The Shadow Girl (3 page)

Iris seeps through my pores and wraps around me, her caress as soft as dandelion fluff. I know she’s trying to comfort me, and I wish that I could forgive her, but I can’t.

“I’m mad at you,” I sob. “You and Mom both. Why is she acting this way?”

You know why,
Iris says, her reply a quiet buzz
. She’s hiding something
.

4

Maybe Mom’s right that Dad wouldn’t have wanted a memorial or an obituary, but Addie told me those things are really more for the living, the ones left behind. Some people don’t need them to get through grief. Like Mom, apparently. But some people do. Like me.

So on Saturday morning, against Mom’s wishes, I have a memorial for Dad at the lake down the road. Wyatt and Addie are with me, of course. And Iris. She hovers just beneath the surface of my senses, dim with sadness, wary of invading my space.

The day is overcast and bleak, cool but not cold. Snow still covers the peaks, but it’s all melted down here below. Friends congregate on the lake’s rocky shore, as do many of Dad’s clients, some I know and some I don’t. I spot Sylvie Rodriguez, a girl I worked with at the coffee shop last summer. I haven’t seen her more than four or five times since school started last August. Sylvie has cut her black hair to within a half inch of her scalp and added a few red streaks since I last saw her. A blue dragonfly tattoo is visible on the back of her neck. I find myself wondering if it’s new, or if it was always there, hidden beneath her hair when it was longer.

Mom didn’t come to the service, but that’s no surprise. She hasn’t spoken to me since she opened the newspaper yesterday and saw the obituary I wrote. I guess she said all she had to say then. Screamed it, really. How I had done the one thing that Dad would’ve been the most against. How I had invaded his privacy, and hers. I can’t remember Mom ever being that upset with me before.

The photograph of Dad and me that I included with the obituary seemed to bother her most of all. In the shot, he and I are standing together next to his van. Behind us, the twin peaks are visible in the distance.

Mom’s reaction to the photo keeps nagging me. Yesterday, Iris kept nagging me, too, coaxing me to ask Mom what she’s hiding, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t bring myself to tell her the strange things Dad said before he died, either. Mom’s closed-off expression and the fact that she’s even more emotional than I am hold me back.

But I can’t worry about my mother right now. This morning is for Dad.

Standing at the edge of the lake, I hold the urn containing his ashes close to me and face everyone. When their murmurs fall silent, I pull a slip of paper from my pocket and start to recite a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

After the first line, I’m too choked up to go on. Wyatt appears at my side to save me. Taking the poem from my hand, he reads:

Music, when soft voices die,

Vibrates in the memory;

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,

Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,

Are heap’d for the beloved’s bed;

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,

Love itself shall slumber on.

As Wyatt’s voice fades, I turn to the water and stare at the peaks. Above them, the sky is chalky gray, and the clouds huddle together, as if for support. Around me, the air is so still that when I sling my arm toward the water, the ashes sail out of the urn in a perfect arc. The lake’s dark surface ripples when they hit. The reverberation lingers, echoing inside of me.

“Good-bye, Dad,” I whisper. “I love you.”

In that moment, I feel Iris’s warmth and hear her words, hushed and reverent in my head:
I loved him, too
.

Needing her comfort too much to send her away, I mentally fold into her, and when my knees threaten to buckle, it’s as if Iris bears my weight and holds me up.

Sylvie is a high-energy person—a walking nerve ending. She’s never struck me as overly sensitive. Sylvie’s more of a tough girl. Which is why I know she’s sincerely emotional when she walks to the edge of the lake and hugs me as people are starting to leave.

“Sorry, chica,” she murmurs.

“Thanks for coming.” We step apart.

“I figured you’d need your friends around you,” she says in the raspy voice I’ve always envied. “What happened to your dad just sucks.”

I’m grateful for her bluntness and the fact that she’s not treating me as if I’m made of glass. “He was the best,” I tell her, my entire body throbbing with loss. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”

We’re both quiet for a few moments, uncomfortable with each other all of a sudden. Death does that, I’ve discovered. Makes it difficult to know what to say, even for no-nonsense people like Sylvie.

