback for a moment.
“Well, I, that is, I didn’t mean to make your decision for you, and naturally if Mina wants you there, I suppose…” She trails off, but her eyes narrow at me as if not sure what to make of me.

“
I assure you, ma’am,” I respond, lightly. “I wasn’t being cheeky. I merely spoke the truth, and if Jane has had three marriage proposals this year, I’m sure it’s a coincidence, not a nod to her benevolent activities. Although, with the size of her, I was surprised it was three… but again, I’m sure it’s a coincidence. Some gentlemen do like quantity over quality, don’t they? But Mina doesn’t need any help in that department, does she? The marriage department, I mean.”

“
Of course not! And I’m not attempting to marry her off.”

“
Of course not!” I echo. I give an exaggerated sigh as if my heavy burdens have lifted. “Well, Mrs. Dobson, I’m certainly glad we had this little talk.”

“
Yes.” She frowns at me. “You have a nice day, Lizzie. And if,” she pauses, and once again her eyes narrow as she peers at me. “If Mina wants you there and if you can find something suitable to wear and promise to be on your best behavior, well, then I will be happy to see you.”

“
Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. If I finish picking the peas out of the hearth, then I’ll do my best to attend.”

“
You’re a peculiar thing,” Mrs. Dobson sniffs. “I confess, I don’t know what my daughter sees in you. But she’s always been of a softer character than I. She gets it from her father.” She doesn’t seem too pleased with this revelation. I’m not sure who she is insulting now: Mina, Mina’s father, or still me.

“
I’m sure he’s a lovely man. I like him already. Well, I’d best be off to work. It certainly was wonderful seeing you, Mrs. Dobson.”

She doesn
’t grace me with a reply, but sweeps out of the room like a grand duchess.

I can
’t decide now if I want more than ever to go to her blasted ball or if I wouldn’t be caught dead there. In my endeavor to confuse the barmy woman, I’ve confused myself.

********************

The day drags like the proverbial molasses in January. I’m bored out of my mind with nearly nothing to do, and Mr. Connelly is a no-show, blast him. He always seems to pop up when I am thinking of him, but not today, it seems. Miss Helmes has me reading aloud to one of the patients, an elderly woman named Nora. Just Nora apparently; she is a bit of a mystery, and if she knows her own surname, she isn’t telling it. Probably a street woman, I suppose, with a colorful past that has left her a shell of her former glory. Her mind is nearly gone, poor thing.