Shadows Gray (6 page)

“Well, she does look a little confused,” Emme agrees, staring at the photos once more. “She’s very beautiful.”

“I have to find her and bring her home before one of us travels on again, Emme.  If you had just arrived here, where would you hide?”

“Mum and Joe and I stayed at the homeless shelter for a bit when we got here.  Or since it’s still summer, she might be sleeping in one of the parks. Otherwise, I don’t know, Sonnet.  Your guess is as good as mine.  The Lost know how to blend in, you know that.  Where’d you guys stay when you got here?”

I think back to two years ago when we first woke up here.  We were all laid out on the riverbank at the edge of town, like beached fish.  Prue had woken first and already had a fire going and was looking as nonplussed as usual to have woken up in an entirely different spot than where she had laid down to sleep.  It was hardly her first travel, of course, and nothing much affects Prue.  If Israel is my rock, Prue is my mountain. I had gone over to her, my heart in my mouth the way it always was when we traveled, and she had wrapped her big arms around me and rubbed some warmth into them and the goose bumps right off.  Amelia and Will had gotten up soon after and Will spent the next several hours calming down his hysterical wife.  Dad looked a bit sadder than normal, which is sorrowful to the point of death.  Israel went off to find food and to find out what he could about where, and more importantly, when, we were.  Matthias and Harry traded stories and attempted to fish with tree branches.  Israel came back with stolen clothes and reports of a modern American town.  I traded glum for forced excitement and couldn’t wait to see the cars he talked of.  One drove by on the road above the riverbank and it was the only thing that made Meli stop bawling (after screaming first, of course). We stayed at that riverbank for a few nights, scoping out and learning as much as we could.  We spent the next several days in an abandoned farmhouse a few miles away, an old trick of the trade of the Lost. Every town has a house or two that is empty and forgotten.

“She seems like a loner,” I say doubtfully, thinking of the crowded homeless shelter and having a hard time imagining Rose there.  “Parks aren’t a bad idea though…there’s the big one that edges up to the campground; no one would notice an extra camper.”  I am lost in thought and my thoughts lead me back to my nightmare from last night. My scratches start to ache again, dull and throbbing, starting in my palm and traveling up my arm. I am so focused inward I don’t see Joe pop up from behind the couch until he lands on my lap and I  jump out of my skin. Joe is five and was only a year old infant when Emme and her mother arrived. He is an imp, with red hair and freckles and a mischievous personality that makes Emme look like a saint.

“Gotcha, Auntie Sonnet!” He crows, triumphantly, pumping his fist in the air.

I wait for my heart to resume its normal beat and resist the urge to thump his cute little red head. “You scared me half to death, brat!” I tickle him, which is of course what he is waiting for and the whole reason he is on my lap to begin with. When he has had enough and is properly winded, I roll him off my lap and onto the floor. He scampers off in search of snacks in the kitchen.

“Mum is out today so I’ve got him all day,” Emme explains. Emme’s mother, Bea, does all sorts of needle work and sells them, or attempts to, at craft shows and flea markets.  Sometimes she even lays them out alongside Prue’s food cart but since Bea is terrified of Prue, she only does it when she is really anxious for customers.  Bea is sweet and shy and easily embarrassed, and Prue is – well, Prue is Prue.

“We should take him to the park,” I suggest casually, examining my fingernails.  As usual they are chewed short. Emme’s are long and shaped and the contrast makes me sigh. I resolve to stop biting them first thing tomorrow.

“So you can look for Rose?” Emme’s nose is tucked in her book again. “Have you thought maybe she isn’t Rose, but just someone who looks like…well, like the way you imagine she would look today?”

“Of course I’ve thought of it, but I’m telling you, she’s exactly how Dad describes with plenty of Mother thrown in, and even a little of me.  Our eyes aren’t exactly common,” I remind her, pointedly.

“Your eyes are creepy.  Oops, I meant to say creepy in a beautiful way,” Emme laughs.

“You’re no help at all,” I answer, crossly. “Tell me what to do!”

