Down the hallway, a window looks out onto the neighboring property—the St. Clairs—the house is barely a faint light in the distance. What a pretentious name. The interior is decorated in white, all white mind you, even the bricks are painted white. Any designer or real estate professional will tell you that’s a sin.
There were nights at Shadow Garden I dreamed in such vivid details about Hawthorne Court that when I woke I often forgot for a fraction of a second where I was. Though the muddle of the layout continues, to my surprise, I find the door to Penelope’s room just fine. The more I hype myself, the heavier my heart gets.
Why haven’t you called me or visited?
If you think I’m mad at you, I’m not.
I love you, that’s what mothers do.
Your father told you lies about me, is that what this is?
I grasp the glass doorknob and I stand there, unable to move. The knob turns and the door swings open. I hover on the threshold. Paralysis isn’t an exaggeration, for once I’m not being dramatic. I don’t dare enter because the very end of the room disappears into blackness.
21
DONNA
A nostril flare confirms the carpet smells stale, unaired, yet there’s something else, a tinge in the air, a trace of something I can’t quite place. Though I’m unable to make out details in this faint light, I know Penelope’s room by heart, every inch is etched into my brain. Though impossible to validate in the dark, the walls are painted in a soft daffodil yellow with gold flecks mixed into the paint.
Three framed prints on the opposite wall centered in a horizontal grouping tell a fictional story of an accumulation of bad choices. One: a girl leaning out of a window as she brushes her long hair. Rapunzel was the epitome of Penelope, mainly concerned with herself, up in a tower, but also, and I hate to admit it, due to the actions of her parents she ended up in the hands of a witch. In the second print, the girl sets off into the forest, carefree, her dress billowing, and her head high. A fearless heroine, Penny the adolescent, curious and unafraid in everything she did. I have since abandoned that belief and replaced it with a complete absence of self-awareness, ignoring the dangers of the world rather than being daring. Unprepared and ill equipped. In the third print the girl comes upon wild animals in the woods, battling them, her dress torn and her hair undone, unable to fight them off. I shiver.
The light and the darkness in the room create confusing and obscure shapes and nothing about it says it has recently been occupied. There are shadows on the floor, on the walls, on the shelves. There’s no nightstand, no vanity. No couch. No chair. No coffee table. No white fluffy rug. The bookshelves are there but only a few sad editions rest flat on the dusty surface. Nothing is as it used to be, it’s a dollhouse without furniture, empty and unassembled.
Drawing conclusions is difficult with just the faint moonlight coming through the window and I won’t know until I turn on the light. I close the door gently so as not to make a sound. Pushing the dimmer to the bottom, I switch on the light and move the knob up. The light in the room is barely more than the flickering of a candle, yet I see the floor clearly: dark squares and light rectangles in the shape of tables and couches and chairs. No one had been here to move furniture to allow the wood to evenly lighten. Ruined. It’s all ruined.
Penelope’s not here and neither are her things. Do I check every room of the house to find her? That seems impossible in the dark—too many rooms, too much can go wrong. Look for signs, I tell myself. Look for signs and clues about Penelope.
I step toward the window and peer outside. The oak is too tall to see Preston Hallow Road. Placing my hand on the windowsill and leaning forward until my forehead touches the glass, I run my fingertips across the wooden frame. Splinters and slivers and bits of wood dig themselves into my skin. The window casings are peppered with holes, numerous wooden chips have gathered on the sill, I feel deep grooves beneath my fingers like someone took some sort of tool to the frame and hammered away.
The closet door is open and in the corner, like an array of sticks, sit floorboards with nails sticking out. In the far end of the room is the bed frame—just a mattress, no sheets or pillows—a skeletal piece with four posters. Draped over the footboard is a pillowcase, left behind in a hurry, as if its existence has escaped the person who removed everything else from the room. Even the fabric that was used to create the canopy is gone.
The shapes on the walls must be my imagination. Square, the size of an index card. Brushstrokes, they look like? Someone sampling shades and color choices before making a selection?
Pulling the pillowcase off the bed, I bunch it up and with my foot shove it into the gap underneath the door to keep the light from escaping into the hallway. I push the dimmer up another notch. The dark corners of the room illuminate and the angles and curves are now clear for me to inspect. Dings and dents everywhere. I recognize the indentations on the wall for what they are: square holes with jagged edges.
I inspect the bookshelves. The ledges are spare, only a few books remain flat on their backs, toppled over as the adjacent ones were removed. They are dusty, though the pages are immaculate as if they’ve never been cracked open. I stroke the spines as if the physical touch will make my mind recall them, yet none of them look familiar. I study the titles, make an attempt to recall the covers and stories, but I can’t seem to make a connection. I can’t quite get there. All those dollhouses Penelope had are so vivid in my mind—chairs, vanities, coat hangers, and fireplace stokers, no feature left neglected. How does one remember one detail but not another?
I switch off the light and push the pillowcase away from the crack underneath the door, turning to look at the room one more time.
There’s a shiny object on the floor. I step toward it and get down on my knees. My hand passes through it and I realize it’s just a sliver of moonlight coming through a crack in the window. My veins are prominent, my bones protrude. There’s a shift, a slight flicker, real or imagined, who’s to say. Old houses do that, make the world fluid, like a double exposed photograph. Am I caught in overlapping timelines? Or have I been in a coma and the world has gone on without me and I’m just now catching up to it?
One vivid memory pops into my head, from a time long ago. I take a deep breath, hold it. There’s a question in my head, a loop without beginning or end, like a corkscrew, it spirals down, down, down, down, to the bottom of the steps. Out the door and to the place where I must go.
That’s where I will find the truth about Penelope.
22
EDWARD
Edward awakes to a thud. A tree touching a window, a falling branch, he can’t tell. He stares off into the darkness. There’s the sound of breathing that isn’t his own, a labored heaving like someone having exerted themselves. Probably his very own breath waking from a nightmare he no longer recalls. The duvet lies bunched up next to him and the night is cold. Maybe he neglected to shut a door or close a window? He’s been forgetful lately.