Authors: Damien Angelica Walters
Paper Tigers (17 page)
Tell her to leave. Tell her to leave you alone.
“No you are not,” Alison said. “It was a muscle spasm. I get them a lot. And I have a cold, a stupid cold. That's why I've been sleeping and not answering the phone. Mom, I'm not a child, okay? I don't need you to come here every time I don't answer the phone quick enough for you. You need to stop spending so much damn time worrying about me.”
It was her mother's turn to step back, with her eyes wide, and when she spoke again, her voice was thick with unshed tears. “But I'm your mother. That's what I'm supposed to do.”
“Would you do it if I wasn't like this?”
“I know it's hardâ”
“You don't know, okay? You don't what it's like. You've never known. How could you?” She pointed to her face. “You don't wake up to this every day. If you did, you'd understand that sometimes I don't want to talk to anyone and sometimes I don't want to see anyone. Not even you.”
A long silence stretched out between them.
“I don't know what to say,” her mother said.
“There is nothing
to
say. Please, can you just go? I want to take a nap.”
“Promise me you'll call the doctor. It might not be a cold. Does your throat hurt at all? You might need antibiotics.”
“Mom, please go.”
Her mother hovered near the door, one hand on the doorknob, the other worrying the edge of her coat. “I'll call you later, if that's okay.”
“Fine.”
But it wasn't fine. Not at all.
After her mother left, Alison picked up Meredith's camera and bounced it in her palm. “You had no right to call her. No right at all.” She hurled the camera against the wall and smiled when it left a gouge in the plaster and landed on the floor with a crack and a thud.
When the ceiling falls down, the stars sparkle like tiny diamonds. She knows about tiny diamonds and rings and love and soon it will all be over. Sadness reaches in, creeps around the hurt, but she can't cry. The fire and the smoke have taken away her tears.
A voice reaches through the fire, and there are arms lifting her up and pain makes rainbows of color dance in her eyes and she tries to tell them to leave her alone, she wants to see the stars, then she thinks of Jonathan and the ring on her finger and the baby is safe and she smiles in spite of the pain.
Everything will be okay. Everything will be fine. Everything will beâ
Two days later, the photo album opened its pages once more. The new photo showed a rounded room, complete with a desk and chair, bookcases, and photographs hanging on the wall in dark frames. The photographs all contained unsmiling, serious faces.
Alison smiled, stroked the edge of the page, and waited.
The following afternoon, the smell of tobacco permeated the room. As Alison bent over the album, a photograph fell off the wall, tumbling down to the floor in a slow arc. A faint crunch of wood and a shatter of glass pushed its way out of the paper world into the real. She lowered her hand and smiled as the tiger swallowed her whole.
She stood in the foyer, clad in satin skirts the color of a summer sky. Music and voices beckoned from another room. Overhead, a crystal chandelier glimmered, casting light down onto the table in the center and the vase of flowers there. A voice spoke nonsense, something about real and paper and clocks and scars, but it was inconsequential and she pushed it away.
A man with a monocle tapped her arm. He seemed vaguely familiar, but this was her first party at the house, wasn't it?
“Hello, dear,” he said. “We're so glad you've arrived.”
“Thank you. I hope I'm not too late.”
“Not at all, but before you go in with the others, George asked me to give you something.”
George. Of course. He'd invited her to the party, hadn't he?
“Is he here?”
“In his office, I imagine. He'll be along shortly, but here,” he said, pressing something small and round into her hand. “There's a mirror if you need it.” He nodded toward one wall.
On her palm, a marble of glass, painted with iris and pupil.
“I don't⦔
“Your eye?”
She lifted her hand to the empty space where an eye should be. “Oh, oh no.”
“Not to worry. We all understand, dear. Go ahead now.”
She turned her face away, tugged at her lid, and slid the eye in the empty socket. In the mirror, a pretty woman with vibrant eyes stared back.
“George said it would be a perfect match. I think he was right, don't you?
