Shadowshift (10 page)

PART THREE: TURNING HOME

CHAPTER 15

It’s the morning following Hannah’s offer to help Kevin, and the two of them push through the crowded entrance of the mall. The pungent blend of fast food and adolescent B.O. overwhelms Kevin, reminding him why he doesn’t come here anymore. He considers how different this place was when he was younger, with a large Aladdin’s Castle arcade that spilled into the food court and a six-screen movie house in spitting distance of the cafeteria-like dining area. Even still, the teens are out in full force today—boys making moves on girls, and girls putting up shy fronts. Movies and video games have moved online, Kevin muses, but hormones never change.

“Come on,” Hannah says, grabbing Kevin’s hand and leading him free from the chaos. “There’s nothing for me here.”

A few yards beyond the bustling court, Hannah stops at a directory and studies the listings. It doesn’t take long before her finger lands on the Barnes & Noble anchor store.

“You should have told me you wanted to go to the bookstore,” Kevin says. “I would have parked on the other side of the mall and saved us a lot of time.”

Rolling her eyes at him, she says, “Don’t tell me you’re allergic to walking.”

He chuckles outwardly, but shame needles him as he ponders how convenient his life has become. Most of what he wants he orders online, and he routinely drives short distances he could easily walk. What’s worse, a child just called
him
out for laziness. Damn, it had always worked the other way when he was her age.

As they fall into a side-by-side stride, Hannah says, “The bookstore is the perfect place. For one, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of a nerd.”

“
Kind
of?”

“Ha ha ha. Yeah, and you’re
kind
of a comedian, except you need to work on the being funny part. So anyway, it’s the perfect place for me to find other girls like me.”

“What about
boys
?” he playfully goads.

“Hey,” she says, “we’re trying to show my mom that you’re helping me come out of my shell, not trying to make you look like some kind of pimp.”

Acutely aware of Hannah’s many shades of cool, he laughs. She’s not the nerd she calls herself. Then again, the definition of
Nerd
has changed a lot since Kevin was a kid. Everything has changed, he tells himself, then he’s struck by the real reason he doesn’t come here anymore. The mall makes him feel old.

But things take a turn for the better when they enter the store. Light jazz plays, the inviting aroma of coffee wafts, and everyone here appears more civilized. True to Hannah’s assessment, the Young Adult section—smartly positioned by the store’s entrance—teems with tween girls.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, hoping she’ll excuse him to the café. Hannah had been in such a rush to leave the house that morning that he didn’t have time to fire up the Keurig, and his head is incredibly foggy.

“Go see if they have any of Mom’s books on the shelves,” she says, her attention directed at a gangly girl with horn-rimmed glasses who appears in the middle of
Sophie’s Choice
over a pair of vampire novels. “If you find anything of Mom’s, grab what they have, then come find me. Whatever I’m doing, interrupt me and make a big deal out of finding her books here. Got it?”

“Got it.”

As she approaches her target, he breaks in the direction of the Fiction aisles, thinking about Hannah. This side of her is new to him, and he’s impressed. At the same time, he’s mildly chilled. She’s different. Different in a good way, he tells himself, but he can’t resist voicing a grim observation. “Note to self,” he whispers, “don’t ever land on Hannah’s bad side.”

Chuckling, he scans spines for his girlfriend’s name. When he spies a lone copy of
Midnight Mourning
, he snatches it from the shelf and strides back to Young Adult, where Hannah’s already engaged in conversation with the awkward vampire fan.

“Yeah, I was really disappointed with the
Divergent
movie, too,” Hannah says.

“Have you seen
The Fault in Our Stars
yet?” the girl asks.

“Not yet,” Hannah says, “but I—”

“Look what I found,” Kevin says, waving the paperback in Hannah’s face.

She turns and glares at him. “Dad! How rude!”