“Alright, luv, don’t get your knickers in a twist.  Let’s piece this puzzle together, shall we?  Rose was left behind when you, your mum, and your dad disappeared back in what, the seventeen hundreds?”

“1741, I think.”

“What do you remember? Anything about that time? If she was left behind, what would it have been like for her?”

“Well, it was
France. It was cold; at least my only memories are of being cold.  I think I remember,” I falter, “I think I remember the night we left. There was a fire in the hearth and Mother was in her rocking chair.” Of course, it’s my dream I’m really thinking of, but it describes what Dad has told me of our home there and it felt so real; as if it could be more of a memory and less of a dream. “We lived in the countryside and there was a neighbor woman named Old Babba, kind of an old crone lady. She hobbled around with a walking stick and muttered a lot. I never understood much of what she said; I think I might have been a little scared of her. She used to come by almost every day, share her hen eggs and she had a goat, Dad says, so she shared her milk with us. We always hoped she found Rose the next day, and we always assumed she would have raised her or at least found a family to raise her.”

“Didn’t it occur to you that she would be Lost, too?”

“But she didn’t come with us that night.”

“What if she’s only a half sister?” Emme asks, lightly.

“Why?” Then it dawns on me. “If she wasn’t full blooded Lost she could be traveling less frequently? I suppose only my mother would know and she isn’t exactly here to ask, is she?” It’s not the first time I’ve been bitter about that.  More often than not I simply miss my mother, miss the long talks we should have had, miss the hair-braiding, and the arguments, and the lessons, and the companionship.  But occasionally, like now, I am simply angry with her. Angry that she left me, intentionally, to fend for myself and to never know her the way a daughter should. “But I’ve never doubted Dad is Rose’s dad too.  I mean, I guess I haven’t thought about it, but he has never alluded to any -,” I pause, feeling awkward, “Unfaithfulness on my mother’s part.”

“She doesn’t look like your dad at all, but I suppose that’s hardly proof.  I don’t look like my dad, the bloomin’ sod, thank my lucky stars.” She winks at me. Emme’s dad was some sort of con man from what I can gather.  He wandered off after Joe was born and apparently no one looked very hard to find him. “Anyway, anything else you remember?”

“Not really,” I frown. “Everything is fuzzy, I was only four. The next thing I knew I was in Italy two hundred years earlier. Mother killed herself and Dad started drinking. Not exactly the best part of my life.”

“Well, it’s probably good you don’t remember,” Emme says, kindly. “I bet your dad remembers enough for both of you. No wonder he stays drunk.”

“I suppose.”

“Talk to him? If it is Rose, he should be told. Might sober him up.”

Trust Emme to find the bright side of things.

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

Dad lounges at his usual spot, in his nylon lawn chair he brings to set up next to Prue’s food cart.  By the time I arrive, it’s lunch hour for the business men from down the street and I warily keep an eye on Prue’s behavior as she dishes out buttery rolls stuffed with savory meat and onions.

“You know what this needs?” Asks a portly gentleman in a suit that looks entirely too hot for the weather.

Prue narrows her eyes.
Dear man, please shut up,
I think to myself.

“A side of potatoes!” He looks for the entire world as if is pleased with his insightfulness and looks to Prue for her approval.  Instead, he gets a sharp whack with the silver tongs she has in her hands and a glare that could melt a glacier.

“Potatoes?” she barks, “You ever hear of a little sumpin’ called The Potato Famine, you ignorant child? Why would I want to even look at a potato again, never mind cook ‘em up for the likes of you? You get out o’ here, you windbag! And give me back that roll, you don’t deserve it.” She snatches the roll out of his chubby hands and in spite of it having a large bite taken out of it, plops it unceremoniously into the next customer’s fingers.  The portly man turns purple and stalks away, while the young woman who has suddenly gotten custody of a meat and onion lunch opens her mouth, closes it, and orders a soda with a squeaky voice.  Prue smacks a can of cola on the cart and demands five dollars. She has raised her prices by two dollars just in the three minutes I’ve been standing here.

“Dad? Come for a walk with me?” I whisper conspiratorially.

