When Shadows Fall. J.T. Ellison
Shut your eyes.”
She did, heard him rustling around, then he came back and she felt the couch sink under his weight.
“Okay. Open ’em.”
She could swear she felt her heart stop, just for a moment, then adrenaline poured through her system and it took off at Thoroughbred pace. There was a small robin’s-egg-blue box in his hand, with a familiar white ribbon tied in a lovely bow. Tiffany.
Oh, God. She looked up to see Xander smiling widely at her obvious discomfort.
“It’s not what you think. Well, not exactly. Open it.”
She was possessed by an irrational thought—run. Run, now, out the door, and don’t look back. But she took a breath and unwrapped the box.
Inside was an incredibly delicate band of diamonds set in platinum, so small, so perfectly tiny and exquisite they were nearly diaphanous. She couldn’t help herself; the words came out before she could think.
“Oh, Xander, it’s beautiful.”
“It reminds me of you. Strong, unbreakable, but fine and delicate and made of stars.” He took it from the box and picked up her right hand. “I know you aren’t ready to take a bigger step, so I had this made for your right hand. If you’re ever ready, we can move it to the left. But for now, I wanted you to have something of mine. Something of me. Something to remind you of us when you’re away from me.”
He put the ring on her finger, then brought it to his mouth and kissed it. She was speechless. The panic was gone, replaced by a warm, gentle pulsing in her chest that signaled happiness, safety. A feeling she hadn’t had in a very long time. Tears hit the edges of her eyes and she used her left hand to wipe them away, then touched her wet fingers to his lips. “I love it. And I love you.”
He was quiet for a minute. “I know you do, hon. I know.” He sighed. “Just promise me you won’t take too long.”
* * *
They didn’t see the face in the window, watching them hug, and kiss, and touch. They only had eyes for each other.
Chapter
8
DARKNESS NEVER ENDS, even in the daylight. This is something I learned when I was a child, locked away in a dark, dank room, with spiders and centipedes for companions, and the occasional rustle of a mouse, or a rat, or a snake that slipped in through the grate after its prey. I had a tattered blue blanket I assume belonged to some other child kept in the hole, which I used alternately as a pillow and a cover. There was a chipped sippy cup I could use to catch rainwater when it dripped through the ceiling. The floor was dirt, and there was a bucket in the corner. Once a day, there would be footsteps, closer and closer until they stopped. The small window in the steel door would open, and something edible would be shoved through. Bread. Cheese. Once in a glorious while, an apple. And on the special days, the days I was briefly, brutally visited, after—if I’d been good—I was given an orange.
I hate oranges.
I hate the dark.
And spiders and rats and snakes and mice and everything that reminds me of those days.
Everything but him.
I’ve often wondered how many children came before me. I don’t want to know how many came after. He told me, when we left, I couldn’t ever look back. Not to the time before, nor to my time there. Looking back would make me unhappy, and it was best to never, ever think about those dark days again. We would make a new life. A life looking forward. A life free from shadows, from pain and humiliation and sharp things in the night.
I did my best.
I always did my best.
Even before, on the special days, when they came for me, blindfolded me, walked me one hundred and fifteen steps to the cold place. They told me I was special. That I was beautiful. Perfect. And when they were inside me, tearing me open, squeezing the breath out of me with their weight hard on my flat chest, they said unspeakable words, words I shudder to remember. Words children shouldn’t know. Instructions children shouldn’t get.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
Every step I take, deeper into the forest, the bad words come to me. I stop, stand against a tree, take a deep breath. Conjure his face, his kind, loving face. But now the vision is marred, his skin pale and waxy, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, the emptiness of his bulging eyes, the blood on his body. I will never see him smile again, never hear him read to me, or do flash cards at dinner, or watch fireflies as they gather in the twilight.
Or chase away the nightmares.
The truth can’t help me now. I crumple to the ground, sobbing so hard my body shakes. The forest screams at me, cicadas and birds and crickets and bats in an alarming cacophony; the trees shriek and stamp their feet, waving their arms, trying to catch the wind. Leaves rain down on me, dead and yellow, and I hear them coming.
Oh, God, they’re coming. And there’s nowhere left for me to hide.
SATURDAY
“To think of shadows is a serious thing.”
—Victor Hugo
“Let not your heart be concerned with death, for the three corners of our life are at hand. Birth, life, death: this is the only cycle that matters. Death is the great equalizer. Whether your life is one year or one hundred years, you will be resurrected in me, and we shall all live forever when the shadows at last fall.”
—Curtis Lott
Chapter
9
Georgetown
SAM WOKE EARLY to the sun streaming in the bedroom windows. Xander was gone, a note on the bed saying he was out for a quick run. She remembered last night in a sudden rush and stared down at her right hand. The delicate diamonds flashed in the morning sunlight, and she smiled. Clever and romantic, Xander’s ring, as she was already thinking of it, anchored her to this life more than any emotion she’d had since Simon and the twins died.
The thought of them hurt, but she let it in, breathed through it, touched her new ring. She whispered, “Forgive me, my loves.”
Sam jumped in the shower, then dressed in flax-colored linen Bermuda shorts, leather loafers and a cream cotton tank top with a matching cashmere sweater, packed a large black-and-tan Longchamps bag, pulled her damp hair off her face with a headband. She brought the bag downstairs and called Fletcher.
He didn’t even say hello. “Morning, sunshine. You ready? We can be down there before lunch if we take off soon.”
Sam said, “You didn’t even know I was going to call.”
“Well, a little bird might have mentioned you were planning a trip south.”
“Xander? He called you?”
“Texted. He knew you’d want to get on the road early. I’m on my way to your place now. Think you could scrounge me up some breakfast?”
“Don’t you ever grocery shop, Fletch?”
“Sure I do. Sometimes. Well, maybe not, really. Just coffee is fine, if food is too much trouble.”
“Yes, Fletcher, cooking for you is always a bother. I’ll see you shortly.”
He was laughing when he hung up.
She went into the kitchen and hurriedly put together omelets and bacon, enough for three. She was assembling the last plate when she heard the men in the hallway, Xander’s deep voice answering a question from Fletcher’s tenor. She shook her head. Sometimes she wondered who was running her life. It certainly didn’t feel as if she was.
She shot Xander a