As The Clock Strikes Twelve [2]

Chapter Two

Home—Taken for Granted

It was nearly eleven o’clock when Sheanna woke up again. She woke up with only her long-sleeved pink polo shirt, stiff, a bad taste in her mouth, and she knew she had had a dream, but she couldn’t remember it.

At first she was confused why she was in her bed and confused why her head was spinning, but then she remembered; the day flooded back into her head so quickly it almost burned.

Moaning, she stood from her bed to stretch. She flipped the light switch on and looked around at her room.

It was very plain: a coat hanger hung by the door (her coat from that day hung on it), her wall was buried in posters, and she had a blue bed with two large scarves hanging from the walls just above it. In these scarves she hung books; all her favorite fantasy books. There had been a point when she had hung her stuffed toys, but most of them where so childish that she had donated them or given them to Miss to sell at her annual garage sale.

She had two book shelves pushed against the sides of her walls. They were both made of oak and covered in books that were stacked in random ways; some with their spine showing, others with their front cover showing because there was no room for them to slip into the book shelf unnoticed, and some just laying on the book shelf as if it where too lazy to stand upright. On the top of her book shelves she kept those few stuffed toys that she hadn’t gotten rid of.

There was a door next to one of her book shelves leading to her private restroom. The only other door was the one leading out into the hall that she called ‘The Endless Hall’; when she had first gotten here, the hall seemed so very long, and it seemed to be an adventure just to get to the breakfast table each morning, but now she was older and the hall seemed much smaller. But it still kept its name, just like Miss did even though Sheanna knew her real name.

Miss must have carried me in here from the car, not wanting to wake me, thought Sheanna, and contented herself with that thought.

Just like my mother, she added, but then angrily pushed that thought aside. No. I did not wake up just to give myself a headache again. I won’t think about the clock or my mother or anything. I’ll just focus on . . . on getting a glass of water. Yes, that’s reasonable with my headache, isn’t it? And anyway, it’s something to do.

Sheanna snuck soundlessly out of her room and grabbed herself a glass of water. She snuck back into her room without being noticed, as usual, and took a sip of her well deserved water.

Sometimes when Sheanna couldn’t sleep she’d sneak around the house at night. She had only ever been caught once when she was nine. She had thought she heard the sound of a ghost, for she believed in them back then, and then accidentally ran into a platform on which a glass vase stood. The vase, unfortunately, crashed to the ground, waking nearly everyone in the house (which really was only Miss and a few maids) and causing them to all come running.

But Miss wasn’t mad with her. She had just looked at the situation, shook her head, and said softly, “Sheanna, dear, you’re up much too late for your age. Why don’t you go to bed? And if you really can’t sleep, you can read a story from your bookshelf, can’t you?”

Sheanna had flushed a bright red and nodded, sulking back into her room. But Miss had never spoken another word about it. She just put a princess crown on the platform instead as if she had been waiting for the spot to be unoccupied and Sheanna had actually been very helpful. When Sheanna was little she used to stare at it all the time; it was made of real gold with real jewels, and it was beautiful and very authentic, just like her mother’s dresses. But as she grew older Sheanna refused to believe that the crown she had admired for ten years was really a princess’ crown; wouldn’t it at least be on a princess’ head?

Unless Miss is a princess. She had thought that often when she was little, but now it was an impossibility to her.

Sheanna put her glass of water down on her ivory bedside table, walked casually over to the nearest book shelf, and ran her fingers along the book’s spines. Each of them was another fairytale, and each of the spines were weathered because she had read each at least five times. Some of them where brightly clothed, others in dark colors. But either way each story was as inviting as the one before it, each adventure so fun and spellbinding that occasionally she refused to put a book down until she had finished reading it, no matter how many times she read it before. She loved tracing her fingers over the words on the spines almost as much as she loved stroking the print inside the story.

Pick me, each book seemed to whisper to her, pick me and I’ll take you on that adventure you loved so much. Pick me and you’ll never be able to put me down. Pick me. Pick me!

But none of the books seemed to be able to comfort her at the moment, so she regretfully tore her fingers away from them and went for her binder.

