Authors: Katie MacAlister

Me and My Shadow (41 page)

BOOK: Me and My Shadow

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The door opened as I stood up, still wobbling, the floor tilting and heaving under my feet. “I heard aâOh. I see she's up. Hello, Ysolde.”

“Hello.” My stomach lurched along with the floor. I clung to the frame of the bed for a few seconds until the world settled down to the way it should be. “My name is Tully, not Ysolde. Who are you?”

She shot a puzzled look to the other woman. “I'm May. We met before. Don't you remember?”

“Not at all. Do you have a phone, May?”

If she was surprised by that question, she didn't let on. She simply pulled a cell phone out of the pocket of her jeans and handed it to me. I took it, staring at her for a moment. There was something about her, something that seemed familiar . . . and yet I was sure I'd never seen her before.

Mentally, I shook away the fancies and began to punch in a phone number, but paused when I realized I had no idea where I was. “What country is this?”

May and Kaawa exchanged glances. May answered. “England. We're in London. We thought it was better not to move you very far, although we did take you out of Drake's house since he was a bit crazy what with the twins being born and all.”

“London,” I said, struggling to peer into the black abyss that was my memory. There was nothing there, but that wasn't uncommon after an episode. Rapidly, I punched in the number.

The phone buzzed gently against my ear. I held my breath, counting the rings before it was answered.

“Yeah?”

“Brom,” I said, wanting to weep with relief at the sound of his placid, unruffled voice. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Where are you?”

“London.” I slid a glance toward the small, dark-haired woman, who looked like she could have stepped straight out of some silent movie. “With . . . uh . . . some people.” Crazy people, or sane . . . that was yet to be determined.

“You're still in London? I thought you were only going to be there for three days. You said three days, Sullivan. It's been over a month.”

I heard the note of hurt in his voice. I hated that. “I know. I'm sorry. I . . . Something happened. Something big.”

“What kind of big?” he asked, curious now. He gets that from me.

“I don't know. I can't think,” I said, being quite literal. My brain felt like it was soaking in molasses. “The people I'm with took care of me while I was sleeping.”

“Oh,
that
kind of big. I figured it was something like that. Gareth was pissed when you didn't come back. He called your boss up and chewed him out for keeping you so long.”

“I suppose I should talk to Gareth,” I said, not wanting to do any such thing.

“Can't. He's in Barcelona.”

“Oh. Is Ruth there?”

“No, she went with him.”

Panic gripped me. “You're not alone, are you?”

“Sullivan, I'm not a child,” he answered, sounding indignant that I would question the wisdom gained during his lifetime, all nine years of it. “I can stay by myself.”

“Not for five weeks you can'tâ”

“It's OK. When Ruth and Gareth left, and you didn't come back, Penny said I could stay with her until you came home.”

I sagged against the bed, unmindful of the two women watching me so closely. “Thank the stars for Penny. I'll be home just as soon as I can get on a plane. Do you have a pen?”

“Sec.”

I covered the phone and looked at the woman named May. “Is there a phone number I can give my son in case of an emergency?”

“Your son?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Yes. Here.”

I took the card she pulled from her pocket, reading the number off it to Brom. “You stay with Penny until I can get you, all right?”

“Geez, Sullivan, I'm not a tard.”

“A what?” I asked.

“A tard. You know, a retard.”

“I've asked you not to use those sorts of . . . Oh, never mind. We'll discuss words that are hurtful and should not be used another time. Just stay with Penny, and if you need me, call me at the number I just gave you. Oh, and, Brom?”

“What?” he asked in that put-upon voice that nine-year-old boys the world over can assume with such ease.

I turned my back on the two women. “I love you bunches. You remember that, OK?”

“K.” I could almost hear his eyes rolling. “Hey, Sullivan, how come you had your thing now? I thought it wasn't supposed to happen until around Halloween?”

“It isn't, and I don't know why it happened now.”

“Gareth's going to be pissed he missed it. Did you . . . you know . . . manifest the good stuff?”

My gaze moved slowly around the room. It seemed like a pretty normal bedroom, containing a large bureau, a bed, a couple of chairs, a small table with a ruffly cloth on it, and a white stone fireplace. “I don't know. I'll call you later when I have some information about when I'll be landing in Madrid, all right?”

“Later, French-mustachioed waiter,” he said, using his favorite childhood rhyme.

I smiled at sound of it, missing him, wishing there was a way to magically transport myself to the small, overcrowded, noisy apartment where we lived so I could hug him and ruffle his hair, and marvel yet again that such an intelligent, wonderful child was mine.

“Thank you,” I said, handing the cell phone back to May. “My son is only nine. I knew he would be worried about what happened to me.”

“Nine.” May and Kaawa exchanged another glance. “Nine . . . years?”

“Yes, of course.” I sidled away, just in case one or both of the women turned out to be crazy after all. “This is very awkward, but I'm afraid I have no memory of either of you. Have we met?”

“Yes,” Kaawa said. She wore a pair of loose-fitting black palazzo pants, and a beautiful black top embroidered in silver with all sorts of Aboriginal animal designs. Her hair was twisted into several braids, pulled back into a short ponytail. “I met you once before, in Cairo.”

“Cairo?” I prodded the solid black mass that was my memory. Nothing moved. “I don't believe I've ever been in Cairo. I live in Spain, not Egypt.”

“This was some time ago,” the woman said carefully.

Perhaps she was someone I had met while traveling with Dr. Kostich. “Oh? How long ago?”

She looked at me silently for a moment, then said, “About three hundred years.”