Shadows Falling: The Lost #2 (3 page)

“Good luck with that.” He tips his hat, and then, suddenly, he is gone too.

The day concludes with that meeting being the most interesting part; indeed, it
’s the most interesting part of my whole last year, sadly enough. I tumble into my bed that night with a snack of cookies and milk and the little, red diary.

I think back to last year and wonder where I went wrong. Perhaps Luke complicated things and muddled too much for me to properly concentrate on my task. Perhaps I should leave him.

I think sometimes he will leave me.

But it
’s depressing to dwell on such things. The medication they give me makes me morbid and melancholy. I tried telling that to the doctor, but he said morbid and melancholy is better than violent and murderous. Then he snorted so loudly I was convinced he nearly consumed his own substantial nose.  What an amusing sense of humor the new doctor has. I think he has never dealt with someone like me. I shall have to indoctrinate him in the ways of Rose. I doubt he’ll laugh so easily then.

My odious nurse and jail keeper forced me to wash down the wall and attempt to get rid of the bloodstains in the dining room. No amount of scrubbing will banish them though, and I feel a great sense of satisfaction. I do so like my work to be timeless. I spent two weeks confined to my room for pinning that woman
’s hand to the wall with the sewing scissors, and it was worth it. She won’t mouth off to me again anytime soon.

I feel a distinct chill as I realize my hands have scrubbed the same stain that Rose’s did, and now I know for sure that it was blood, not soup, like I had imagined.  I find myself wishing I did not always save this diary for late night readings and also that I had some hot water and good soap to scrub up again. The water on my nightstand will be cold and frigid and won’t help wash off the (now imagined) smell of blood.

I start to close the diary, but of course, cannot. Right after Mr. Connelly, this diary is the most interesting thing to have happened to me in ages. I feel a bit of guilt in misjudging how the doctors wouldn
’t have wanted to read this narrative… On reflection, the diary of a patient and the inner workings of her brain and thoughts would most likely be quite helpful in their research. The main frustration in caring and curing our patients is not being able to understand them. This little journal could go a long way towards that end; and a little nursing girl is the one who keeps it. I should probably feel even guiltier than I do. But really, it could give me quite the edge, and perhaps I won’t be scrubbing walls much longer when someone realizes how much knowledge I can bring to the table. That’s what I tell myself as I turn another page. Also, there’s the fact that Rose’s words are proving to be quite addictive, and I’d like to know her whole story before I relinquish her diary.

I wish to start my crusade again, but I find large chunks of my memory and thoughts gone. I think Luke is right; traveling too much and too frequently hurts my brain. I come back each time, to bloody old Bedlam, more confused than the last. I had best rest a bit here and regain my purpose before I live up to my mad reputation.

Mad.

What a silly word.

I am not mad; I am driven! There is a difference. For all their medical knowledge and social proprieties, they cannot see the difference. What a bunch of loons, I say. I have purpose. I have goals. I know what I want.

On the other hand, home is home, and home is where I am for now. It will do me good to rest. Luke visits and sleeps here with me more often than not. I promise and promise not to go anywhere without him, but he does not promise the same for me, I just realized. Why is that, I wonder? Does he sleep on the grounds somewhere when he is not in my bed? He does not possess the power I do to control his traveling, no matter how many times I have patiently tried to teach him, and if he leaves me… ah well, I suppose I would have to find him again and teach him a lesson in faithfulness. Silly boy.

He is the only friend I have ever had, really. I can count my friends on one finger:

Luke.

I had an imaginary friend as a little girl. I had not yet learned of my abilities, and I was lonely in the village. Old Babba ignored me mightily, with a steadfastness that shocked even me. I had to invent my playmates as no flesh and blood children would come near me. Their parents said my family had abandoned me, left me to my evil ways. I was ashamed and refused to admit they must have fled somewhere. Like an unwanted changeling baby, I was left behind in the care of an old woman who despised me.

My favorite make-believe friend loved me all the same. She knew all my darkness and cared not a farthing. She was quite un-judgmental. I have not had such good luck with friends since that time.

But my thoughts ramble again. This is supposed to be a memoir, and I hardly have anything else to do with my time. My fingers are cramped from writing, but I will continue.