She had used her binder for Science in sixth grade but it, unlike many other of her binders, was not beat up or weathered much. So, instead of using it as her Science binder for the following year, she merely kept it for her stories and drawings.

She pulled it out of the book shelf it rested on, leaning against a particularly large tale, and sat crossed legged on her bed.

She stroked the cover before opening it. It was a light brown but it had white flowers made on it. It was very beautiful.

Slowly, as if fearing it might disappear if she handled it too vigorously, Sheanna opened it and grabbed the pencil that was waiting for her inside the cover. She rubbed her fingers over the pencil for a few seconds before flipping through the pages.

She flipped past her stories, flipped past a few illustrations she drew, flipped past the ideas and thoughts she had so carefully scribbled down. Words are a very delicate thing, she told herself, but the pages which hold them are much more important; for without them, there would be no stories. So she carefully turned the pages until she came towards the end of the loose leaf notepaper.

On the loose-leaf notebook paper on her left she drew her mother using only her pencil. Her long hair, her dress, her sparkling and shining eyes and her crowd-stopping smile where all portrayed artistically in her drawing. She spent a long time on it, making sure it was nearly perfect, and refusing to settle for anything less. Finally she blew a few eraser shavings off the page and held the notebook back so she could look at the picture of her mother from far away. It was very good, very good indeed.

But she took only a little time in admiring her work. Almost right away she went to drawing Miss on the right page. She worked on Miss just as hard as she worked on her mother, though she found it was much easier to draw Miss and as a result finished much quicker. She held that picture back and studied that one too. That one was well drawn, too. She smiled proudly.

If Sheanna hadn’t known what she was going to do with the two pictures side-by-side before, she did now. She compared the two. Yes, Miss did look a lot like her mother . . . maybe she was her mother after all?

Sheanna sighed and leaned back on her bed, closing her eyes. For years on end she had been changing her mind--Miss is her mother, Miss is not her mother. She did anything to resolve her probelm: she flipped a coin, she played 'eeny meeny miney mo' (well, at least when she was younger), she did the whole pulling the petals off the flower thing . . . but then she would always go against her earlier judgement and try again. Sheanna felt lost in a confusion, as if she was drowning in a pool.

Before Sheanna could mentally drown, though, the sound of a piano playing cut through her thoughts. She sat up a little straighter, shocked at the sudden sound.

Sheanna slowly put down her things and glanced at her bedside clock. 11:30, it read.

Sheanna snuck out of bed softer than she ever had. She turned off her room light after her, having a feeling she wouldn’t be back too soon.

She followed the sound of the piano playing, and was surprised that none of the maids were looking around as curiously as she was. Was she the only one who heard the piano playing? No, she couldn’t be . . . but maybe this was a dream?

When she finally tracked down where the sound was coming from, she nearly froze. It was coming from the Study, otherwise known as the ‘Forbidden Room’. She had been in there once, only once, and she had been in there long enough to see a grand piano and a few book shelves with a window leading to the outside world, but that was as far as she got before a maid found her in there and shrieked at her.

Sheanna put her hand on the brass door handle, but as she did she could hear the maid’s voice screaming at her in the back of her head; “What do ya think yer doing in ‘ere?! This is Mistress’ study, do ya understand, ya foolish girl?! It’s fer the Mistress and the Mistress only! She only allows ‘er favorite maids to even clean in ‘ere! Now if I ever catch ya in ‘ere again I’m gonna spank ya raw, ya ‘ear?”

Sheanna’s hand pulled away from the door handle rather quickly; she could all too well remember her fear.

She looked down at the bottom of the door and saw light streaming out of it. Yes, it was rather late for Miss to be up . . . unless it was a maid! What if a maid had stolen into her study at night, and Sheanna’s uncovering them would get them in trouble? She would have loved for the maid with the southern accident to be fired . . . that woman was terrible to her!

Sheanna couldn’t think of anything else; she only smiled a bit deviously and put her hand slowly back on the door handle. Truth be told, she didn’t really want to get a maid in trouble . . . she just wanted an excuse to go in the room in case it was Miss and she snapped at her (But she’s never snapped at you, Sheanna reminded herself for the billionth time). Smiling, Sheanna slowly pushed down the door handle.