Playing along, he tries not to smile, but a grin blooms regardless.
Dad!
—an unexpected touch, and spoken genuinely, with just the right blend of annoyance and affection. The two girls glance at each other and roll their eyes.

“It’s okay,” Hannah’s new friend says, “my dad’s the same way.”

Hannah snatches the book from Kevin. “Dad, we already have hundreds of copies of Mom’s books. Like I keep telling you, we don’t need more.”

“I know,” Kevin says, “but I never get tired of—”

“Wait,” the gangly girl says, her eyes flaring. “Your mom wrote
that
?”

“Pretty cool, huh,” Kevin says, then he extends a hand to the girl. “I’m Kevin, and this is…this is my
daughter
, Hannah, in case she hasn’t introduced herself. She’s sometimes bad about that.”

“Shut up, Dad,” Hannah says, elbowing him in the gut and smiling.

“I’m Chelsea.” The girl shakes with Kevin, but her attention is held by the book, which Hannah, quite expertly, shows no interest in. “Can I see?” She takes the paperback from Hannah and flips through pages, then tucks the book under her arm. “If I buy this, do you think your mom will sign it for me?”

Hannah shrugs. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“That’d be amazing. I’ve never met a real-life horror writer before.”

“Do your parents mind if you read books for adults?” Kevin asks. “We don’t want to get you in any trouble.”

Chelsea chuckles. “My dad made me read
Carrie
when I was ten. Trust me, he loves this biz.” She points to the café and adds, “He’s over there somewhere, if you don’t believe me and want to check out my story.”

Sliding out his billfold, Kevin says, “Tina would be honored to sign
Midnight Mourning
for you, but on one condition.” He hands Chelsea a ten-dollar bill. “It’s our treat.”

“Thanks,” Chelsea says. Then, turning to Hannah, she whispers, “Your dad’s pretty fucking cool.”

Hannah shrugs again, but this time she doesn’t look annoyed. “Yeah,” she says, “the old man has his moments.”

CHAPTER 16

Deadline looming, Tina looks blankly at her open manuscript, then glances down at her outline. Everything is crap, she tells herself. For a moment, she scrolls through her FriendSpace newsfeed, but not even her most trusted cure for bad moods—pictures of adorable puppies—sparks warm feelings. She then turns her attention to her L-shaped desk, which Kevin assembled less than a week ago. How much longer until she’s forced to break the desk down and prepare it for shipping again?

She shakes off the question.

One thing is certain. She can’t write. Not here. Not like this. Anger once inspired her, but sadness is a poor muse. She wants to curl up and sleep, but she promised herself long ago not to lie down when depression called. If for no other reason, she doesn’t want Hannah to see her that way again. Tired. Weak. Useless. No, that’s not who she is anymore.

And Kevin is
not
Chet, she reminds herself.

But that brings her no closer to apology, which she considers surrender. She can’t expect Kevin to forsake his own flesh and blood, and she knows he won’t, but if Tina stays with him, his mother will always be part of the equation. If Tina forgives him, she’ll have to forgive Dee Logan, too. And that’s unacceptable.

She drags a notepad across the desk, snatches a ballpoint, and makes a note:

FAMILY = PRISON

She stares at what she’s just written, and her mind drifts to Ray Mitchell, a kind and generous man. Chet had no problems icing Ray out of his life. And what about Tina’s own mother, who disowned Tina when she filed for divorce (“Respectable women don’t do that,” her mother had shouted. “You always stand by your man!”). And what about Hannah, the light of Tina’s life. What will she think if she reads this grim reflection on her mother’s desk?

The sentiment of the note sums up attitudes of those who have injured Tina the most. But Tina hadn’t jotted the words from an empathetic frame of mind; rather, she’d channeled her own fear.

Am I becoming like them? Am I becoming a monster?

The garage door opens, and the engine of Kevin’s SUV grows louder. Pen still in hand, Tina scratches over the only significant words she has written in days. She shuts down the PC, grabs the empty coffee mug from the desk, and steps into the hallway as a door creaks open below.