Suddenly, she lifts a silver-studded brow, and nudges me with her elbow. “What’s
his
story?” she asks in a low voice.

I glance at her. “Who?”

“Mr. Intense.”

I follow her gaze past Paula and Sal, and my stomach flips over as I zero in on the hiker who helped me with Dad and Cookie after the accident.

“He’s been watching you,” Sylvie whispers.

I duck my head, embarrassed. “Everyone’s been watching me.”

“Not like that. Who is he?”

“He’s the hiker who found us on the mountain.” I glance at him again. He’s talking to Dad’s old friend Tony Dimitri, but Sylvie is right; he’s looking at me. “I should go say hi,” I tell her.

“Sure. Go ahead. I’ll call you later.” Sylvie waves at Wyatt and calls out, “Hey, Goob!” He glances in our direction and makes a face.

“At least he knows his name,” she says smugly. “Guess I’ll go see what he’s been up to.”

As she heads for Wyatt, I start off toward the hiker and Mr. Dimitri, weaving through a scattering of people and acknowledging murmured words of sympathy.

“I missed your name the other day when you were in the coffee shop,” Mr. Dimitri is saying to the hiker when I join them.

“I’m Ty Collier.” They shake hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself.”

Mr. Dimitri notices me and offers his condolences. I slip my hands into my coat pockets and say, “Don’t let me interrupt.”

He smiles. “You aren’t.”

I look at Ty and instantly blush. “Hello,” I murmur, mortified by my reaction to him.

“Hi, Lily,” he says in that same soothing voice I remember so well. “It’s great to see you.”

There’s something about him that’s sweet and gentle, yet also strong. I think again of how much he helped me when Dad was dying, how his calmness kept me afloat when I was about to drown. I was too frantic to notice much about him then, but I take in everything now. Ty isn’t tall, but he isn’t short, either, and he’s thin rather than lanky. Something makes him seem more mature than the guys from town. I try to look at him discreetly as he and Mr. Dimitri resume their conversation. He’s a little rumpled, his dark hair longish and shaggy, like he’s past due for a cut, and the dark blue shirt beneath his open coat is wrinkled. His eyes are deep set and brown, his mouth wide . . . and disarming. I feel myself starting to blush again and quickly glance up from his lips, noticing the thin scar that slices across his right cheekbone. It looks fairly new.

Mr. Dimitri asks, “Why Silver Lake, Ty?”

“I was just driving through and it caught my attention. I’m a freshman at Columbia but I took this semester off to do some traveling. Silver Lake’s a pretty place. I thought I might stay awhile and do a little hiking if I can find work to tide me over.”

“Construction?” Mr. Dimitri asks.

“Yeah, that. Or anything, really,” says Ty.

Dad’s friend pulls a card from his pocket and hands it to him. “Call me later and I’ll give you Tommy Carter’s number. He’s a contractor. He’s building a couple of houses right now.”

Ty thanks him, then Mr. Dimitri excuses himself and walks away.

“I’m really sorry about your dad,” says Ty, his dark gaze roaming my face.

“I never got a chance to thank you for helping me,” I tell him. “I don’t know how I would’ve got through it if you hadn’t shown up.”

“I wish I could’ve done more.” He puts his hands into the pockets of his gray wool peacoat and clears his throat.

The silence between us stretches a few beats too long, making me feel self-conscious and shy. “So you’re staying in town?” I ask, just to have something to say.

He nods. “Yeah. I’m renting a place by the community college. Silver Lake Studio Apartments.”

“
A day or a lifetime
?” I say, reciting the corny line from the banner that hangs in front of the building.

He gives a short laugh. “Yeah, it’s a real classy place.” We both fall silent again, then Ty adds, “If I can do anything for you, let me know. Your mom, too.” He glances to where Addie, Sylvie, and Wyatt stand talking to Mr. Dimitri. Actually, Addie is the only one talking. Wyatt is staring at Ty and me and frowning.

“Addie’s not my mom,” I say, realizing Ty’s mistake. “She’s a neighbor.”

