Magdalena's Shadow, page 33
I always called her Lily. She was small and young, and I’d tried calling her Mother once, but the name wouldn’t stick. It was like calling a cat a dog. Lily wasn’t a mother, and I have never been a son. We were just Parker and Lily in the days before she was taken and life gave way to a yearlong cycle between boarding school and this great tomb. God, I hate this damned house. What would Lily say if she knew…? But I stop myself before I finish the question. I should never have allowed it to begin with. Instead I imagine Lily by her kitchen window eating toast with a cat at her feet. She smiles, pushes back her long brown hair, and tells me to Hurry up and eat.
Gidra
The fighting has begun in earnest. Mama wants to see New York, but J.S. either won’t or can’t fund the trip so we are forced to move on. I’m glad to skip New York. Glad to slip unnoticed into the back seat of J.S.’s battered old Benz, glad to disappear into the comfort of my silence. Mama is enraged. She switches between soft whimpering protests to overt accusations and outright attacks.
J.S. revs the engine too high, his anger at Mama and his situation spilling out on the car. I know J.S. would love to show Mama off in this great city the same way I know Mama would love to be seen out in her gowns and furs, but a city of this caliber is not kind to the impoverished, and J.S.’s funds ran out months ago. I do not speculate on Mama’s funds. She won’t spend a cent of our fortune. Not while J.S. is still around to foot the bill.
I’ve never seen a dime of the money I’ve earned. The only rewards for my work I’m allowed to keep are the jewels I’ve received that are more decorative than valuable. Everything of real value goes into Mama’s yellow valise to be counted and clutched close against that dreaded day when we can no longer earn our keep.
The skyscrapers loom large over head as the car moves past the docks and out into the city. A waterfront fog precedes us, clouding over the top tiers of the office buildings, casting everything in dark gray shadow. New York is amazingly modern. I’ve never seen a city with such megalithic skyscrapers. London has its tall buildings and modern sections but nothing it has can compare to what I’m seeing now. Still, all this grandeur makes me feel small, too small to follow Mama and J.S. through these dark streets pretending we belong when in truth it’s much easier to tuck tail in our poverty and run.
It’s nice to close my eyes in this gray darkness. It’s nice to nestle amongst my things and rest against the worn upholstery of this old car. It’s nice to fade into nothing and just forget myself for a minute. Sleep dances close but never comes. I could sleep now; I could sleep forever if only Mama would be quiet. I’m eighteen years old or some age close to that. I’ll never know my true age, but eighteen sounds good right now. It fits the way I feel, young enough to curl up and sleep, old enough to understand the weary heaviness that has overpowered my mind.
I know I’m sad, sad for all I’ve lost and for all I’ve never known. I would like to have a real birthday and a last name, a home with a house cat and maybe even a horse again. I’d like friends and normal clothing. I’d like to be allowed to wear pants instead of skirts and dresses.
I’m so sick of dressing up and stripping down that I’d like to just go free. I’d like to kick off these infernal heels, throw away my gloves, and let myself go. I’m tired of this shadow life. I’m tired of playing the perfect little doll so pretty and youthful on the exterior that men can’t help themselves when they see me. I’m not a doll. I’m not a toy. Somewhere underneath the dresses and the smiles, the pretty jewels and dazzling makeup, is a woman I would respect if I could find her.
Closing my eyes hard and then closing them hard again, I play a little game with myself, one I started many years ago. When the light behind my eyelids turns red and black with intense blinking I imagine him as he looked the last time I saw him, his eyes dark brown like warm chocolate. I remember the lines of his face, too thin with illness but beautiful all the same. I remember the sound of his voice, my name on his lips calling me close. I feel his arm around my waist pulling me to the bed. I hear the sound of his voice when he asks me to bring something to ease the pain.