He smiles as much as I’ve ever seen him, which is to say, briefly and with only the smallest bit of mirth, and nods.  He unfolds his long, gangly legs out of his chair and together we leave Prue’s little lunch area, heading for the small sidewalk that follows along the river. Dad hunches when he walks, the way he always does, and our long strides match each other’s perfectly. We eat up the sidewalk.

“What is it, dear?” He asks, but I know it’s only a formal request, not a burning desire to know what is actually going on with me.  I don’t believe it’s that he doesn’t want to know, he simply hasn’t thought enough about it to develop any curiosity about me or my life. I wonder if I ever cross his mind in more than a vague, forgetful way.

There is no way to gently break what I’m going to say to him and so I dive right in to the heart of the matter.

“I think Rose may be Lost. I think she is traveling and she’s here. Now.”  Here means nothing to the Lost; now means everything.  It’s the place in time we pay attention to, not the location.

I am surprised when he doesn’t break stride and when his face shows no emotion.  I suspected shock, disbelief, a roll of his eyes, or an unbelieving laugh, but not this.  No reaction at all.

“Did you hear me, Dad?  I’ve seen Rose.”

“Where?” He asks, and it sounds as though he is choosing his words carefully. His voice remains neutral.

“At the coffee shop. And she was at the fair last week; I have pictures of her to prove it.” I pull them out of my cover-all pocket where I had folded them and placed them.  There’s a crease through her pretty red dress where I’ve folded it.  I hand the photos to my dad.

He finally stops walking and looks, but he doesn’t move to take them out of my hands. He swallows hard and I watch as his eyes well up.

“Yes, yes, that certainly does look how I imagine your sister would look at your age. She looks like your mother, looks like
Carolina.” He begins walking again, his hands in his jacket pocket, his back hunched over.

I stand there for a second, put the photos back in my pocket, and then run to catch up to him.

“Dad?” I am torn between impatience at his reaction and empathy for his response. I love my dad, but he is a mystery to me and at the moment I have other mysteries that are more pressing. “Sit down and talk to me, Dad!”  I pull on his sleeve and pull him down with me on the giant root of a tree. We both unfold our legs and lean against the tree, him pensively and me gingerly. I am on pins and needles.

“Tell me about Rose.  Did you know that she could be Lost? What are you thinking, Dad?” I am practically begging and I am beginning to be angry at him for forcing me to be.

He pinches the bridge of his nose as he does when he encounters something unpleasant, such as see the bottom of his whiskey bottle or have a heart-to heart with his daughter.  Then he rubs the back of his neck and opens his mouth.  Just like the poor accosted woman who suddenly had a meat roll in her hand, he closes it again. Open. Almost gets a word out. Closed.

“Oh forget it!” I snap, standing again and brushing off the pine needles from my legs. “I’ll get Prue to talk to me if I’m such a bother to you.”

I feel his hand in mine as I start to stalk off, feeling righteously upset. He pulls me back down.

“You’re not a bother, Sonny,” he says. Only my father calls me that and I can’t help that it softens up my hard heart considerably. “I’m just not prepared…not prepared for...Rose.” He shakes his head. “Your mother loved her so.”

More than me, the one she chose to leave? The one who wasn’t enough for her after she lost Rose? I don’t want to think about that.

“I’m sure Old Babba found her real quick,” Dad whispers, his eyes filling up again. One fat tear rolls down his unshaven face and gets lost in his mustache. He pats my hand consolingly.

At that, I know the conversation is over. I sit for a moment, hoping I am wrong, but Dad just stares into space, rolling his short beard whiskers between his fingers.  He doesn’t even seem to notice that they are wet.

Chapter Six

I leave Dad where he sits, perched uncomfortably on the tree root.  I leave quietly, but I feel like stomping off like a small child.  I feel like screaming, running, beating my fists against a wall.  Why is it so hard to get through to him?  He must care.  I know he does.  Then the realization dawns on me, like sunlight breaking through thunder clouds; he cares more than I know.  And that is precisely why it frustrates me.