But what she saw shocked her so bad that she almost just closed her door and ran back to her room.

She couldn’t, even if she had wanted to; which, truth be told, was a lie. It was as if she were glued to the floor. Her eyes stared at the woman sitting there.

The woman had long, silver hair cut just above her waist. Her eyes were closed and she was lost in the song, in an amazing and beautiful song. She had long fingers, very long, smooth fingers, and they pressed against the keys skillfully and purposely.

The pianist was playing a tune that Sheanna faintly recognized, and she was to find out later it was the same tune as the one that her mother had sung her to bed with. The pianist was humming with the tune, simply smiling and humming.

She had on this long dress. It was a pale orange color with flowers flooded onto it; red flowers, dark orange flowers, yellow flowers, gold flowers, brown flowers . . . every flower with the color of fall! Right around her waist there was a ribbon; a beautiful dark, crimson ribbon. The ribbon’s red tails stretched out and in between them there was a new material; satin, a beautifully white satin. It had all different colors of ribbon strung over the satin, though it kept to the colors of fall. Outside of the satin triangle the flowers continued in their bright colors, dancing happily.

There was a clothes peg standing proudly next to the piano. On it hung Miss’ black coat, Miss’ cloves, and the black hair tie she wore. Sitting next to it were her large boots, with her dirty black socks poking out of them lifelessly.

Sheanna stared at the scene with her eyes wide. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Miss. She was now convinced; Miss was her mother!

All these years, and Miss herself hadn’t even told her . . . all these long, frustrating years, and Miss had kept all her knowledge to herself! Sheanna was furious with her, and wanted to yell out at her.

Miss hadn’t even noticed Sheanna had come in the room. Her eyes still closed, she was still lost in song. She seemed completely happy, completely and utterly happy, but Sheanna was far from that. Perhaps if you had found your mother you’d be happy, right; but if you found out your mother had been lying to you for ten years, would you then be happy?

Sheanna wanted to say something clever that would make Miss jump, or she wanted to say something rude that would make Miss cry. She was never so eager to make someone feel upset!

But Sheanna seemed to have forgotten how to speak, seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. The trick of it seemed to escape her. She stood there, struggling for her breath, trying to speak but her tongue being so lifeless and floppy it might as well of not even been there.

“How?” she finally croaked. Her voice was so soft, barely audible, and was silent under the piano notes.

Miss didn’t hear her.

“How?!” Sheanna rose her voice with difficulty. Immediately her Miss’—her mother’s—eyes flew open and she stopped playing the piano and let her arms fall on her lap as if they had stopped working all together. Her eyes were wide, and she just stared at Sheanna wordlessly, as if Sheanna’s appearance had sucked all the words out of everything; out of the song, out of the air, out of the very books sitting so perfectly on the shelves.

“How could you lie to me?” she shouted. Yes, Sheanna’s tongue seemed to be cooperating now, her voice easier to use. Maybe it just needed her to speak a few lines first so it could get used to working again.

“I-I . . . I’m mistaken at what you mean,” stammered Miss as if Sheanna was the one who had been keeping a secret for ten years. Ten years!

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re my mother?!” Sheanna’s voice rose so dangerously high that Miss flinched and closed her eyes as if she where a dog being punished unjustly.

“I did,” she said, her voice hoarse and soft, her eyes opening slowly as if fearing to see Sheanna’s angry face again. “I told you that you were my daughter. You’re the one who didn’t believe me, remember?”

Silence followed her words. Sheanna looked down at her bare feet guiltily; yes, Miss had told her this.

“But why didn’t you act like my mother, then?” Sheanna challenged so softly Miss almost didn’t hear her words.

“Because why should I act like your mother if you’re firmly convinced I’m not?” asked Miss. Her words even seemed to hesitate, but it was obviously unintentional. She slowly rose from the piano bench and walked towards the window to throw it open and sit on the window sill. Her feet were bare, too.