Lying here with the tumult in the car filling my ears, I remember Albert until he is all around me. His spirit fills the empty spaces, his eyes look into mine, and our lips meet for one earth shattering moment. I hold him close, keeping him safe from the cold in the same way I kept him from death. Only when I feel his presence do I feel my body relax. Only in his company can I be myself, young, happy and innocent of all the sins that have been visited on me since God took him. Now with this trick of the soul I’m at peace. Wherever Albert is, is home because he is the only home I’ve ever known.
Parker
Strathmore House does not wake with the happy noise of family; if it has a pulse or heartbeat it is in the busy work of Alma the housekeeper and the maids who pace the floor in a never ceasing repetition of service. In this moment one maid, the curtain maid named Doreen, kneels near where I sit on the stone floor with my copy of a Tolkien book spread across my lap. I watch Doreen oiling the wooden banister while her sister, Althea, the one with honey gold skin and golden brown eyes, stands high above us on a ladder cleaning the chandelier. She glows with light, a sponge in one hand, her face and features illuminated by the shimmer of electrified crystal. I like Althea. She is always kind to me. All my life she’s been here to welcome me home like an old friend at the close of every school year. Her smiles offer me a kind of warmth I find nowhere else. If anyone lived year-round in Strathmore House, she wouldn’t work there. Light skinned girls don’t work as maids, especially not pretty ones, and she is pretty in her monochromatic uniform.
Light dazzles off her wet sudsy hands and arms, her fine figure outlined where she stands. I am distracted from this artistic play of light on beauty by the crunch sound of movement on the gravel drive. All activity comes to a sudden stop. We freeze, observant in our places, our ears detecting what our eyes cannot yet see.
Scrunched childlike under the entryway table I watch first one maid then the other straighten and peer through the window; their colorful forms, one honey, one ebony, clothed in long black skirts with white aprons set a beautiful contrast against the yellow gold wallpaper and cream crown molding. Suds slip unnoticed from sponges, slide down crystal teardrops to fall to the stone floor leaving each bubble to lie like a glistening rainbow where it lands in the pensive room.
Action replaces stillness; bubbles are burst, blown by the passing swish of skirts and a folding ladder. The last trace of the moment is removed when rag in hand Althea, polishes the damp tile, killing the last bubble before disappearing at the click of the front door. The hall is as desolate as if no life had ever touched it. I do not shift from my hiding spot on the floor. Instead I fade into the heavy silence which precedes hurried motion. I remain, legs crossed, book on bent knees, and watch the two mahogany doors.
The left door opens, bringing sharp afternoon light and heat to fall across the floor in the shape of an unexpected someone, all narrow angles and stilted shadow. Golden light frames abundant curls and long skirted legs, stretched and lengthened by the afternoon light until this being is no more human than the Naiad or Tree Sprite, its heavy curls, like leaf and branch, diffuse the light while thin arms, raised to either side of the door frame, become limbs of bark not flesh. Drawing myself back further into darkness, I fix my eyes on the place where this shadow stands and waits.
One, two, the great hall clock ticks on through the silence, unaware that anything magical or macabre has intruded upon its busy order. A rustle of cloth, a sigh, and the shadow turns away, dropping one branch and then another before moving away. I move into the light, toward the thin slice of sunshine, the boundary between my quiet place and the lofted hall. Was she real or illusion: Ent, Elf, sorceress, or girl? Reality tells me that nothing magical ever comes to Strathmore House while my imagination conjures more magical beings, each one wilder then the last. As curiosity gains a stronger hold, I slide from under the table, and walk toward the door.
The movement comes before its sound, much like clouds pushed by a fast-moving wind which has yet to shake the roof tiles. She is there before me in one darting motion, her red curls framing a heart shaped face alight with iridescent gray-blue eyes. I recoil at the quickness of the motion, at being spotted, at being found to hide like a child when I’m meant to be a man.
“I heard you move,” the girl whispers in an I caught you voice. Though I am taller, she is older than me by maybe two years if not more. None of this registers as I take a step back.