Staring down the long flight of hardwood stairs, she thinks about leaping headfirst. Then, afraid of losing control, she stumbles back from the edge of the landing. Her hands tremble, and the coffee cup feels heavier than it has any right to. The cup slips free from her fragile hold, bounces and rolls on the carpet, then lands on the stairs and shatters as Hannah rounds the corner.

Hannah’s smile fades fast. “Mom, are you okay?” She dashes up the stairs and puts her arms around Tina. “You’re burning up, Mom. Are you sick?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart.” Tina backs away from her daughter. “Be careful. I don’t want you cutting yourself!”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’m wearing Doc Martens. Kevin bought them for me at the mall.”

When Tina looks down, Kevin is lumbering upward. Leaning down, he picks up the ceramic shards of his most frequently used mug.
Coffee is for Closers
, the cup had read, a quote from
Glengarry Glen Ross
, his favorite movie.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“I broke your mug,” she says. “I’m…I’m sorry. I don’t know why I picked that one this morning. I’ll get you another—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kevin says. “Things can be replaced.” He steps onto the landing and puts a hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “Can we pull ourselves together for a while?” He flashes a smile. “Hannah has a friend coming over.”

“A friend?” Tina asks.

“Yeah,” Hannah says, “Chelsea and I are gonna ride our bikes around town, if that’s okay. She’s gonna show me around.”

“Of course,” Tina says. As her gaze shifts to Kevin, she wonders what he’s doing that she isn’t. This man never raised children. He missed the dirty diapers and the long nights tending to Hannah’s allergies, most of which she mercifully outgrew. Missed all the turmoil, the doubt, and all the shattering moments in between. But maybe that’s his edge, Tina thinks, what makes him the right father figure. Or maybe he’s playing a game, trying to lock Tina into another losing proposition…

Family = Prison.

“I need to go change,” Hannah says. She gives her mom a kiss on the cheek, does the same for Kevin, then scampers to her room, leaving Kevin and Tina alone in the hallway.

“This doesn’t fix everything,” Tina says.

“I know,” he replies. “That wasn’t my intent.”

“What
was
your intent? To make me feel inadequate? To prove I’ve been doing things wrong for the last twelve years?”

“No, that’s not it. I just wanted Hannah to have a nice day. She’s a good kid.”

“Damn right she’s a good kid, but that doesn’t answer my questions.”

“I want her to be happy,” Kevin says. “It’s as simple as that.”

As Kevin starts down the stairs, Tina puts a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Just remember one thing,” she says. “She’s
my
kid.”

“Dammit, Tina, I’m not trying to steal her from you. What happened last night isn’t her fault. I just wanted to get her away from here for a bit so she could have some fun. I trust that isn’t a problem.”

“Are you trying to make it impossible for me to leave?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Do you want it to be easy?”

“I want everything to be easy, and why shouldn’t I? Everything’s been so hard for so long.”

“Well, sorry, it doesn’t work that way.” He waits for a protracted moment. When she doesn’t respond, he resumes walking.

“For what it’s worth,” she says, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Almost at the bottom of the stairs, he turns and adds, “When you’re ready, I want you to be happy, too.”

“Don’t push it, mister.” She’s trying to sound playful, but the words ring harsh.

Heeding the warning, he disappears around the corner. And that’s when a smile cracks Tina’s face.

CHAPTER 17

Hannah loves her mom’s expression when Chelsea hands her the copy of
Midnight Mourning
and asks for her signature. The pain of the last twenty hours seems to melt away.

“I’ve already made it through the first three chapters,” Chelsea says, “and it’s awesome. I can’t wait to read the rest.”

“That’s so nice of you,” Hannah’s mom beams. After confirming the spelling of Chelsea’s name, she peels pack the cover and pens an inscription on the title page. Handing the book to Hannah’s new friend, she says, “My agent keeps harping on me to write YA. She tells me the key to the market these days is a younger audience. What do you think?”