“Oh.” He tilts his head. “Hey, how’s your dog?”

“Cookie’s better. I’m bringing him home from the vet later today.”

He grins. “That’s great. I’ve been wondering about him.” Thunder rumbles far off in the distance. Ty shakes his head. “You guys have the craziest weather here. It snowed a few days ago, then it was sunny and warmer, and now it’s going to rain?”

I shrug. “In the spring it can change from one day to the next.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.” Ty looks up at an ominous gray cloud. “I guess I better go.”

“We probably all should,” I say, but I don’t want to tell him good-bye.

As if he reads my thoughts, Ty says hesitantly, “Maybe we could meet up sometime while I’m here. Have coffee or something?”

“I’d like that,” I tell him, a tiny thrill zinging through me when his face lights up.

“I’d give you my number if I had something to write with,” he says.

Sometime during the last thirty seconds, Wyatt wandered up behind Ty. He’s pretending to listen to Paula talk to some man I don’t recognize, but I know Wyatt. He’s eavesdropping on me. Thinking Paula might have a pen in her purse, I call to her and ask, and she pulls one out of the leather bag hanging over her shoulder. I give it to Ty.

He takes a scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbles his number onto it. As he hands it to me, our fingers touch and I almost can’t breathe.

“If you can get away, just let me know,” Ty says.

I nod, ashamed of what I’m feeling for this guy at my dad’s funeral. And then, without warning, I’m crying silently. Tears pour down my face.

Ty backs up a step, but I see understanding in his expression. “’Bye, Lily,” he murmurs. “Take care, okay?”

I nod, clutching the paper with his number on it, and watch him walk away.

Not a single drop of rain has fallen yet when Wyatt drives me into town in his rattling truck an hour later to pick up Cookie.

I’m glad to get away, just the two of us. I try to pretend it’s just another day, that we’re going into town to the hockey rink to shoot pucks on a Saturday morning, and Mom and Dad are at home together, her cooking something deliciously gooey in the kitchen and him out working in his shop.

I can almost believe it. But not quite.

We’re both silent as Wyatt turns onto the two-lane highway that runs through town. I lean my head back and stare out the window. Silver Lake sits in the shadow of the mountains. Red-roofed houses lie scattered haphazardly up the sides of the tree-studded slopes. I love the Gothic feel of the town, the familiar dark sweep of scrub oak, faded houses, and old stone buildings.

Soon, Wyatt exits the highway and makes his way along Silver Lake’s red-bricked streets. We stop at a light, and Wyatt clears his throat. His knee is bouncing up and down.

“Are you okay?” he asks almost warily.

“Would you please stop that?” I say, tensing up.

Wyatt flinches. “What did I do?”

“Stop being so weird around me.”

“I’m sorry. I just—I don’t know what to say, I guess. You know. To help you. To make things better.”

“You can’t make this better, Wyatt!” I say, more sharply than I intend to.

He shifts uncomfortably, an expression of helpless confusion shadowing his face. The light turns green, and he takes off again.

“Nobody can make this better,” I tell him, my voice shrill and wobbly. “It’s never going to be better.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Quit apologizing! God, Wyatt. I’m the one yelling at you for no good reason. Why do you have to be so nice? Why don’t you just punch me or something?”

Wyatt draws back his head and scowls. “Punch you?
Shit
. I don’t want to hit you! Why would I punch you?”

“Because . . .” I swallow. “Because if I hurt on the outside, maybe I won’t feel this awful pain on the
inside
.” Sobbing, I lower my head.

I don’t look up again until the truck comes to a stop. We’re parked in front of the veterinary clinic, a mud-colored adobe building. I stare at the door.

Seconds tick by, then Wyatt sighs and says, “Jeez, Lil. I’m—”

“Don’t say it!” Despite my mood, a smile twitches my lips.

Wyatt grins his sheepish grin. “I was going to say ‘I’m happy to oblige, ma’am.’ To punch you, I mean.” He pulls off the blue stocking cap he always wears and bows in his seat, his sandy hair spiked out all over his head.