Shadows Gray Read online

  “Mm hm, you should take her out.” I agree while I put bread in the toaster. “Where’s Prue? Did she and Dad leave already?” I peer at the clock. It’s nearly 10:30.

  “They were doing corned beef and cabbage today so they had to leave a little earlier than normal,” Will replied.

  “That’s going to stink in this humidity,” Meli wrinkles her nose. “They should stick to the Cajun stuff, it sells better. Are you going down there, Sonnet? Please change your clothes, honey.”

  I butter my toast and glance down at my shirt. “What’s wrong with it? You don’t like horses?”

  “At least put on jeans. Come on, Sonnet! You could be so pretty if you’d put in a little effort, you know. Comb your hair, put on some make up. Let me take you shopping. Don’t you think I should take Sonnet shopping, Will?”

  “I like Sonnet the way she is.”

  Point one for Will. “I promise to comb my hair,” I say as I leave the kitchen.

  “And put on jeans! And some lip gloss!” she hollers after me.

  “No lip gloss,” Matthias says disapprovingly as I pass the couch, “That stuff is not for nice girls. Only street girls wear color on their faces.” Matthias doesn’t get out much.

  I do comb my hair and change my pajama pants for jeans, although I doubt either one improves my outfit much. It looks sunny and hot outside today and so I grab my favorite hat as well, a cap with the Budweiser logo on it. I’ve never actually had a Budweiser but they make excellent caps.

  It is unseasonably hot once I step outside our little house. The heat hits me in the face like hot steam from one of Prue’s soups. It makes the peeling paint more obvious; the whole house seems dried out and shriveled in size. The wooden planks of the porch are warped and our mailbox leans to one side. I flick a bug off my favorite spot to sit – our porch swing – and fluff the indoor/outdoor paisley fabric of the cushions before I leave. It’s not a long walk to where Prue and Dad have their vender’s cart set up, but I swing by the coffee shop on my way and get an iced tea from Micki, the manager. By the time I reach the food cart, I am ravenous and could eat whatever Prue slaps on a paper plate for me. It’s melt in your mouth meat with salted potatoes and cabbage. I do so love the Irish.

  Prue is tall and very tan and leathered looking in complexion. She does have the sort of face that a camera would love to capture, simply because she is unusual and seems out of place wherever she is. Which, of course, like the rest of us, she is. She has long salt and pepper colored hair that she wears in braids that are then twisted around her head several times, and she is large and rather intimidating looking. Her skin is the color of mocha and her ethnicity is always a debatable question. Prue isn’t my grandmother by blood but she has traveled with my dad and me for as long as I’ve been alive, and before that. She’s been with Dad since he was a teenager and lost his own parents. She speaks several languages but mostly lapses into a mixture of French and Native American. She makes sure to swear in English so that everyone can understand it though. She’s accommodating like that.

  My father is tall and dark, like I am, but his eyes are brown. He looks like he should be a college professor of something literary, and he is in fact a bit of a history buff. Well, I suppose we all are since we experience more of it than the normal person who stays put in one century. He has that air of musty books and reading glasses and bowties about him, as if you could find him on a library shelf and not be surprised. He is aimless and sad much of the time and our whole group tends to baby him. Everyone wants to see him smile, laugh, forget. He rarely does. He is not a man of rainbows and sunbeams, my father.

  I sit on the concrete wall behind the food cart and swing my legs as I eat my lunch. I butter up Prue as much as possible, telling her how wonderful her cooking is and how nice she looks today, but judging by the scowl and the way she smacks my knee with a fork I’m guessing she isn’t buying what I’m selling. So I abandon the compliments, take the fork away from her, and tell her about Luke Dawes, Photographer.

  “And he didn’t say, Prue, but I bet you he probably pays for his models,” I finish, taking a sip of tea through my straw and trying to sound casual. Prue is extremely fond of spending money.

  She grunts and stirs her pot of cabbage. She removes a bay leaf and flicks it in my direction. Getting Prue out of customer service would probably be an excellent idea. I remove the leaf from my jeans.