Sheanna felt stupid, so very stupid. The pain of stupidity hurt so bad she was sure her heart would stop beating, but when it didn’t Sheanna followed Miss and sat down next to her on the window sill. “You can’t play the piano with your shoes on,” whispered Sheanna like a magic charm, “because you need to feel the music with your feet.”

Miss nodded, looking at her carefully. “That’s right.”

“And you love to sing and dance, but you’re a better dancer than singer. Dad used to play the piano for you while you danced and I used to sing.” Sheanna looked outside and up at the full, beautiful moon. It seemed to whisper to her, to tell her, It’s such a beautiful night, so how could you hold so much hate in your heart at your mother? Forgive her; she did nothing wrong. In fact, you should be begging for her to forgive you. So Sheanna looked away from the moon and looked at her hands instead, refusing to listen to the words she imagined it to whisper, even though she knew it was right.

“That’s right.” Miss stared up at the moon, still making as little eye contact with Sheanna as she could. But it wasn’t like at the moment that Sheanna was going through great means to make Miss look at her.

Sheanna fell silent. This was her mother. Miss had her mother’s voice; why hadn’t Sheanna heard it before the way she did now? Sheanna felt so guilty, and felt like disappearing into thin air. Nothing but thin air, Sheanna thought.

“It’s a full moon tonight,” Miss commented. But her voice was not as carefree as it might have been if you were talking about the weather; it was in a forgiving voice. Sheanna knew that she had often done that; instead of embarrassing her further and saying, “I forgive you,” she simply talked about something else but in a forgiving tone. That was one of the things Sheanna loved most about Miss . . . or, her mother.

“Yes, I know.” Sheanna’s voice was very soft, but also very grateful.

The two sat in silence for a while, but all too quickly Miss drew away from the window.

“Oh,” she moaned, glancing at the clock. “It’s eleven fifty.” She turned to go close the piano and then turned her back to Sheanna to arrange the books on one of the book shelves, even though they where already in perfect order.

It was only then that Sheanna realized that the clock they had purchased that day was in the room. It sat in the room on a platform, a very high platform. The little doors where open to reveal the hollow cubby inside.

Sheanna looked at the clock for a long time, refusing to blink, scared if she blinked it would disappear. When her eyes started to water she looked away and spoke. “Why did you want that clock so much?”

It seemed that Miss had just realized Sheanna was still in the room, as if since it was so quiet that automatically meant she was alone, and she spun around so suddenly that Sheanna flinched.

“Sheanna,” she said urgently, “leave the room, leave the room now! Go back to bed, read a fairytale or something. Just leave us be.” Miss paused and slowly reworded, “Just leave me be.”

A short pause followed. The way Miss had said the words wrong had shocked Sheanna and something in the back of her mind nagged at her, as if she had forgotten something important, but she finally ignored that because another thought occured to her.

Miss had snapped at her for the first time. She had never seen the expression on her face before--her face had turned beet red because it, just like Sheanna's face, turned red when speaking in front of a large crowd of people or when arguing. Miss was also heaving deep breaths, as if feeling empowered by her outburst.

“No,” Sheanna said firmly.

“Sheanna, dear, go back to bed,” begged Miss. Her eyes looked weary, as if they had dealt with too much, and as if they couldn’t take a thing more.

For a second Sheanna felt like going back to her room, to leave Miss alone so she could sort out what was bugging her, but something inside her refused to let her leave. It held her hostage in this room, and she rather heard the words from her mouth than said them: “No! I’m not leaving your side!”

The two argued over it for a while until the clock told them it was eleven fifty-eight. At this point Miss was so mad she nearly wrung Sheanna’s neck.

“Sheanna Allison Narissa Ashmen!” Miss’ voice rang out firmly yet was breathless by the end. Sheanna cowered at her full name. How long it was! When she was younger her friends always told her that her parents had made her name long to punish her for what she would do in the future. Sheanna doubted it, but either way, it was still tremendously long.

“No,” sobbed Sheanna, wrapping her arms around Miss as if that would keep Miss her from disappearing again, or from being mad at her. “I don’t want to lose you again!” She heard her own voice crack, her own voice break in half.