I was seven when Old Babba finally died. Couldn’t have come at a better time really, as she was really beginning to anger me quite constantly that year. My temper was frightful, I can admit, and sometimes she would lock me out of her dreadful house. I was as skinny as a string bean from her feeding me barely enough to keep me alive, and we were always doing this ridiculous dance around each other, trying to out-ignore one another and watching the other without seeming to. She was scared to death of me, only God knows why, and I didn’t exactly trust her either. Both of us used to feed bites of our food to the dog to make sure it wasn’t poisoned. It was only a matter of time before one of us succeeded in doing in the other.

In the end though, even I was hardly equipped for murder at the ripe old age of seven, and Old Babba kicked the bucket naturally enough. Hardly surprising; the hag must have been at least a million years old. I made a great show of burying her, dragging her body out of the house
–which was no small feat for a little girl - and cheerfully rolling it into my homemade grave. Tossing in the dirt after her was great fun too, and I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much in years. I even made invitations for the villagers, inviting them to the funeral, but no one came. Can’t blame them. She really was an old witch. I sang snatches of hymns I had heard and then moved onto nursery rhymes and anything else I could put to song. I even danced a bit.

The night I buried her was the first night I traveled. It must have been my light heart that made me sleep so well.

3

I am groggy and listless the next day. I hadn
’t slept well; dreamt of wicked old ladies and poisoned dogs and starving little girls. I feel oddly consumed by thoughts of Rose Gray and her story. Her handwriting had become so bad by the end of last night’s reading that I had to set it aside and rest my aching eyes. She wrote (writes? Could she still be alive?) like a child, alternating between large letters, harshly drawn with her pen and ink, almost tearing through the paper, and lightly scratched, tiny, loopy letters that are nearly unreadable. It’s as if several people took turns writing. Several six year olds, to be precise.

I cannot stop thinking of her through my breakfast of egg and toast; I cannot stop thinking of her through the plaiting of my hair; I simply cannot stop thinking of her at all.

When I realize I could easily find out what happened to her through the files of patients I am privy to, I want to smack myself in the head for being so daft. “Really, Lizzie,” I mutter to myself as I hurriedly tie my nurse’s kerchief on my head and shove the diary in my pocket. “You’d think you haven’t a brain in your skull.”

Snooping in other people
’s business should probably go against the grain of a lady, but I can’t say I was brought up to be a lady anyhow, and Rose said it herself: boredom makes you do strange things. As interesting as I hope my medical career will be someday, at the moment it’s as dull as watching paint peel, and any divertissements are welcome. Besides, I justify to any objecting thoughts I may have, it’s part of my medical research.

I find myself nearly merry as I greet Miss Helmes. I ask her cagily enough if she has anything in particular for me to do, or shall I start to begin work in the former doctor
’s office room? Since the former doctor was a bit of a messy hoarder, no one has been especially anxious to begin clearing out his spaces and nooks and crannies, and as I knew she would, she only hesitates a moment before giving me her permission.

“
There is nothing in there of any interest, Lizzie,” she warns. “You’ll find it dull. Are you sure you won’t stay out here with me and help polish these spoons? The time would be better spent.”

“
A tantalizing offer, thank you, ma’am, but no. I must be of service to the hospital, and I’m sure some of those papers will be invaluable.” I keep my voice breezy.

“
I doubt it,” she snaps. Oops, too much breeziness annoys her. “Run along then.” She goes back to her spoon with a vigorous attention to detail.

“
Oh,” I say as though I had just remembered something. In truth, my pause is rehearsed. I place my hand on the doorframe and do my best to look casual, not that she looking my way anyway. She is peering intently into her spoon. I expect it to spontaneously explode any second now. “Did Mr. Connelly find his missing person?”

Miss Helmes turns her intense stare towards me now
. “I expect he did. Why do you care? Run along.”