“If the rest of your stuff is this good, I say keep doing what you’re doing,” Chelsea says. “If I had more friends, I’d tell them all to buy your books.”

Shooting Kevin a frosty glare, she replies, “Beware of
Winterland
. You may still be too young for that one.”

On that severe note, Hannah decides it’s time to leave. “Come on, let’s go.” She takes Chelsea’s hand and leads her to the front door.

“Don’t worry about me,” Chelsea calls out, “I can handle anything. I’ve seen every season of
True Blood
.”

Once outside, the girls mount their bikes.

“Where do you want to go?” Hannah asks.

“Your mom’s so fuckin’ cool, but I always thought horror authors lived in creepy old houses and wore dark makeup.” She tilts her head and squints up at the house, as if expecting it to change form.

“Um, have you ever looked at author photos? I don’t think Charlaine Harris howls at the moon, do you?”

“Hey, she might. Besides, who are you to poop in my punchbowl?”

“For one, I’m the daughter of a horror author who doesn’t howl at the moon.”

Chelsea laughs. “Okay, okay, but I always thought those author photos were for show, like maybe mean publishers were making the writers look all respectable so housewives would buy their books. Know what I mean?”

“Not really. You’ve clearly thought about this way too much.”

“My dad says I think about
everything
too much.”

As they pedal through the neighborhood, Chelsea does most of the talking. And, because she’s never tried being anyone’s friend before, Hannah decides it’s best to listen. After they select their first stop—Chelsea’s house—Hannah learns more than she ever cared to know about another girl.

Chelsea collects old things, which causes her father to call her a “hoarder.” Chelsea’s mom died when she was little. Her father is some kind of accountant for a marine petroleum company, and he travels a lot, leaving Chelsea at home alone. She’s a year older than Hannah and claims to have made out with three boys, but she never lets them get past “first base.” Hannah doesn’t want to know what “first base” is and she doesn’t ask. It’s clear that Chelsea enjoys talking, but she doesn’t ask many questions. At first, Hannah finds this off-putting, then she realizes it’s convenient. After all, she’s not anxious to answer questions about her past.

It’s not until Hannah enters Chelsea’s room that she understands what the girl’s father means by “hoarder.” The small space is made even smaller by all the shelves spilling over with trinkets and keepsakes—antique picture frames and dismembered doll heads, grisly figurines of gargoyles and surly gnomes. One shelf is dedicated to vinyl records. The air in the room is of a musty, antique-store quality, and the few slats of light that bleed through the sole window are clouded with swirling motes of sparkling dust.

“My God,” Hannah says, “this place is like a museum.”

“Thanks,” Chelsea says, “but I like to think of it as my tribute to the bizarre. Almost everything in my collection once belonged to someone else. Do you know what that means?”

“That your father’s right. You
are
a hoarder.”

“Well, yeah, I won’t deny that. But seriously, it means that everything in this room has a story. I like to think all these objects are haunted by their previous owners in some way, and that means I’m never really alone. You might think I’m strange for saying this, but I find that comforting.”

Hannah’s thoughts flash to the haunted object in her own dresser.
What would Chelsea say if she knew about my real father?
Hannah wonders. She clears a small space on Chelsea’s bed, heaping a stack of books onto a pile of LPs and vintage magazines, then sits down. All the while, Chelsea prances along the narrow moat of exposed floor around her bed like a deranged sprite, telling stories about her possessions. Hannah’s starting to realize just how strange her new friend is, and this makes her like Chelsea more.

“You’re lucky you still have both of your parents,” Chelsea says, handing Hannah a silver locket on a chain. “Open it,” she says.

Inside the charm, Hannah finds an oval image of a dark-haired woman holding a blonde toddler.

“That’s me and Mom,” Chelsea says, her voice still remarkably bright.

