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"I would rather walk with a friend in the dark,
than alone in the light."
Helen Keller
Acknowledgments
I started this fictional novel so far back in time that I think the first chapters were stored on eight-inch floppy discs. Celia was my maternal grandmother’s name—she used to sneak food under the table to my dog Heidi. I didn’t know where this story would go, but I did know the title would be Celia’s Shadow.
William Charles was my father’s (Leonard Levy) photography studio in Salem, Massachusetts. I miss him every day.
There are many people who encouraged, supported, doubted, and laughed at me. I’d like to thank those who encouraged and supported me.
My wonderful husband Howard, your love and support inspired me throughout this entire writing adventure. Thank you for allowing me to read chapters to you and for saying you liked them—I used many of your funny suggestions. You make me laugh. I love you more and more each day.
My twin sister Susan Schale, thank you for everything you did to help make this book happen—creating the perfect cover to depict Celia and her dog (it is exactly the way I dreamed it would be), taking my photograph, reading every word, and providing me with your wonderful feedback. Oh, and thank you for taking those science tests for me in high school.
My niece Alison Levy (might be Alison Thompson by the time this book is published) and Winnie, thank you for giving up your Saturday to pose for the cover image and for your positive feedback on the chapters.
Lenna Kutner, thank you for reading this book (some chapters repeatedly) from cover to cover and word for word. Your sharp eye, as a fellow author, found key and important points throughout the pages. You helped to make the storyline flow smoothly and to keep it chronologically correct. Thank you for being my friend.
Stephanie Levy, my sister (in-law), thank you for being one of the first to read and comment on the chapters. I loved the notes you wrote in the margins—your words of reassurance kept me going.
Peggy O’Connor, thank you for reading Celia’s Shadow so quickly and for your honesty. Your friendship means the world to me, and I’m happy I could share Celia with you. You are an inspiration in so many ways.
Jane Krakauer, Judy Sharoff, and Peggy Simmons, thank you for your enthusiasm about Celia’s Shadow. You continually toasted my accomplishment and supported me along the way. You believed in me, when I doubted myself. You have been a great pep squad during our travels and your excitement for my success was contagious.
Rick Bettencourt, your honesty during our writing group made an incredible difference. You encouraged me to take chances and make Celia jump into scenes. It’s amazing how helpful you were.
Wendy Leavitt, thank you for your positive words and the time you took to read this book.
Mary Elliot, Lisa Burke, Alison Doris, Nancy Dyer, Janet Kazmierczak, Michael and Donna Greenburg, you most likely have no idea how your encouragement and praise helped me find the confidence to write the final chapters for this book.
And to my mom Rose Levy and the rest of my family—thank you for your love and support.
Celia
Outside, heavy dark clouds intensified the isolation of her room. A soft glow from the ceiling lights illuminated over her bed. Unaware of all that surrounded her, Celia remained motionless under the thin green blanket. With quiet, barely noticeable breaths, her chest moved softly up and down. Her skin was pale. Her long auburn hair lay tangled and clumped on the hard pillow beneath her bruised head. From a shiny metal pole, tubes delivered fluids to her veins.
“Celia?” The light-haired friend’s anxiety was apparent in her voice. A tingle generated into her wrist, as she banged her index finger against the cold bedframe. She held Celia’s hand gently.
“Celia, can you hear me?” She waited for a response. “Celia, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Blink. Do something—anything.” She never expected to say these words to her dear friend. Celia lay silently in the sterile hospital room.
The friend rested back against the torn leather chair—the chair she had pulled close to the bed over two hours ago. Tensely, she watched Celia breathe. The intravenous drip trickled slowly down the plastic tube. She stared at the bruises on Celia’s face and arms and she sighed.
Desperately, she prayed for Celia to respond. Except for the slow breaths that moved her chest up and down, Celia was motionless.
In stillness, she continued to hold Celia’s hand. The doctor entered the room and interrupted her private vigil.
“Does she know yet?” She clenched Celia’s limp hand tightly. “Does she remember anything?”
“No, she doesn’t know. We won’t tell her until she is fully aware. She’s been in and out of consciousness. That’s all.”
“Did she wake up before?”
“Yes, she was awake for a very short while. She’s heavily sedated right now. She needs her rest. Perhaps you do as well. Why don’t you go home and come back later? She won’t wake up any time soon.” He placed his hand on the shoulder of Celia’s blonde friend.
They watched Celia breathe.
The Birthday Girl
It was after eight o’clock. How much after, she had no idea, but Celia knew it was enough past the hour that her Sunday Globe would be gone. She imagined the paper bandit set their alarm clock for 7:59 a.m. to snatch it before its rightful reader arrived. When she opened the door seconds before eight o’clock, the paper was hers; a minute later, the paper was off on its journey to someone else’s breakfast table.
Celia resigned herself to the fact that a walk to the corner store, for another Globe, would be part of her morning schedule.
Celia had been awake for half an hour. She promised herself she would stay in bed and not look at the clock until she heard the bells ring. She propped her pillows against the iron spindles of the headboard.
Her antique bed was one of the few items she took when she moved back from Connecticut. Years before, when she had first moved to Connecticut, she had discovered it in a neighbor’s trash. The iron had been painted bright pink with purple round knobs at the top of each post. She wedged it in the back of her little green Volkswagen Rabbit. A third of the headboard hung out of the hatch as she drove home slowly. She stripped the pink away and spray-painted it charcoal gray. The brass knobs, no longer purple, were the only parts not made from iron.
Except for some personal belongings, Celia left mostly everything else back in Connecticut. The bed was her treasure, and she was pleased to have saved it from abandonment.
She relaxed and enjoyed the warm morning air. From her opened windows, she heard the sounds in the neighborhood start to escalate. A soft breeze drifted in and brought with it the faint smell of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery. Brilliantly colored marionettes, which hung by the window, swayed together as if dancing to a finely choreographed performance. Occasionally they gently clinked together.
Celia
