Shadows Gray (2 page)

I think it is my sister.

Chapter Two

“Where did you take this?”  I ask hoarsely.  I feel as though my world has tipped sideways and I am dizzy and nauseous.

He peers over his coffee cup at the photograph of the girl I feel certain is my sister, Rose.  “At the river,” he says.  “It was during the fair last weekend.  Know her?”

Suddenly I feel ridiculous.  Of course I don’t know her.  Of course it isn’t Rose.  How many times have I thought I’ve seen her, been certain I’ve spotted her?  I do the same with my mother.  Any woman with yellow hair and light eyes really.  That quickening of my heart and breath, that butterfly feeling in my stomach, and then they turn and I see they are nothing like my family at all.  I feel foolish and desperate.  And yet, she is so very much the way I imagine Rose to look.

I clear my throat.  “No, no I don’t know her.  She looked familiar though for a minute, that’s all.”

“Well, I didn’t catch her name, but she’s a beauty and the camera loves her.  Got a couple shots of her in the crowd as well.  Do you have any muffins left?”

“Hmm?”  I say distractedly.  “Oh, sure.  They’re day old though, still want one?  I’ll charge you half price.”

The photographer eats his muffin, drinks his coffee.  We listen to Penny’s poetry – he’s right, there was mention of a goat. When he leaves I clear his plate and find his business card,
Luke Dawes, Photography.
  I pocket it in my apron to show Prue and since he leaves a nice tip, I decide to vouch for his character so that maybe she’ll let him photograph her. 

I’m home late that night as I always am on weekend nights.  The shop stays open late and I’m the only one who can close it because I’m the only one trusted enough to do the changing out of the cash register and balance the books. 
Israel comes to collect me, as he always does, and we walk home together through the night, since his car is low on fuel and the night is warm.

Israel
is a good man to walk with; he’s not talkative and we fall into an easy rhythm.  He has been with our group since we came here – no, since just before I suppose.  We met him in our time before this one, which was Portugal in the 1850s.  I have traveled thirteen times in my life, and lived in four different centuries.  There is no rhyme or reason to how long we stay, no pattern, no way of anticipating how long our times will be before we move on unwittingly.  Portugal was short.  My time here now has been two years, longer than most.  I do not get attached.  I have all that I need, or fiercely say that I do.  My father is irritating and difficult, but he’s mine.  Prue is as well.  The others have been with me long enough to love them dearly but they will most likely not be with the three of us forever.  At some point someone will distance themselves and we won’t make a jump through time together, but we will meet up with others.  Sometimes you are lucky enough to find someone from your past again, but it’s rare.  Once we met my uncle, my dad’s brother, who has always been a wanderer and a loner.  I hadn’t seen him – well, no one had – since he had wandered away from us when I was ten, but we somehow made a passing together anyway and ended up in Portugal together.  He seemed happy enough to see us and we all made plans to stay together this time, but no one was completely surprised when he wasn’t around the night we all traveled again and woke without him.  Every so often the loneliness is more than you can bear; but it’s easier for some to be the one to force it upon themselves than to be the one who is left behind.  I wonder if Luke is like that, and then I remember no, he is not Lost, he merely wants a photograph of my grandmother.   He probably has a wonderful family, people who are never further away from him than a phone call or a letter or a boat ride.  I kick rocks all the way home and my fists are curled in my jacket pocket in muffled, stifled anger.  Israel is silent but there is no familiar sense of comfortable camaraderie in our silence tonight.

********************

I wake the next afternoon to the smell of strong tea and bread.  Amelia and Will are at it again, arguing in the living room.  I can hear their tone of voice, if not their words, although I can guess at the conversation since it rarely differs.  I can also hear the sound of the television with the ever running game shows.  It sounds like Family Feud.  Matthias and Harry are huge game show fanatics.  They were so excited to be back in an era with television, they almost wept with joy.

I stumble out in my favorite old shirt, a soft gray one with faded pictures of horses, and a pair of plaid pajama pants.  I have changed from the white, old fashioned nightgown I wear every night.  The risks of waking in an unknown era are vast enough without calling attention to myself by an odd set of clothes.  The nightgown, while a little eccentric in this day and age for a young woman, is the best I can do.  I yawn and give Harry his customary high five as I walk by the couch.  He loves this century.  He loves smacking people’s hands instead of shaking them.

“Sonnet,” Amelia – Meli for short - calls out as I reach the kitchen and open the refrigerator.  “Sonnet, tell this bum we need to go out!  We need to go out, Will.”  She turns her attention to her husband and props her cute, heart shaped face on her hands.  She stares pointedly at him.

Will is short and small and wears glasses.  He reads a book and sips orange juice and doesn’t pay her the slightest attention.  Will and Meli have been married for several years and they haven’t agreed on anything since.  Meli frets and mopes and stomps around the house when she isn’t working as a nanny, and Will indulgently pats her head occasionally, but mostly ignores her.  Their devotion to each other and to their respective pursuit’s border somewhere between ridiculous and inspirational. Last week their daily arguments were focused about whether or not to have children.  Now it seems Meli just wants a date night.

“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 late 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.