“Where did you come from?” I watch her watch me, her eyes alight with a curious almost soulful stare.
“I came to find you.” She turns toward the windows, her accented words ringing in the room. I look past her, past her golden red hair and white sundress toward the drive where a Mercedes stands half hidden by the yew hedge. Alma, the housekeeper, stands with a woman in a pale-yellow travel coat and a third figure, a man I recognize as my long absent father. The momentary shock makes me dizzy. The room spins imperceptibly. I blink, forcing reality into its place. But the loneliness will not give way, and try as I might I cannot accustom myself to this new and sudden vision because nothing has ever induced my father to come home to Strathmore House.
“You should go…go and say hello,” the girl murmurs, disturbing my thoughts before leaving the way she came. I watch for her reappearance behind the panes of old window glass, her hair a golden torch in the bright sunlight. “I found him,” I hear her call from the front step as the man I recognized as my father looks toward her.
“Gidra, you should have waited!” he reprimands, but Gidra seems not to hear him. Instead she turns toward the orchard and walks away.
I follow Gidra through the house, past the western windows, through the library, my feet skidding over the stone floors while I mark her path, finding her again and again in each consecutive window. Only when I reach the southern library casement do I find her again through French doors that lead to the veranda overlooking the koi pond.
She is there like spun gold and spring petals, leaning over the pond, her hair falling around her face. She watches the fish move toward her, splashing and rolling at the water’s edge. Her high sweet giggle chimes through the shimmer of refracted light to where I stand. Her gaze rises to meet mine, searching me out in the shadowy depths of the library casement.
Frozen, I could stand here for the rest of my life, transfixed as I am by this girl beside the pond. Her beauty is on fire in the spring sunshine, her luminous figure framed by lilies, green leafed trees and the happy frolic of orange and yellow fish. Yet, my hand moves without me, my mind operating on its own as I feel myself pass through the open door to the veranda, only half aware that some part of me has decided to join her.
“What do they want?” Gidra laughs. In the water the fish begin to boil, mouths open, pushing, begging, and gulping for her attention.
“Food,” I say, my voice so low it is a stranger to me. I walk to her holding the jar of pellets I keep by the door, surprised to find my feet on the worn stone steps that lead down to the southern garden. Gidra’s laughter rises when a fish splashes her, sending droplets of water to cling to her cheek and hair.
I lift the jar out toward her, free of its tin lid. Gidra reaches in with both her hands, grabbing fistfuls of food. She throws the food into the air, high above the pond where I see the pellets aloft for an instant against the blue sky only to rain down like hail over the water’s surface. The fish dive in every direction, their large whiskered mouths straining to catch every falling piece. Gidra laughs again; the music of her laugh is as alive to me as are the fish writhing in the water. But I can no longer see the fish. Strathmore House, the gardens, the entire world, disappear when I hear Gidra laugh. Again, I am aware of the gold light which follows her, perhaps the result of sunlight on beauty. Or perhaps it is something more.
Gidra
I am so glad to be free of the car, so glad to leave Mama and J.S. behind, that I exit the Benz, and walk straight toward the house. It is a daunting old place, gothic with its pointed arches and heavy Blue Ridge granite. The original plantation house was burned down in the Civil War, yet this new version of Strathmore House looks more suited for the drizzling rain of the English countryside than for the sun bright south.
I think I like Virginia. It’s beautiful. Not since leaving Europe have I seen so many thousands of acres of unspoiled green beauty. It reminds me of Austria, only warmer.
I’m nearly to the house when I see movement through the windows. Two dark skinned women disappear into shadow leaving the front hall empty on my approach. No one comes to welcome us. I study the heavy wooden doors with their weather-beaten exterior, sun bleached to a dull unwelcoming gray. This deterioration renders them as colorless as the cool stone they are set in. The left handle looks more worn with use then the right and grasping the hot metal I open the door, which swings lightly on its well-oiled hinges.
