Read Online The Shadow Girl by Jennifer Archer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Archer
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crosses her arms, like she’s protecting herself.
“Mom?” I dig my fingertips into the couch cushion. “The morning of my birthday, before Dad and I drove to the lookout, I heard the two of you talking.”
She’s quiet for a long time, and then she says, “He was afraid you would.”
“What was he going to tell me when we got home?” When she doesn’t answer after a few seconds, I try again. “After the accident, before Dad lost consciousness, he said something about the two of you thinking you’d done the right thing, then he asked me if it was right and if I’ve been happy. What did he mean?”
“I don’t know. He must’ve been mixed up.” She grabs the television remote from the coffee table and begins flipping through the channels.
“But what were you talking about when you said you gave up everything for me?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Mom turns the television off, lays down the remote, and stands, then starts toward the hallway. “Your father is gone and we have to learn to go on without him.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” I call after her. “Going on with your life by locking yourself in his shop every day?”
The click of her bedroom door is my only answer.
That night, I curl up on the couch close to Cookie’s pen, intent on sneaking out to the workshop after I’m sure Mom’s asleep.
The log walls creak and groan as the cabin settles in, and quiet yelps slip from Cookie’s throat as he dreams by the fireplace. I worry that he might be in pain, but I’ve already given him his dose of medicine. He’s just been so out of it today, so listless.
Iris, though, is anything but lethargic. She’s edgy tonight, as restless as the wildlife that creep in the shadows around the cabin after dark. But I’m too tired to try to calm her down. My muscles relax and my eyelids droop.
Just as I’m falling asleep, the fire snaps and flares, and she whispers, Wake up!
Startled, I sit upright. What’s wrong, Iris?
Go. The workshop. Look for answers.
I rub my eyes. About Jake?
The secret. He must be part of it.
I stare into the glowing orange embers in the fireplace, feeling reluctant to dig any further. What if Jake wrote that note to my mother? Babe . I cringe. If Jake is the young guy I saw in the vision, then they did know each other before Mom married my dad, because he didn’t look any older than me. Why did I feel the urge to kiss him? And how is he connected to Iris? None of it makes sense.
Go , Iris breathes.
Slipping from beneath the blanket, I tiptoe into Mom’s room. The jeans she wore earlier are draped over a chair in the corner, her ring of keys creating a bulge in one pocket. Holding my breath, I ease across the floor and retrieve the keys without making a sound.
Back in the living room, I take a lantern-style flashlight off the mantel, put my coat on over my pajamas, and stuff my feet into my boots. My breath catches when the hinge squeaks as the front door opens, but Cookie doesn’t stir and I don’t hear Mom, so I step outside and close the door gently behind me.
Once I’m in the shop, I turn on the flashlight and set it on the floor. I don’t want to use the overhead lights and risk Mom looking out and seeing a glow streaming from the windows.
Dragging the toolbox out of the closet, I remove the violin case and the jewelry box and place them on the floor, close to the light. I sit in front of the case, crossing my legs on the dusty plywood planks, and open it. The sight of the instrument’s gleaming, honey-colored wood makes my pulse stutter. But as much as I want to, I can’t bring myself to touch it again. What if I have another freaky vision of that guy? A part of me is terrified for that to happen. Another part wishes it would so that maybe I can figure out if he’s Jake.
Iris flickers inside me like snowy static on a television screen, constant, unbroken. Waiting. I raise the lid on the jewelry box. The ballerina pops up and gives me a blank
“Mom?” I dig my fingertips into the couch cushion. “The morning of my birthday, before Dad and I drove to the lookout, I heard the two of you talking.”
She’s quiet for a long time, and then she says, “He was afraid you would.”
“What was he going to tell me when we got home?” When she doesn’t answer after a few seconds, I try again. “After the accident, before Dad lost consciousness, he said something about the two of you thinking you’d done the right thing, then he asked me if it was right and if I’ve been happy. What did he mean?”
“I don’t know. He must’ve been mixed up.” She grabs the television remote from the coffee table and begins flipping through the channels.
“But what were you talking about when you said you gave up everything for me?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Mom turns the television off, lays down the remote, and stands, then starts toward the hallway. “Your father is gone and we have to learn to go on without him.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” I call after her. “Going on with your life by locking yourself in his shop every day?”
The click of her bedroom door is my only answer.
That night, I curl up on the couch close to Cookie’s pen, intent on sneaking out to the workshop after I’m sure Mom’s asleep.
The log walls creak and groan as the cabin settles in, and quiet yelps slip from Cookie’s throat as he dreams by the fireplace. I worry that he might be in pain, but I’ve already given him his dose of medicine. He’s just been so out of it today, so listless.
Iris, though, is anything but lethargic. She’s edgy tonight, as restless as the wildlife that creep in the shadows around the cabin after dark. But I’m too tired to try to calm her down. My muscles relax and my eyelids droop.
Just as I’m falling asleep, the fire snaps and flares, and she whispers, Wake up!
Startled, I sit upright. What’s wrong, Iris?
Go. The workshop. Look for answers.
I rub my eyes. About Jake?
The secret. He must be part of it.
I stare into the glowing orange embers in the fireplace, feeling reluctant to dig any further. What if Jake wrote that note to my mother? Babe . I cringe. If Jake is the young guy I saw in the vision, then they did know each other before Mom married my dad, because he didn’t look any older than me. Why did I feel the urge to kiss him? And how is he connected to Iris? None of it makes sense.
Go , Iris breathes.
Slipping from beneath the blanket, I tiptoe into Mom’s room. The jeans she wore earlier are draped over a chair in the corner, her ring of keys creating a bulge in one pocket. Holding my breath, I ease across the floor and retrieve the keys without making a sound.
Back in the living room, I take a lantern-style flashlight off the mantel, put my coat on over my pajamas, and stuff my feet into my boots. My breath catches when the hinge squeaks as the front door opens, but Cookie doesn’t stir and I don’t hear Mom, so I step outside and close the door gently behind me.
Once I’m in the shop, I turn on the flashlight and set it on the floor. I don’t want to use the overhead lights and risk Mom looking out and seeing a glow streaming from the windows.
Dragging the toolbox out of the closet, I remove the violin case and the jewelry box and place them on the floor, close to the light. I sit in front of the case, crossing my legs on the dusty plywood planks, and open it. The sight of the instrument’s gleaming, honey-colored wood makes my pulse stutter. But as much as I want to, I can’t bring myself to touch it again. What if I have another freaky vision of that guy? A part of me is terrified for that to happen. Another part wishes it would so that maybe I can figure out if he’s Jake.
Iris flickers inside me like snowy static on a television screen, constant, unbroken. Waiting. I raise the lid on the jewelry box. The ballerina pops up and gives me a blank
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