“I’m sorry,” Hannah says. “How did she…how did she…?”

“
Die?
Is that what you’re trying to ask?” Chelsea smiles. “You really shouldn’t be afraid of words, Hannah. I bet your mom isn’t afraid of words.”

Shaking her head, her eyes welling with tears, Hannah says, “I didn’t want to seem rude.”

“The driver of the truck that plowed into my mom was rude. You’re just getting to know me. Nothing wrong with that, unless this is all too heavy for you.”

Shaking her head, Hannah hands the necklace back to Chelsea. “Sorry,” she says, “I’ve never had any friends before. I just moved here from Savannah and—”

“Oh, shit, tell me you mean Savannah, Georgia.” Chelsea’s eyes are wide with anticipation.

Hannah nods. “Yeah, but it’s really no big deal.”

“No big deal? It’s only the most haunted place in the country. Come on, tell me, did you ever see any ghosts?”

“Can’t say I did.”

“Huh, you must not be tuned to the spirit world like I am. I bet I’ll see ghosts everywhere if I ever get to go there. They’ll show themselves to me because I want to see them. I read somewhere that it works like that. But I want to go to New Orleans more. I dig vampires more than ghosts.”

“When you’ve seen the kind of things I have, ghosts and vampires really aren’t all that important.” As soon as Hannah says this, she wishes she could take it back.

Chelsea sweeps a stack of magazines from her bed and plunks down next to Hannah. “I knew there was something cool about you, besides the fact that your mom writes horror, which is super fuckin’ cool. What have you seen? Tell me, please. You can trust me, I promise.”

“No,” Hannah says, “it’s nothing.” But something inside takes control, and her eyes are drawn to the antique stereo atop the shelf of vinyl records. The room disappears, replaced by darkness, and Hannah and a silver box labeled “Sony” are joined. A network of wires reveals itself, and instinct guides her. A short series of metallic pings rifle through her head. She blinks and finds herself back in the room, but the previously dark stereo is now alive with blue lights, a metal arm swiveling, then dropping onto a spinning record. Silence is sliced open by the thunderous opening of Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song.” Hannah knows the tune because it was one of her father’s favorites.

Pressing her hands to her cheeks, Chelsea stands and creeps toward the stereo. “This thing hasn’t worked in months,” she shouts above the music. She spins to face Hannah. “I could feel electricity coming off you and your eyes went all funny and…holy shit, how did you do that?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Hannah lies.

“No, no…hell, no! You did something! Oh my God, you did something!” She races back to Hannah and grabs her shoulders, shaking her. “You’re amazing! Please, tell me how you did that. Please, I beg you. I need to know there’s magic in this fucked-up world. Please! I won’t tell anyone!”

Slammed by an overwhelming desire to unburden herself with the details of her secret, Hannah realizes the only higher power that drew her gaze to the stereo was her own need. And this desperate girl provides the perfect audience. If Chelsea breaks her promise, it won’t be hard to discredit her as a loon, and Hannah’s account will become nothing more than another odd tale to keep the rest of this girl’s fantasies company.

Hannah takes a deep breath, then, once her friend’s hysterics retreat to relative calm, she launches into her story.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, Kevin knocks softly on the bedroom door. The keyboard clatter from inside the room ceases, and Tina calls out, “Jesus Christ, Kevin, this is
your
house. If you want to come in, come in.”

She swivels around on her chair as he skulks into the room. “I’m going back to work tomorrow,” he says. “Just called the office and let them know.”

“So you’re cutting your staycation short?”

“Might as well. You’re back to work already, so I figure it’s time for me to get out of your hair. Besides, everything’s unpacked, I don’t have anything to occupy my time, and Hannah has a friend now, so…”

Tina stands and moves to the window. She pulls open the drapes and leans toward the glass, her hands gripping the sill. “Is Hannah home yet?” she asks.