A musty, unwholesome air envelopes me. I lean into the cool darkness of the room, the hot sun casting my shadow in strange lines across the stone floor. The scented breath of this old house stinks of the past, of too many closed windows and tucked away memories. It is the scent of a tomb rarely visited, its few inhabitants forgotten by history, by their family, and by time. This house is England all over again. The odor of moist stone and rooms filled with moldering antiques repels me, but the moment I turn to go a noise catches my ear. It sounds very much like the shuffle of an old dog or something else worth investigating. I’m over the threshold in a movement, coming face to face with a boy who is so like Albert that I can’t disguise my shock.
“I heard you move.” My words sound childish and absurd, spoken only to excuse my sudden intrusion. His eyes are that same dark brown chocolate I loved so much in childhood; warmly lit and beautifully edged with heavy dark lashes that frame their distinctive almond shape. Looking away I cast my gaze through the old warped glass to the place where Mama and J.S. unload the car with another woman who has appeared to help them.
“Where did you come from?” the boy who must be Parker asks. The figure before me becomes obscured by a fine mist of tears because his voice is equally rich and familiar.
“I came to find you.” I look again on this boy who is the man I loved, only so young, so delicately formed and sweet, that he is at the same time unrecognizable. I came here to find you, I repeat to myself, acknowledging the longing in every syllable. Yet even while I stand studying his face, his high cheekbones and strong nose, the likeness dwindles, and Parker is again the son J.S. has plagued me with–the private school boy who needs breaking in before the world has a chance to ruin him with its manifold proprieties.
“You should go…” I say, warning him away, “…go…go and say hello.” I walk out onto the gravel drive and call, “I found him.” J.S. scolds me but I don’t wait to hear why. In this perfect sunshine, I am free of Parker and my memories, free of the odor of the house and of Mama and J.S. I follow my feet around the house to a beautiful fish pond. But no sooner do I reach the water than I feel Parker again, his eyes warming that cool empty place in my chest. I lift my eyes to where he stands watching me from a window. He is drawn to me like a flower that turns its face to the sun. One look gives him all the encouragement he needs to join me. We stand watching the play of light on these wonderful fish, their freedom and joy in the moment matching my own. A free, easy, uncalculated laugh escapes me.
“What do they want?” I ask, smiling up at him.
Parker mumbles something which sounds like food, and presents me with a jar. Grasping two handfuls I loft them high over the pond. Looking up again I find Parker’s eyes have never left me. For one moment more I see my Albert smiling, his face soft with peace instead of lined with illness and worry. I’ve stared too long. I’m being rude but to look away now would be to lose this moment, the last moment in which I think I will ever see Albert happy. For propriety’s sake alone, I drag my eyes from his face, smiling again on the fish. For some incomprehensible reason my heart warms with hope. Maybe this is my second chance to live and love as I wasn’t allowed to before. When I look again at Parker, I feel the warmth of our connection intensify, its bright heat lighting my soul and the small space between us.
No matter what Mama says, I will not play the courtesan with Parker. He is not an easy mark to be targeted, lured, and exploited. I will be myself with this boy. I will ruin him for the world if only to keep him for myself. With a sudden rush of covetous need I know that I want him, no matter the consequence.
About the Author
E. E. Orme writes upmarket new adult and women’s fiction with an emphasis on love, loss, empowerment and finding identity within relationship. Husband and wife may make a marriage but it is their uniquely expressed individuality that makes the marriage work. As a person living with Complex PTSD, E. E. Orme understands the importance of finding personal identity and empowerment after loss and disillusionment. E. E. Orme lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her husband, son and stellar dog Aria.
First Edition
Magdalena’s Shadow
ISBN Print Edition: 978-0-9985953-1-3
ISBN eBook Edition: 978-0-9985953-0-6
IBSN Audiobook Edition: 978-0-9985953-2-0