“Yes,” she said, touching one smooth cheek. Something was
wrong
odd, but she couldn't quite tell what. It resided on the tip of her tongue, unwilling to spill out.
“Excellent.” He gazed over her shoulder. “Ah, it looks as though my wife requires my assistance. It was lovely to see you again.”
“Yes, thank you for your help. Wait, please,” she said, tugging on his sleeve. “I don't remember your name, I'm sorry.”
“Forgive me for being remiss. I'm Edmund, Edmund Pennington.” He gave a small bow.
Edmund Pennington? She knew the name, or thought she did, but it was wrong somehow. He couldn't be Edmund because Edmund wasâ
“But,” she said, “who are you?”
“I'm George's father, of course.”
“But⦔ She dropped her voice. “Aren't you dead?”
The words were absurd, but they felt
right
.
He cocked an eyebrow. Smiled. “Dead? No, I'm quite certain I'm not dead. Someone would know a thing like that, wouldn't they? Now, if you'll please excuse me, I need to attend to Eleanor.”
Frowning, Alison watched him go. She must've misheard.
In the music room, a woman was seated at the piano, her fingers dancing across the keys. The curtains were tied back, and through the open windows she caught a glimpse of several children, dressed in their Sunday best. They ran past, singing nursery rhymes in sweetly out-of-tune voices. Then a face at the back of the room caught her eye, a young man with brown eyes and a sad smile. She smiled in return. Maybe she'd stay for a little while. It couldn't hurt.
Every time Alison finished a glass of wine, someone placed another in her hand, yet she didn't feel drunk, simply out of sorts. Faces flitted in and out of her line of sight. The music played on, one song after another.
The lights dimmed, the voices of the partygoers became a subdued hush, and the voices of the children no longer played through the windows. The man with the sad smile had left the music room before she could talk to him; although she kept watching the arched entrance, he hadn't returned.
Somewhere, far off in the distance, a clock chimed, marking the hour. She stepped closer to the sound, and the floor gave a small shudder. The music stopped in mid-note, all conversation ceased, and everyone turned toward her.
Silence pressed down with an uncomfortable weight, like
smothering under a heavy blanket in the sticky heat of August. The air shimmered. The lights dimmed, brightened, and dimmed again. Images flashed in her mind: pavement, a wall, a woman's face, her brow creased in concern.
Edmund cupped her elbow in his hand and steered her back around. The lights flickered back to bright and the music and conversations began again.
“Don't leave,” Edmund said. “It's still early.”
“I, I wasn't leaving,” she said, but she cast a look over her shoulder. The clock chimed again, a sound that seemed to mean something. But what?
“Good. You don't want to make George angry, do you? And you haven't even danced with Thomas yet.”
Yes, Thomas, that was his name. But had they met before at another party? This was her first party at the house, wasn't it? A wave of dizziness turned her vision spotty. She touched one hand to her forehead. Swayed on her feet.
“Here,” Edmund said, leading her over to a settee. “Sit down for a bit.”
She sank down onto the cushion, and the dizziness ebbed away. But her limbs felt heavy, her thoughts, muddled. She couldn't remember how long she'd been at the party, but she should leave soon. As soon as she felt better, she would. She twisted her hands together. Too much wine. Too much wrong. There were spaces in her head where things, memories, should be.
She hid a yawn behind her hand. And why was she so tired, as though she hadn't slept in days?
The woman who'd been playing the piano sat down next to her and smiled. “I'm Rachel. You're Alison, aren't you?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“We've all heard so much about you. George is quite fond of you.”
“What? I don't understand. Fond of me?”
“Oh, not like that. Madeline would kill anyone George thought of in that way.” Rachel laughed softly. “Well, maybe not kill. Sorry, that was a poor choice of words.”
“Madeline?”
“Don't worry. She isn't here right now.”
Rachel brushed her hair back from her forehead, leaving behind a tiny streak of red near her temple.