“No, but she promised she’d be back before dinner. No reason not to believe her.” Crossing his arms, Kevin stares at the floor.

“I’m not used to my little girl being out there without adult supervision.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Tina. I used to babysit my cousins when I was Hannah’s age.” When Kevin looks up, he finds Tina smiling at him.

“Oh my God, Kev.
You
were a babysitter?”

Unfolding his arms, he takes a few steps toward Tina. “Of course, my aunt and uncle paid me in pizza.” He pats his gut. “Nothing this fat boy won’t do for a large Imo’s with everything on it.”

She snickers.

“How’s the writing going?” he asks. “Anything ready for me to read?”

“It’s getting better,” she says. “Everything I wrote last night and this morning had to be scrapped. Pure crap, every fucking word of it. But I’m happy with what I’ve accomplished this afternoon. I guess my head is clearer now.”

He cups his hands on her shoulders, expecting tense muscles. When his fingers find soft flesh, she turns into him and wraps her arms around his waist.

“I thought anger inspired you,” he says.

“I wasn’t angry, Kevin. I was giving up, trying to protect myself. I kept wondering how I could forgive you, and then I realized, you don’t need to be forgiven. You need to be loved. While I was freezing you out, thinking about running away, you were helping Hannah.”

“Ah, that was nothing. She did most of the work.”

Her hold around him tightens. “Listen to you, trying to be humble. I love that about you, Kevin. You’re a good man, and Hannah loves you, too.”

Running a hand through Tina’s hair, he tilts his head and kisses her neck.

“How much longer until Hannah comes home?” Tina asks.

“Long enough.”

He lifts Tina and lays her down on the bed, then he eases into her. That afternoon, he makes love with more intensity than he ever thought possible, holding her as if his life depends on it.

Later, basking in Tina’s afterglow, he says, “Should I call the office and tell them I’m not coming in tomorrow?”

“No,” she replies, “I think it’s time for things to become normal around here, and I don’t want your boss thinking my man is some kind of flake.”

“What’s normal?” he asks.

“Damned if I know,” she says, “but I think, maybe, it goes something like this. You go off to work, and I sit down at my desk and write, and Hannah plays with her friends, and then we all come together for dinner, and in the evenings we snuggle up with good books and bad TV, and at night we make love, and in the mornings we drink coffee together, and then we do it all over again. In summer, we take a trip someplace far from here. In winter, we drink cocoa and snuggle next to the Christmas tree. I miss winter, and I’m looking forward to snow this year.”

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he says.

“I think everyone wants some version of that, deep down inside. Damn shame that simplicity’s so hard to find.”

“Why’s that, do you think?”

“Maybe it’s because we’re stupid animals who cling to yesteryear’s tragedies instead of looking ahead with hope. Self-fulfilling prophecy is a bitch.”

“Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said, ‘What’s past is prologue’?”

“Why does everyone always quote that dead asshole?” She slaps him on the arm and smirks. “Unless you’re Tarantino, of course past is prologue, but that doesn’t mean I’m not ready for a happy ending.”

He cringes at the finality of the sentiment, then says, “I just think we need to balance the lessons of the past with the promise of the future.” A week ago, Kevin wouldn’t have questioned Tina’s logic, but he feels a surge of confidence now. He hopes he isn’t pressing his luck.

“Maybe,” she says.

“Just a few days ago you were telling me that I couldn’t erase your past.”

“No, Kevin,
you
can’t erase my past, but that doesn’t mean I can’t. You still want me to be happy, don’t you?”

“More than anything, but we
are
products of our past, whether we like it or not, and your past brought you to me and made you the woman I love.”

“That’s sweet,” she says, “and maybe that outlook works for you, but don’t forget, you never walked in my shoes.”

“There you go,” he says with a smile, “putting me down just because I don’t have the calves to pull off high heels.”

Laughing, they hold each other close, and they don’t let go until Hannah comes home.