  “He takes nice pictures. Just think about it. I saw some of his photos and he’s talented. There was a girl who looked like Rose.” I shouldn’t say it but I do. We don’t speak of my sister much. If it’s possible, my dad looks even more sad and lost and I immediately regret my impulsive carelessness.

  Prue on the other hand, softens her gaze and puts the lid back on her pot. “Baby Rose. God bless her. I hope she had a long, happy life. Wish we could have gone back and seen what happened to her. I ‘spect she had a real good life, that little one. I’m sure old Babba found her real quick.”

  I’m sure Old Babba found her real quick. One of us says that each and every time we remember Rose out loud. It’s like the words are our mantra, our chant, to ward off thinking about it any longer. Old Babba was our neighbor there, an old woman who came by the house we were living in nearly every day. We talk ourselves into believing that Old Babba would have found Rose the next morning after we had traveled on without her. The worry of what may have happened, what could have happened, is too much to bear. So we comfort each other with the same words and talk ourselves into accepting it as truth.

  I’m sure Old Babba found her real quick.

  Saying it doesn’t make it so.

  “Well, in any case, whether you want him to take your picture or not, Prue, he also wants to marry you for your alligator gumbo recipe. So, there you go, you heartbreaker.” I wink at her as I jump off the wall and dodge her large, tan hand as it reaches out to slap my head. Prue doesn’t tolerate cheekiness.

  “You’re the one who needs to get married, little missy!” She huffs. “You isn’t getting any younger.” She eyes me up and down. “You isn’t getting any purtier either.”

  “Hey! Why is everyone always trying to change me? And I’m way too young to get married in this day and age. Besides, who would I marry?”

  “You might be a tad young in this day, but wouldn’t you rather travel with a husband in case you wake up in another time where they pick out the husband for you?” She puts her hands on her ample hips and purses her lips.

  I roll my eyes. “Alright already, I see your point. I’ll get married, if you will.”

  She continues to glare at me.

  I take my life in my hands and give her a hug, squeezing hard. She squeezes back and then shoos me away impatiently.

  “Go away, child! You are scarin’ away all my good customers.”

  “Alright, I’m going. Dad, you want to walk with me? Dad?”

  “What’s that, dear? Oh, no. I’m going to stay with Prue and help her with her customers. I’ll see you later tonight.” He smiles wistfully at me and picks at his fingernails. It’s one of his many nervous habits; others include pulling on his eyebrows, twisting his tie, buttoning and unbuttoning the tiny white buttons on his shirt sleeves, and rolling his short beard whiskers between his fingers.

  I give him a kiss and walk back the way I came. I won’t go to work until later this evening, so I have time to visit with Emme, my closest friend here. Her home is a small apartment not far from the coffee shop and I know she’ll be there, probably eating a very late breakfast and reading one of her trashy romance novels, with her pretty manicured feet propped up on a table. Emme is Lost, but she didn’t travel here with me; she’s one of another group. I want her to come with me, and she may inadvertently since her apartment is close by. When we travel onto another place and time, we do so when we are sleeping and anyone who is Lost and is nearby generally goes as well. That’s why families are able to stay together for long periods of time; we sleep together at all costs. When I work la
te at the coffee shop, everyone in my house stays up for me. There are no slumber parties when you’re a little Lost girl; the daddies don’t travel for overnight work, the mommies don’t go out of town for Girl’s Night Out, and the teens don’t go away to school. The risk is too great. So, with Emme being not far away from my own home, she may get pulled in with our group. Time will tell. Time always tells. I know that if she doesn’t, I will miss her forever, almost as much as I miss my mother and Rose.

  Her apartment is one in a large building. Each has a little balcony with a screen door, and Emme’s balcony is full of flowers and potted plants; hot pink geraniums, purple pansies, and orange tiger lilies. She has cute little stone bunnies peeking out from beneath one, and a ceramic cat is nestled in the daisies. We each have a weakness for furry animals, but Emme has the good sense to indulge hers in lawn ornaments instead of wearing them on a shirt like I do. She has a doorbell that plays music but I don’t press it, instead I let myself in and call a greeting as I walk through the door.