Alison gasped. “Your fingers⦔
Rachel held them up, gazing with disinterest at the swollen flesh. The raw skin of her index fingers were spotted with tiny pearls of blood. Why wasn't she crying or calling out for help?
“Can I help you? Do you need a bandage?”
“Oh, not to worry,” Rachel said, but she hid her hands in the folds of her skirt. “It'll go away soon enough.”
“But doesn't it hurt?”
“Always,” Rachel said with a smile and a small shrug. “But that's the price you pay sometimes for perfection.” She turned her face away, toward the piano. A dark spot marred the fabric of her dress, near the hem.
A memory of holding an old book on her lap rushed in. Alison couldn't remember the author or the story, only that it was somehow special. She'd been crying becauseâ¦becauseâ¦
A husky laugh pulled her attention away. A woman, all high-cheekbones and upswept hair, stood in the entranceway. Her crimson dress made Alison think of anger, fierce rage laced with poison. The woman gave a slow nod, her eyes sharp with satisfaction. As she approached the settee, Rachel stood and Alison followed suit, but her ankle caught on the fabric of her skirt. Steadying herself on the seat cushion, she bent to pull her foot free. Light from the sconces danced on the wall behind them. Her shadow darkened the wallpaper, hers and hers alone. Still watching the wall, Alison gave Rachel's arm a gentle squeeze, and though her shadow mimicked
the movement, it touched nothing. A cold snake coiled the length of her spine.
A throat cleared.
“Rachel, it's time for you to play another song,” the woman snapped, turning to Alison. “And you, don't you get any ideas. I was the first.”
“I don't understand,” Alison said. “The first what?”
“Never you mind. Do your part.”
“My part?”
But the woman was already gone.
Rachel walked away, her fingers hanging down at her sides, speckling her dress with blood. Dots of blood flecked the cushion of the settee as well. Despite the animated gestures of the party guests, no shadows marred the wallpaper, save those cast by the lights. But how could they not cast shadows? And why did she?
None of this is real
, a soft voice said in her head.
But how could that be? She ran her fingertips across the arm of the settee. Inhaled candlewax and perfume. Tasted wine, rich and sweet, in her mouth.
Music soon filled the room, melancholy notes that lingered in the air and silenced the conversation. Alison crossed her arm beneath her breasts. A thought slipped inâ
should there be two?
She didn't understand. Two of what? Something was wrong. Very wrong. She wanted to go home.
But where was home? Not at Pennington House,
not yet
she was sure, but where? The clock chimed for the third time. She turned in the direction of the sound. There was something about the clock, something important that would help her remember.
Forget to remember, remember to forget.
The words rushed in with the force of a jungle cat making its final leap. Her eyes narrowed; her lips pressed into a thin line. She
pushed through the crowd, ignoring the looks of surprise. A hand grabbed her arm, but she shied away from the touch. Someone called her name. She didn't look back. A man blocked her path. Thomas. He smiled and held out a hand.
“Dance with me, Alison. Please.”
She hesitated. His skin was warm; his touch, gentle.
“Stay here with me,” he said.
His fingers curled around hers; she shook them free. They could dance the next time. She was tired and she needed to leave. They had to let her leave.
“Stop her,” someone called out.
The clock, the clock, the clock.
Yes, the clock was the key. A flash of red caught her eye. Madeline, moving toward her. Another hand grabbed her shoulder. She staggered back, and said, “Leave me alone,” yanking her arm free.
“It doesn't matter,” another voice said. “It's too late.”
No. She still had time. Her breath came fast and harsh. She heard the clock again. She raced from the room. Through the foyer. The wall sconces sputtered out to wisps of smoke. Everything turned to shadow, but she didn't stop and neither did the clock. Her dress twisted around her ankles; she grabbed the fabric in both hands and lifted it to her knees. Ran through the doorway. And yes, there was the clock, the key to what she'd forgotten.