Run I do
—partly because of my renewed energy at the prospect of finding out more about Rose, and partly because I have to pass a wing of the hospital that I have always been frightened of. It’s a deserted place now; even when the rooms were all full of patients and they were all free to run about the place, no one ventured this way, so I’m told. They have a haunted feel, a neglected, whispering mood that murmurs of the not so distant past. Tiny medical examining rooms that once were pristine and sterile (well, perhaps not so sterile), the occasional one with just a lone operating table or an overturned chair. A tattered white jacket lies forgotten in a doorway. The air teems with other’s memories that are just beyond my mind’s reach. I know they’re there though, these reminiscences of tragic illness, and they float, unbidden through the tainted, stuffy air. It’s always hotter, darker, and stuffier here; it feels as though there are too many people in one place, in spite of it being only me. The air has weight to it. Weight that could bury you alive if you let it. I cannot imagine being held a prisoner in this place. It makes my skin crawl.

I am through the hated wing soon enough, and when I enter the old doctor
’s room, I let out the breath I had been holding. His old office is not nearly so bad, though it’s already full of cobwebs and dust. There is nothing left really, besides stacks of papers and an ancient, heavy desk that I don’t blame them for not moving. It must way a ton, even when emptied. Bookshelves are here too, though at least half the shelves are empty. The other half is full of dusty books that are too outdated for anyone to want, and stacks of papers. Though there is a chill in the air in this room, I opt to crack open a window for the cooling breeze and the tie it gives me to the outside world. Though I’d like to hang my head out the window for a bit and gulp in some freshness and admire the view, this isn’t a room I’d fancy turning my back on.

I begin my search and very quickly find my enthusiasm dwindling. The doctor needed a secretary and badly. His form of filing was archaic, senseless, and utterly useless.

After a couple hours of searching and finding nothing on Rose Gray or anyone who fits her description, I nearly miss the hypnotic comfort that only polishing spoons can give.

I woke and found myself in a very crowded market place. People were colorful and dressed in strange garb, and no one seemed to be speaking English or German, the two languages I spoke at home with Old Babba and the villagers. They were darker skinned than I, though not as dark as some, maybe the same shade as the man in the village that used to sell peaches. He was from India.

I was under a table, and I only awoke because someone had kicked me. You
’d think I’d be scared, not of being kicked (I’d had worse from Old Babba), but of finding myself some other place other than where I fell asleep. Some place other than where I had grudgingly called home for seven years. That’s what you would think, but no. No, I was delighted! I had been rescued! Like a fairy princess in a fairy story, I had been set free. My captor was gone
—
dead as a doornail
—
and my true life was about to begin. It was though someone opened my book, my story, and began to read right then and there,
Once upon a time…

My life had truly started then. No more spiteful looks from Old Babba, no more cold nights, no more loneliness and emptiness, no more hungry belly, and dirty clothes.

I scrambled out from under the table and blissfully joined the throng of shoppers. I was eyed a bit strangely, certainly, but that didn’t faze me. I was quite used to the stares of people, and they didn’t bother me or put a damper on my happiness. I had never much cared what people thought of me. I ran around merrily for most of the day, and since no one spoke my language and I didn’t speak theirs, we all got along beautifully. I’m sure when concerned adults did speak to me that day, they were trying to deduce where my parents were, but I smiled innocently and managed to convey that nothing was wrong, nothing was out of the ordinary. I found myself even saying things like (though no one could understand me anyway), my mother is over there, buying cinnamon, do you see her there? Over there? See?  And I would wave and smile some more and they would shade their eyes from the sun and look intently, but of course there was no one there to find, no one who looked like me, no one with yellow hair and blue eyes. I would wave at my imaginary mother anyway, and sometimes when I was playacting at my very finest moments, I would nearly see my mother wave back.

Yes, sometimes I was quite certain I could see her.

Goodness, Rose, try to blend in a bit better, I think. Her story has become fantastical. Though the glimpse into her strange little mind was disturbing, it was also addicting.

My feet are propped up on the old mahogany desk, and I am reclining (quite in an unladylike fashion) in the worn chair. I have given up entirely on finding any records of Rose, so I have removed her diary from my pocket and am reading once again. Her handwriting is better in this part, and I can speed through quickly.

I have no idea why she thinks she has moved countries in the night, but since not much has made sense before now anyway, I don
’t bother trying to find the logic in the story, and I read on.