  There is music playing, Norah Jones I think, and Emme is exactly how I imagined she would be, lying on the couch with a book in her hand and a plate of cookies on her belly.

  “Hullo, doll!” she says, merrily. “Come have some dessert for breakfast. Whipped these up myself last night, I did!”

  I take one gingerly. “You baked?”

  Emme laughs. “Yes, I baked. Had a client last night and that’s what he wanted to do, so that’s what we did. Takes the cake doesn’t it?” She winked.

  “Were you both fully clothed when you were umm, baking?”

  “Mmm, well, I’ll leave that part up to your imagination, but believe me when I say there was no hanky panky. He just wanted to bake, the love. He was a cutie too. Hey, maybe I could set you two up?” She wiggles her perfectly shaped red eyebrows suggestively.

  When I first found out what Emme did for a living, I couldn’t help but be a little shocked. She isn’t much older than I, but has been doing what she does for…a time. It’s the profession that never goes out of date, she says. I suppose she has a point. Nudity is always in style, at least in some circles. I try not to think about it.

  “Everyone and their brother are trying to set me up,” I grumble, biting savagely into the cookie. It’s a gingersnap.

  “That’s because you’re hopeless on your own, Sonnet. Look at what you’re wearing. Good God, are those horses?” She looks aghast at my favorite shirt. I wipe off the cookie crumbs and puff out my chest proudly in defiance. “You should really let Meli take you shopping. I’d give you some of my stuff if you weren’t so dang skinny. Have another cookie.”

  I oblige and settle into the chair opposite her couch. Her book’s cover is of a half naked man holding onto a gorgeous woman. It’s a tough call who has the better hair.

  ********************

  Tonight, Friday, the coffee shop is packed with customers. Our busiest night is always Friday because of the lineup of singers and specialty prices on drinks and snack food. I spy Luke in the back, in one of our comfortable leather armchairs, but it’s too busy to go say hello or socialize with anyone. Matthias and Harry wander in at about half past seven for coffee and to hear me sing. That’s a compliment coming from them, as they don’t like to leave the house very often. I make them a whole pot of French press coffee and serve it to them with a pitcher of cream and lots of sugar packets. They never have any money – because they never leave the house to make any – so I’ll have to pay for the coffee out of my wages. I get a small discount, but Micki is notoriously tightfisted.

  When it’s my turn to sing I don’t bother taking my apron off since I’m still on the clock. For atmosphere’s sake, the lights are low tonight, giving the shop an air of an old time piano bar or an old fashioned elegant club. I imagine myself wearing a sparkling floor length gown, blue maybe, or red. I’m sitting on a piano, my hair in loose waves, and the audience is sophisticated, sipping champagne instead of cappuccino.

  The song I’ve chosen is from World War II and I’ve picked it for Matthias and Harry. They were both there. They both recognize the first few chords from the guitar I’m playing and salute me from their chairs.

  I'll be seeing you

  In all the old familiar places

  That this heart of mine embraces

  All day through.

  In that small cafe;

  The park across the way;

  The children's carousel;

  The chestnut trees;

  The wishin' well.

  I always sing with my eyes shut; it isn’t my intention, but they tend to just drift closed and I lose myself in the music. I’m not a very good guitar player - I’ve only been playing for a few months - but some strumming is better than no accompaniment at all. I sing mostly for Matthias and Harry, but also for the love of singing, and perhaps, if I’m honest, to see if I can impact the man in the back with the camera.

  I'll find you

  In the morning sun

  And when the night is new.

  I'll be looking at the moon,

  But I'll be seeing you.

