In the Shadow of Blackbirds(29)

“Stephen,” I whispered, “I’ve hung both of your photographs on my bedroom wall. I know we’ve never believed much in ghosts, but I have to wonder, were you in my room yesterday? Were you visiting your photos? Or me?” I closed my eyes and blocked out the hum of conversations behind me. “Do you know who I am, Stephen?”

Nothing happened that indicated he had heard me.

My lips shook beneath my mask. “It’s Shell, Stephen. Mary Shelley. I’m here for you, all right? I’ve been unwell, but I’d never miss saying—” I gulped down a lump as sharp as a razor blade. “I even wore one of my gigantic hair bows for you because I thought it would entertain you. Like when we were kids. I’d give anything to hear you—”

I stopped, for a heavy weight, thick and poisonous, had settled across my shoulders. My mouth filled with the same hot-metal flavor of rage as when Aunt Eva had yelled at me in the hospital. The fabric below my hand prickled with static, which made my heart pound.

“Stephen?” My voice rose an octave. I ran my fingers along the flag and shut my eyes again. “Are you all right?”

The flavor in my mouth grew more intense, and the flag beneath my hand sparked and crackled. Everything else in the room slipped away.

“Is something wrong, Stephen?” I asked again, feeling in my bones I’d hear an answer.

Three heartbeats passed. A whisper brushed against my ear.

“Very wrong.”

My eyes flew open. I peered over my shoulder to see if anyone stood nearby, but there was no one within ten feet of me. I dropped to my knees, pulled down my mask, and bent my bare lips closer to the coffin. “Did you just say very wrong? Oh, my God, did you just speak to me?”

“Mary Shelley?” called Aunt Eva from behind me.

“Stephen, talk to me again. What’s wrong? Why aren’t you all right?”

Another word burned in my ear. “Blackbirds.”

“What are you doing?” Aunt Eva grabbed my shoulders. “Stand up and put on your mask.”

“He’s whispering to me. I hear him. He’s talking.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Please be quiet—I need to hear him. He’s not all right. Something’s wrong.”

Two pairs of strong male hands pulled me backward.

“Wait.” I fought to break free. “He’s whispering. He’s talking to me.”

The soles of my dress shoes skidded across the floorboards. Everything else had gone silent: the organ music, the mourners. Stunned eyes looked at me through the smoke over white patches of gauze. The flag-draped casket disappeared from my view.

“Don’t take me away!” I kicked and flailed and arched my back. “I heard him in there. He said something about birds. Don’t take me away from him. He’s talking to me. He’s talking to me!”

My captors steered me toward the lobby, out of view of the horrified mourners. One of the men—Julius—turned me around and clutched my arms so hard it hurt. “What’s going on?”

“He was whispering to me. I heard him. He said something’s wrong.”

“Mary Shelley, stop,” said Aunt Eva behind me. “Stop it right now.”

The Emberses’ cousin Grant stood beside Julius with his hands on his hips and his brow furrowed.

Julius studied me with eyes that so resembled his brother’s, and I gripped the cuffs of his black coat sleeves. “Open the casket, Julius. What if he’s stuck in there?”

“We can’t open it.”

“Please—open it. I swear I heard him talk.”

“We can’t open the casket, Mary Shelley.” Julius’s eyes went bloodshot again. “His head is too damaged.”

His words tore into me with a bite a hundred times more vicious than the pain of the lightning bolt. My lips turned cold and sore with the realization that there would never, ever be another kiss. I’d never again feel the pressure of Stephen’s hand against the small of my back. I’d never receive another letter from him.

His head is too damaged.

A sob shook my shoulders. I hung my head and bawled like I’d never cried in my life.

Julius hugged me against his chest and allowed my tears to drench his coat’s black wool. I wept and choked on the blue sulfur smoke, while Aunt Eva struggled to situate my flu mask back over my mouth and nose.

Julius stroked my hair. “Take her back home, Eva. She shouldn’t have come.”

“That’s a good idea.” My aunt took my elbow and pulled me away from Stephen’s brother. “Come on, Mary Shelley.”

“I know I heard him.”

“Don’t talk about that right now.” She guided me to the door. “I know you’re hurting, but you need to let Stephen go.”

But I couldn’t.

Stephen wasn’t completely gone.





MY AUNT AND I RODE HOME IN THE BACK OF ANOTHER taxi without exchanging a word. All I wanted was to be alone. I was relieved when we returned to the house and she almost immediately flew out the front door, headed for work in the shipyard.

The need to write to Stephen hit me after she left.

During the past four and a half years, whenever something upset me or intrigued me more than I could bear, my first response was to spill my thoughts across a blank sheet of paper for him. I’d slip the letter in a mailbox and imagine it bundled in a brown postal bag, traveling down to Coronado by rail, jostling amid all the other letter writers’ stamped parcels for friends and relatives. And I’d picture Stephen reading my words with a smile on his lips and his own pen at the ready.