Fade To Midnight. Shannon McKenna
life. Edie crumpled the printouts in the pocket of her long sweater, and scrambled for something else to say. “I, um, have a book signing this Saturday,” she offered. “At Powell’s. At seven p.m.”
“Oh. That’s nice,” he said, his voice distant.
“It’s for the release of my new graphic novel,” she persisted. “The Fade Shadowseeker series. The fourth installment. It’s doing well. It’s a pretty big deal, this event. I was wondering if…” She clenched her hands around the paper. Let him turn her down flat, right to her face. “Wondering if you and Ronnie might come,” she finished breathlessly.
Her father’s eyelids quivered. “Fade Shadowseeker?” he said. “That would be the character based upon that that horrible event that blighted your whole childhood?”
Edie cupped her hands around her wineglass and stared at the liquid trembling in the glass. “I wouldn’t say it blighted my childhood,” she said quietly. “But yes, that’s the one.”
“I’m sorry to hurt your feelings, but I disagree with you about that. And I find it ironic that you would actually suggest that I come and…celebrate this unhealthy obsession of yours. Or that you suggest I let your thirteen-year-old sister witness it! What are you thinking, Edith? To ask me that? It’s an offense!”
Edie felt her cheeks start to burn. “No. It’s not like that, Dad.”
“I understood working out your feelings about that experience through drawing, and I applaud the attempt, but this has gone so far beyond a therapeutic tool, it’s…it’s—”
“It’s a fictional character, Dad,” she said, her voice gentle and flat.
There was a strained silence as they both groped for a way out of this danger zone. Dad was half right, as far as it went. The event that had inspired Fade Shadowseeker had indeed been traumatic.
She remembered every detail. It happened eighteen years ago, on her eleventh birthday. Her mother had arranged a big party at the country club. Edie had been dreading the party. Her hair had been curled into a million dumb ringlets. She’d been dressed in a ruffly white thing with a scratchy lace collar. A wreath of white roses, baby’s breath and lacy fluff in her hair. They’d stopped at Daddy’s Flaxon office, so that Daddy could kiss her and give her his present in person, because he couldn’t make the party. He’d bought her a pink bicycle. Pink silk ribbon bows on it. Pink helium balloons tied to the handlebars.
A man had burst in, and run into Daddy’s office before anyone could stop him. He’d been hideously injured. His face blistered with burns, his hair singed off. His hands were black and swollen, his body bloody, covered with oozing cuts. He’d been raving about torture. Mind-rape. Kids thrown in a hole. Begging for someone to make it stop.
Her mother screamed for security, yelling that the man was trying to kill Daddy. They had come running. The enormous, shattering crash as the wounded man threw one of the security guards through the plate glass window and out onto the grounds still echoed in her head.
More security came running. The fight went on for a long time. The man was incredibly strong. It was terrible to hear, though she couldn’t see most of it. Mother screamed through the whole thing.
They’d finally subdued him. It took five of them to pull him out of Daddy’s office. His eyes had fixed on her as they dragged him past, still twisting and struggling. His eyes were bright green. They shone with a brilliant, desperate light, as if lit from within. She saw it in her dreams.
He’d twisted and strained to keep his eyes on her as they carried him away. He’d called out to her for help. His stark desperation haunted her. It haunted her still, eighteen years later.
She tried to grasp that fey light whenever she drew Fade Shadowseeker, the scarred hero of her graphic novel series. She never came remotely close. But she kept on trying. Obsessively.
After they hustled him away, she’d looked down at her ruffly dress. It had been speckled with a fine spray of tiny bloodstains.
Yes, that had been traumatic. Just not as traumatic as having both her parents withhold their approval for most of her life. That trauma beat the burned man raving on her birthday to hell and gone.
“It didn’t blight my life,” she repeated. “It marked it, that’s all.”
“The hell it didn’t! You were traumatized!” Dad jabbed the whispered words at her. “You’ve never been the same since!”
A hard point to argue, since she doubted that her father had noticed what she’d been like before. Shy and insignificant, for sure. Easy to overlook. No trouble to speak of. No problems.
It was afterwards that she’d become a problem to them.
Her mother had canceled the birthday party, pleading a stomach virus. That had marked the beginning of Edie’s oddessey with child psychiatrists and endless medications, to treat her nightmares, her anxiety, her so-called obsessions. Her utter, hopeless inability to be the daughter her parents wanted her to be.
She pushed it away, and shook her head. “It’s just a character. An artistic creation. It’s my work, Dad. It’s how I support myself.”
“Oh, stop. I’ve lost patience with your playacting at being a starving artist in that miserable hole of an apartment. It’s an insult to me and to your mother’s memory, when you could live in any of a dozen beautiful properties! You could have an allowance, a car—”
“I don’t need an allowance. I’m fine. I already have a car.”
“You call that thing a car? It’s a death trap! You know how I worry. How your mother worried! Her worry for you shortened her life!”
Edie winced. “That’s not fair!”
“That’s the truth!” Her father shoved out his jaw, in that self-righteous way that brooked no argument.
Not fair. Linda Parrish’s death had not been her fault, but it hurt, to hear it said. To know that he believed it.
Her mother had died of an unexpected heart attack fourteen months before. No one had known she had a heart condition. She was thin, fit, excruciatingly elegant. She played tennis, golf. She was active on the board of innumerable charities. But one day, at a Parrish Foundation board meeting, she had clutched her chest, and collapsed.
Edie had known it would happen, ever since her mandatory weekly lunch date with her mother. She’d been nervously doodling on her napkin during the lecture about her clothes, her hair, her attitude, the expression on her face. She’d sketched the sharp line of her mother’s profile on the napkin, felt that inner eye open…and realized that she’d surrounded the portrait with dozens of hearts. Big ones, small ones. And she knew that deadly danger stalked her mother.
She didn’t know how, what, or when, but something was going to happen. Something that could kill Linda Parrish. She struggled as best she could to translate the symbols her subconscious threw to the surface. The hearts made her think that Mom should go to the doctor, get tests done. On her heart. That was the best she could figure.
But her revelations had been met with derision and anger. The lunch had ended prematurely, and Edie had been banished in disgrace for forcing her sick delusions on her mother. And in a public place, too.
Linda Parrish died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, a scant week later. No chance to say good-bye, or part on better terms.
Edie had been over it in her head millions of times. She should have been smarter, sneakier. Told someone else to call her mother, someone with credibility. She should have begged her mother’s doctor to suggest it. There had to have been a better way.
Edie pushed away the grief and frustration, and tried again. “OK, never mind the book signing, Dad. I don’t want to fight with you. Let’s just talk about something else, OK?”
Her father looked down at his wineglass, tightlipped. “You don’t understand, Edith. By dwelling