The Shadow Girl by Jennifer Archer Page A

I had when I was at Wyatt’s today—how it seemed like I was the one playing the violin, not my mother. Of course, that’s impossible, in spite of Iris’s insistence that she’s channeling my memories. I’ve never played a violin in my life.

9

    On Wednesday morning, I try to get Cookie to go outside, but he nips at me. Cookie’s never nipped at anyone before, least of all me. I don’t think he hurts physically that much anymore; he’s been walking easier on his own. It’s his state of mind I’m more worried about. It’s as if he and Mom are slowly dropping into the same dark pit.
    Cookie circles the interior of the pen like he can’t find a comfortable spot. I wish I knew how to help him.
    Sing him the lullaby, Iris suggests. It used to calm you when you were out of sorts.
    I begin humming, but the sound of my voice doesn’t soothe Cookie.
    It’s not enough. Something’s missing . . . the violin, says Iris.
    Her words tap a clogged vein in me, and the music flows free, streaming through me again—the lullaby played on a violin. Soothing. Powerful.
    When the sound in my head fades away, I’m left shaken.
    With a groan, Cookie finally lies down on the soft pallet in his pen. I pet him for a while, trying to understand what I just heard and what Iris meant. But minutes later, when his breathing steadies, I still don’t have any answers.
    At a loss, I go into the kitchen and sit down at the table, hoping my studies will take my mind off everything else for a while. As I’m opening my textbook, I hear Ty drive up, and a few minutes later his hammering starts. Mom drags herself out of her room still in her pajamas, looking groggy and pale. She’s rubbing the knuckles on her right hand, her fists cradled close to her body.
    A heaviness fills my chest. She seems as bad off as Cookie. It’s more than her lupus. Dad died exactly a week ago, and I’m having a hard time today, too. I push aside the book on Greek philosophers and the paper Mom assigned before the accident and tell her, “Good morning.”
    “Morning,” she mumbles.
    I push my chair back. “Let me get you some coffee, Mom.”
    “I can get it,” she says with a strained smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She pours herself a cup, then turns to me.
    I lift my book. “You want to talk to me about this or read over my paper?”
    “No, that’s okay. When you’re through, let me know. That’ll be good enough.” She shuffles past me to the couch.
    I take a breath. “I’m really missing Dad this morning.”
    “I know, honey. Me, too.” Mom sits down, clenching the mug between her hands, as if its warmth relieves the pain in her fingers.
    “I’ve been thinking about him so much. His life, I mean. There’s so much I don’t know. Not just about him, but about you, too.” Sending her a cautious smile, I continue, “What were the two of you like when you were dating? You’ve never talked about it.”
    She lowers the mug to her lap. “I don’t know, honey. It was so long ago.”
    “Did your parents like him?”
    “Yes.” Her eye twitches.
    “Did his parents like you?”
    “We got along well enough.”
    I sigh. “It’s so weird. I don’t even know what my grandparents looked like. Do you have pictures?”
    “We never took many pictures,” she says, the words rushing out.
    “Surely you have wedding photos. I’ve never even seen them.”
    Mom’s body tenses, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, like she’s been pinched. She shakes her head, takes a sip, and says, “There aren’t any. We eloped.”
    I know I’m pushing, but I can’t stop myself. “You don’t even have any from when you were kids? It’d be fun to see what you and Dad looked like back then.”
    “We never got into photography. I’m sorry.” Impatience gives her voice an edge.
    I scoot back my chair. “There’s not even an old school picture?”
    “I’m sure we have a few somewhere, but do we have to look for them right now?” Mom sets the mug