I spent a happy day at the market. When night fell, my stomach was at last full for the first time since I could remember. When my exotic looks and blonde hair didn’t get me free samples (which they did, often), then I simply snatched them. I had my fill of apricots, strange rice balls, cookies that tasted like tea, spicy breads, and nuts. I tried to join in a game with a group of children, but they were unfriendly towards me. The ball they were kicking came hurtling at me, and I ran to fetch it and throw it back to them, but they angrily took it from me. They wouldn’t let me in their silly game, and I tried not to let it bother me, this knowledge that my fairy tale peers were as cruel as my former village peers, but I rubbed the tears away very quickly and admonished myself for being a weak ninny. I was sad, but only for a moment.

I have always been very, very good at turning sorrow into anger, where it can be properly trained and taught basic survival skills.

Those first few weeks I slept in the market place. I was a little thing, very small for seven years of age, I could easily have passed for a child of five, and I was also quite sneaky. The two attributes served me well. It was an easy enough matter to remain undetected, and it became a game for me, a sort of cat and mouse. I even made up scenarios of fake guards and soldiers who would march through the square, determined to find the little orphan urchin. Their ineptness would result in hilarious adventures, and I would drift off to sleep quite content and happy with my stories to keep me warm. In truth, no was chasing me because no one was looking for me.

I suppose the idea of a small child living on her own that way seems strange to those who do not know me, but I am special. Those times, in that year, in that place (it was India, I learned eventually and nearly one hundred years ahead of where I had spent my first seven) were among the best times of my life.

Whatever was she going on about? One hundred years from her village? India? She really was mad.

Poor, dear, wretched girl. Had her family truly abandoned her then? Left her to an old lady who was abusive to her? Much less has been known to turn a person insane, I suppose. Nothing bad has ever happened to Mr. Limpet, and he’s as crazy as they come.

When the rainy season came I knew I had to find different shelter than my beloved market place. I hated to leave it, and yet, I knew with a maturity that did not match my years, that it was time to move along.

A strange group of traveling performers came through, and they took me in. A girl with yellow hair and light eyes was good for business. They were experts in magic, illusion, sleight of hand. They made a living swindling people out of their wages, and the people were all too willing to hand over those wages. They sold worthless trinkets for pennies on the dollar and bottles of tonic that promised to cure everything from wasting diseases to hair loss to infertility to death. The cure for death in a bottle. Some people will believe anything. Idiots.

And I? I could sell anything. With a wink and a smile, wearing a fluffy pink skirt and sparkles in my hair, I was golden, their golden girl.

My once upon a time had come. Could it be that my happily ever after had already arrived as well? It seemed for a time that it had. My days were spent doing whatever I liked: wandering, picking up the language, eating, pretending, turning cartwheels in the grass. My evenings were spent selling broken promises and dreams. We traveled quickly, avoiding angry customers who may return for a refund
(that was key to our success), and we were never in the same place twice.

It was a lovely life, while it lasted.

I gnaw on the end of the pipe I had found in the drawer of the desk. I chew on it contentedly and enjoy the stale smell of the cherry tobacco that drifts up to my nose as I nibble on the pipe. If I could have, I would have lit it, just for the wickedness of it. When someone walks in unannounced, I nearly fall off the chair, and the pipe clatters to the floor with a telltale clank. My wickedness is purely speculative.

“Ah, there you are,” says Mr. Connelly. He tips his hat at me and leans against the doorframe, crossing one foot over the other in a casual manner. I hurriedly remove my feet from the desk and tug my skirt down modestly.

“
Oh. I was taking a break from cleaning. This isn’t what it looks like, well, that is,” I give up excuses and try a smile instead. “It is what it looks like, I suppose. I’m bored stiff and was relaxing.”

“
Can’t blame you there. Though I have it on excellent authority from cutting edge medicine, that tobacco is quite bad for you. Blackens your lungs, I believe,” he crosses the room in three long strides and picks up the pipe from the floor. He hands it to me with long fingers. “Your grandchildren will agree with me someday.”

I wave away his words and drop the pipe back in the drawer where I had first found it.
“That’s silly. Anyway, did you need something?”

“
You,” he drawls out the word casually, making it sound almost tantalizing. I feel either nervous, or scandalized; I’m not sure which since I’m unfamiliar with both emotions. At my blank look, he speaks again. “Miss Helmes asked me to fetch you. It’s time to move along to hospital.”