“Sheanna, please,” her mother said. She was obviously trying begging by now. “Please, my little She-She.”

Sheanna couldn’t help but smile. Her father had refused to call her anything but She-She, just as Vanessa sometimes enjoyed to.

“And what of my father, then?” she asked, pulling away to look at her mother. “Is he dead, or he is alive, too?”

Her mother didn’t even look as if she were going to answer her, but if she was, she was interrupted by the ringing. At first Sheanna was mad; what was ringing, and why was it interrupting Miss’ reply? But then she realized it was the clock, the clock on the platform . . . and fear grabbed at her, threatening to take her down.

The two spun towards the clock and saw both the little and the big hands were pointed purposefully towards the twelve.

“No!” Miss’ voice screamed. “Sheanna, get out of here. Get off of me!”

Sheanna was really being stubborn and she wouldn’t have obeyed if her mother hadn’t started glowing; it was faint, but definite. She jumped back in surprise, staring at her.

“Miss!” Her voice wavered so much it hurt. But Miss didn’t seem to hear her, didn’t seem to see her. . . .

Miss’ eyes were fixed on the cubby in the clock, and when Sheanna saw what she was looking at she looked at it too. It was glowing in there, glowing as if there was a fairy trapped inside. Its white glow became blinding, as did the glow being emitted from her mother.

“What’s going on?!” Sheanna felt her voice crack as if only a toothpick. “What’s happening?!”

But Miss didn’t answer her. She didn’t hear her.

And all the while the clock was striking as if only its rings mattered. And did it?

Sheanna stood there in surprise and in fear. Every time the clock stroke, the light on both her mother and in the cubby grew brighter. Soon it was so bright that the two lights mingled and the room seemed as if it were lighting up, too. What was she to make of this? Was this good, or bad?

Sheanna decided this was bad. She remembered the last time she had heard a clock strike twelve . . . the last time she had been with her mother . . . the last time she had felt this scared. It was one of her few memories from that night, the night she had lost her parents forever . . .

Sheanna never knew how she knew what she did at the time, but she knew, somehow, someway, that to go with her mother she’d need to be at least touching her. So even though going closer to the blinding light might risk her vision, she closed her eyes and jumped towards her mother.

So Sheanna flung her arms around her mother’s shoulders protectively. The light was so blinding, especially closer, and even through her closed eyes she could still see it glowing, and it still hurt.

And then she heard it. She heard the sound she heard so many years ago when she was so little. She heard the sound of wind rushing, cooling her face and rushing past ears. She felt her hair tumble and knot in the wind behind her, and then she heard that other sound. It was a sound she couldn’t exactly explain; almost like the sound of fingers tapping on glass or of whispers in the night--or of childern's giggling and the sound of the ocean all in one. It was soft, yet it was deafening. Had a name for the sound, though, which she felt as if she had dubbed subconciously--she called it magic.

Then she felt as if she were only milk, boneless and spineless, being sucked through a straw. She heard someone screaming, screaming louder than she imagined anyone could.

And then she felt herself drop from the sky of a foreign land. She felt herself fall into the short, beautiful green grass, felt herself being separated from her mother.

Only then did she realize that it was she who was screaming. She placed a shaking, scared hand to her mouth and sat up slowly. She opened her eyes tentatively, scared of what she would see.

It was midday, and she was in a bright green, beautiful valley with a large waterfall and a crystal clear lake standing next to it, but that was so far off, or so it seemed. The valley was dotted with flowers like the ones patterned on her mother’s dress, beautiful, brave flowers sticking up from the bright green grass as if to make a point. Her mother was lying in the grass beside her, and Sheanna lent herself a sigh of relief.

But where were they?

Only then did realization set in; set in so hard and cold she began to cry. She wasn’t at home, or anywhere like her home. No, where she lived the sky was blue, not yellow. No; she was in the wrong story, the wrong place. How she had taken her home, her bed, her warm house for granted!

For once, for once in her entire life, she wanted nothing more than to be home. But she probably only wished it because there was a part of her that undeniably knew she couldn’t have it, couldn’t ever have it ever again.