Paper Tigers (14 page)

Alison flipped the dead bolt and paused. A hint of pipe smoke clung to the air, almost faint enough to blame on imagination, but it grew stronger as she walked into the kitchen. The photo album remained where she'd left it, open on the counter. She bent over the pages and inhaled old paper and dust. But no tobacco.

A cool gust of air touched the back of her neck and paper ruffled. When she turned back, the pages were flipping back and forth, too fast to offer anything but a teasing glimpse at the photos within. Alison pressed her fingertips to her lips, holding in a gasp, then the last page turned and the cover slammed shut.

She stepped closer to the album, breathing hard. With the tip of one finger, she opened the cover. Waited. But the pages remained still.

Alison woke once over the course of the next twenty-four hours—to call Meredith and reschedule her appointment.

When Alison finally climbed out of bed, she hobbled into the bathroom; each step sent a pinwheel of pain spinning in her hips. She splashed cold water on her face, fumbled for a towel, and sank to the floor, her hands twisted in a semblance of arthritic claws. A strange weight settled in her chest, heavy and liquid. She crawled from the bathroom with her head down, wisps of hair dangling in her face. Right hand, right leg,

This is the price for your vanity
, a despicable voice of rational and real said.

left hand, left leg. “Come, Josephine,” she sang tunelessly. Her hands left the cool bathroom tile, spidered over the marble threshold and onto the wood. “Going up she goes, up she goes.”

Too high…

Right hand, right leg.

…a price, be careful of the tiger.

She used the railing to haul herself up, unfolding like an origami animal crafted in reverse, and touched her right cheek with her misshapen fingers.

“I don't care,” she said.

Sleep. Wake. Eat.

Hurt.

PART V

INSIDE

Pain. Then white lights. Too bright, but she can't speak, can't tell them they hurt her eye. Yes, only one eye because they've covered the other. She tries to move her hands, to push the dark away, but she's tied down. For your safety, someone says. Jonathan, Jonathan, she tries to say, but her voice won't work.

And the pain, shiny metal pain digs in, tearing the dead flesh away.

CHAPTER 15

Alison turned her face away as Meredith snapped a picture with her camera.

“Did you call the doctor?”

“Yes.” The lie slipped from Alison's lips with ease. “He didn't think it was important enough for me to come in.”

Another click. Another flash of light.

“Doctors. There is
definitely
a difference and it's bigger now. All the scar tissue in this area is thinner.” Meredith used the tip of her finger, pushing down hard enough so Alison could feel the pressure, and in one spot, one tiny spot, there was a kiss of warmth. Skin against skin. “It's not just the way they feel, either. They look different. Better. More like healthy skin and less like scar tissue.”

Another flash.

“Okay, I think that's good enough. Here, look.” Meredith scrolled through the pictures. “I know it's hard to make out the detail on this small screen. Next time I'll take more and we can compare them, and then you can tell me I'm crazy.”

“I didn't say you were crazy. Maybe old fashioned, for using a camera instead of your phone.”

“Look who's talking, Miss Don't Have a Cell Phone. And the camera is digital, not old fashioned. But never mind that, you don't believe me, do you?”

“If you say the scars are changing, they're changing.”

“Whatever. Come on, climb down. Let's do some stretching.”

Alison groaned.

“Nope, don't you dare complain.” Meredith tossed the camera back in her bag. “Save that for after I'm gone.”

After the stretching, Meredith crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Yes, I am.”

“The dark circles under your eyes and you falling asleep on the table again say otherwise, my dear.”

“Lots of late night…”

parties

The woman playing the piano. The man with the monocle. The woman in the rose colored dress. The lamplight shining on the wine in her glass. And Thomas's arms, holding her close as they danced, his voice, soft and gentle near her ear.

“Alison?” Meredith's voice was sharp. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I'm sorry. I'm fine. Just tired.”

“Okay, if you say so. You know, you might want to eat more, too, ‘cause you're looking a little thin.”

“Yes, Mom.”

When Meredith ran upstairs to the bathroom, Alison limped over to her bag and grabbed out the camera. She tucked it behind a sofa cushion and wiped the guilt from her face. She wasn't stealing it, just borrowing, and she'd call Meredith when she was done and tell her she'd found it.

She touched the spot of skin on her hip. How many times would she have to go into the paper world? And were there enough photos, enough doorways, to make her whole?

Alison stood in front of the refrigerator with the door open, unsure when she'd eaten last. She thought she'd made tea and toast earlier or had it been yesterday, before Meredith had arrived? She
checked the trash can and found two pieces of toast, one whole, the other with a few bites missing. So this morning then. And yesterday? Maybe not toast, but surely soup or something.

She grabbed a banana, but the first bite tasted like cardboard; the second, not much better. She tossed the rest, uneaten, in the trash can. She wasn't even hungry.

When her mother called, Alison was sitting on the sofa with the photo album on her lap. She'd transcribed what little there was of the inscription and played with the empty spaces for an hour, but she wasn't any closer to solving the puzzle.

“I called yesterday,” her mother said. “But you didn't answer.”

“Meredith was here, and after she left, I took a nap.”

“And how is Meredith? I should call her one of these days and say hello.”

Alison's fingers dug into the phone. To say hello or to check on her daughter? Meredith would tell her about the scars. Then her mother would insist she go to the doctor.

But she wasn't a child anymore. Her mother couldn't force her to do anything. The pages rustled. She smiled and rubbed her fingers along the edge of the cover.

“Alison?”

“Yes?”

“I thought the phone had disconnected.”

“I'm still here. Sorry, I'm still tired from

my trip into the album

yesterday.”

“Do you need anything? I can stop over a little later today?”

The pages rustled again, and one tiny music note slipped out.

“No, I'm good.”

“Is something wrong?”

Alison traced the bottom line of the inscription. The important word was whole. The tiger was incidental. “Nothing's wrong.”

“Are you sure? You seem distracted lately, and you're sleeping a lot.”

“I'm fine. Really, I am.”

And you can stop questioning me. I'm not a child.

Another music note, faded and forlorn.

“Okay. How about if I come over tomorrow?”

Why? To check up on me? To make sure I'm not moping around crying woe is me?

“Sure, but call first in case I'm napping.”

After the goodbyes and the perfunctory “I love you, too” Alison tossed the phone aside and turned to the photo of the parlor. Her breath caught in her throat as the page went up and over on its own, revealing the next photo, the next doorway—the turret room on the first floor. The clock was in its normal position; next to that, two chairs were arranged around a small table, the curtains of the windows behind slightly open to reveal the edge of a rosebush. And to the right of the clock, a rectangular mark on the wall.

Alison bent closer. It appeared to be a crack or an open space. Her lips curved, distorting the scars on her cheek. She touched the photo, imagining she could feel the edge of a door leading inside the walls.

That's where Mary wanted her to go. And where did it lead? A tiny shiver raced up and down her spine. She'd find out soon enough.

Twenty-four hours later, the mark vanished. A click broke the quiet, and a tendril of grey crept from beneath the photo's edge, carrying the smell of old, forgotten things: boxes split at the seams, the
contents leaking out like disemboweled stuffed animals, old rooms locked for years, books packed away in a grandmother's attic and found three generations later.

Alison slipped the camera's carry strap over her left wrist and lowered her right hand to the photo. Before she left the world of the real, she saw finger-shaped indentations on the photo. Five, not three.