  When I finish the last note and the last chord I open my eyes and smile at the applause. Of course this little group of locals would clap politely for anyone, but I know I sounded decent - maybe better than decent. I blow Matthias and Harry a kiss and put my guitar back down by the tiny stage. I can’t help glancing back at Luke and I see him fiddling with his camera. Did he take a picture of me? I feel flattered and then instantly feel ridiculous for feeling flattered. I really must get out more if a mere acquaintance can dictate my emotions. I step nimbly, or what I had planned to be nimbly and casually, off the stage and nearly trip on a speaker cord. A hand helps me up from my stumble. As I rise, my eyes flicker once again to the back. I no longer see Luke but what I do see frightens me and steals my breath.

  Sitting where Luke had been, in the oversized leather armchair, is a small woman. Her red calico dress is old fashioned, but it doesn’t look out of place on her timeless, otherworldly beauty. She is willowy but small in stature, with a frame like a little bird. Her blonde hair is almost yellow and hangs all the way to her tiny waist. It is parted on the side and half of it hides her face, but it is a face I know. A familiar face from my memories and from my dreams. This time I cannot talk myself back into reality. I cannot convince myself it is a coincidence, a fluke. A moment of déjà vu. She is too entirely like my mother and I know my mother is dead.

  Our mother. Because I am certain that beautiful girl is Rose Gray.

  Chapter Three

  I land right back where I had stumbled a split second before. The woman helping me is so surprised that she almost lands on top of me since her hand is still on my arm. I feel as though I’ve been hit with something, a blow that knocked me off my feet, and I am stuck in a frustrating state of things being in slow motion and yet happening too fast for me to control. I can see the vibrant colors of the woman’s shoes that are directly in front of me; I can smell the vanilla from the latte on the breath of the man who leans down and helps me up; I can still hear the last strum of my guitar hanging in the air by my ears; and yet I am terrified that when I stand again Rose will be gone. I half leap, half claw my way to standing again and when I gaze desperately into the back of the crowd, my fears are realized and my heart feels as though it has stopped. She is gone. The leather chair is empty.

  I know I am almost sobbing and making a spectacle of myself as I push my way through the crowd to the chair. I think I see Luke out of the corner of my eyes but I am uncertain and unconcerned. There are two different exits to the coffee shop and I don’t know which way to turn: right would be the main entrance and exit that leads to the street and left is the back entrance which has more parking spaces but you wouldn’t know that unless you had been here before. I choose right.

  When I swing open the big door and step into the night air, the silence is a black hole that makes my air come out of my lungs in a whoosh. I can see far down the street i
n both directions and there is no one. There is no one here and I have chosen wrong. Pushing back through the crowd and going out the back is hopeless now. Rose is gone. I sink to the sidewalk.

  I must have sat there for a few minutes, staring blankly into space as calm, silent tears cascade down my face. I notice when he sits down beside me but I don’t respond. I hug my knees to my chest. The only way I acknowledge him at all is to sniff every few seconds to prevent the snot from running down my face. It’s the only polite thing I can accomplish right now. In spite of what I think is a heroic attempt, Luke abruptly stands and leaves, back through the coffee shop door. I can’t help the pitiful broken laugh that escapes me, but in less than a minute, he is back. He sinks back down to the sidewalk with me and hands me a rough paper napkin.

  “Best I can do,” he says. “Men’s stall is out of toilet paper.”

  “Sorry,” I croak and accept the napkin. “I always forget to check in there when I’m stocking for the next day.” I blow my nose, at first daintily and politely, but then with more gusto. I take longer than I need to and wipe my eyes, putting off what I think could be a weird conversation and explanation.

  “If this is how you always end your act on stage, I think you’re a little hard on yourself,” Luke finally begins. “You weren’t that bad. Kind of good actually. Although your guitar picking needs work.”

  I can’t help but smile, lopsided though it is. “I know. You’re a big guitar expert, huh?”

  “The world’s leading air guitar expert,” he corrects me. His tone changes from silly to gentle. “Want to talk? Or do you need more sandpaper to blow your nose with?”

  “I just thought I saw someone I used to know,” my response is very lame and I know it. But how do I explain that this someone I used to know I last saw over two hundred years ago? I look down, embarrassed, and see my horses on my shirt galloping across my chest; they would look so mighty and strong if they weren’t soaked with my tears.