Paper Tigers (16 page)

A stray sunbeam peeked in through the window blind. She rubbed her thumb along two scratches on the side of the camera, two scratches she didn't remember seeing before she'd gone into the album.

The first picture showed a swirl of grey as did the second, third, and fourth.

“Dammit,” she said.

So the album would allow her to take the camera in, but it wouldn't allow photographic evidence of its existence.

But why would it? It wasn't real.

Then she saw it—a darker area inside the swirls. The suggestion of a child's face. She held the camera closer. Yes, the darker area showed a child's tiny chin, wide eyes, and round cheeks. Mary's face, in shades of grey.

Mary's face was absent from the fifth photo, but the sixth revealed a bit of an eye, a curl of hair. The seventh photo was a wash, but from the eighth, a face stared back, George's face, his eyes hungry, his mouth open, an expression made all the more malevolent by the lack of color.

The face of the tiger.

She blinked and the face vanished. She squinted. Turned her head.

No face. No face at all.

The ninth photo showed only darkness, but the tenth photo revealed something else—a small rectangle, marked by light around the edges. A child-sized secret door.

Alison grinned. Here then was more proof. She patted her right cheek, now smooth and flawless. As if she needed any more.

Someone knocked on her front door. She jumped, the camera fell from her hands, and she caught it before it hit the floor. With small steps, she crept over to the door. Peered through the peephole. Meredith.

Let her in. Let her in and show her that you're whole again. That your scars aren't simply healing. Sometimes they're completely gone. Let her see you. Please, please, let someone else see you're not just a Monstergirl.

Alison's hands turned to fists, and she shook her head, a tiny movement that sent a thick lock of hair curling down over her face. Meredith wouldn't even believe it. Scars didn't vanish overnight. Not in the real world.

Meredith knocked again then took out her cell phone; a few seconds later, Alison's rang. She grimaced as Meredith leaned closer to the door, listening. After the fifth ring, Meredith turned away from the door, her voice disappearing as she headed back to her car.

Alison's phone gave a small beep, but she waited until Meredith drove away before she listened to the message.

“Alison, it's Meredith. I was in the neighborhood and stopped by, but I guess you're taking a nap or a shower. I think my camera fell out of my bag when I was there. Could you take a look and call me if you find it? It's not end of the world urgent or anything, I've uploaded most of the pictures to my laptop already, but I'd still like to find it. Talk to you soon.”

Alison thought of the scratches on the camera. She'd call Meredith later and tell her she found it on the floor. That would explain the damage.

Or I could keep it. For the next time.

She touched her face again. Because of course there'd be a next time. No point in lying to herself about that. And she hadn't been hurt in the house, only a little frightened. A small price to pay.

With a shaking hand, she held the camera at arm's length and pushed the button, but several long minutes passed before she viewed the picture.

Whole. Well and truly whole.

She closed her eyes until the sting of tears was gone, then scrolled through the house pictures once more. Mary's face remained clear, or as clear as a ghost's face shown in grey mist could be. The other face was still gone, not that she'd expected it to return because it wasn't real after all, only a strange illusion.

Liar. Remember the cold? Tell me that wasn't real. Tell me and you're a fool.

“Houses sometimes have cold spots,” she said. “Especially old houses.”

Fool. That wasn't a cold spot. Someone was there, someone holding you—

She tossed the camera aside and stalked into the kitchen, frowning at the empty counter. She headed back into the living room. No album on the coffee table.

She rechecked the kitchen, scanned the bookcases, and peered under the sofa. A wave of dizziness struck, and she braced herself against the arm of the sofa until it passed. Then she took the stairs two at a time, her dirty socks leaving smudges on the steps. A cold sweat prickled the center of her back.

When she saw the album on the center of her bed, atop the comforter, she smiled.

But how did it get upsta—

It didn't matter. The album was here, safe and sound, and that was all that mattered. Despite the grime on her clothing, she sat down on her bed. The inscription now read:

It still didn't make sense, yet the words
trapped
and
locked
sent another shiver down her spine. Next time she'd be careful. No more trips
inside
the walls.

CHAPTER 17

When Alison opened the door, bright sunlight spilled in. She worried a cuticle between her teeth. She needed to try someplace small. Somewhere close. Next time she could try someplace bigger, more crowded.

She didn't count her steps as she walked, nor did she hesitate when crossing the street and though she pulled off her scarf, she couldn't prevent her chin from tipping down. But maybe that was okay. Baby steps.

There weren't as many people out today; in spite of the sun, the air had shifted from cool to cold. She caught sight of people slipping into and out of stores, but no one looked in her direction. She was another anonymous passerby. Her shoes tapped an even cadence on the pavement, making it easy to ignore the muscle twinges, promises of the hurt to come.

When she passed Elena's Antiques, she spared the window only a brief glance, enough to see that the interior had turned from filled to chaos. She paused at a window display of shoes and jewelry, but instead of filling her with regret, the sight brought to mind a possible future. Buying things she'd need to go to school, to teach, to live.

A small grocery store, not the one where she placed her orders, sat at the end of the block. Although the lights were bright, it was a safe experiment. Still, her heart started to race when she passed through the sliding door.

The first aisle was deserted, and the wheels of her cart gave a soft squeak on the tile floor as she pushed it around the produce bins.
She picked bananas and apples and tomatoes, tracing her fingertips along the smooth surfaces, feeling for bruised spots.

She heard the sound of footsteps and another cart, wheeled sharply into the next aisle, and came to a stop with her face toward the shelf. From the corner of her eye, she watched until the person disappeared out of sight. Exhaling, she pushed her cart toward the soup aisle.

She'd added several cans to her cart when a baby started to cry. Alison stood with one hand outstretched, the other on the cart handle. The cry was high-pitched and mewling. She remembered a baby crying on a night long ago, remembered trying to find it through the smoke. If she hadn't…

A woman walked into the aisle, pushing her cart with one hand and holding a baby against her chest with the other as she made small cooing noises. They drew near and Alison could smell the talcum powder, see the downy hair on the baby's scalp and a lump lodged painfully in her throat.

With the plastic bag swinging at her side, she stopped in front of a bakery window showing off a display of cupcakes, each one piled high with frosting. She smiled. Something sweet to celebrate her freedom. Moving toward the door, she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“I want to pick something up for my daughter.”

Alison came to an abrupt halt.

“How is she doing these days?”

“She's okay. I worry because she keeps herself so isolated, but—”

Her fingers tightened around the bag's handle.

Get away, get away now.

“—I know she has a hard time being out in public.”

She moved fast, the bag bouncing hard against her leg, and after a few steps, glanced back over her shoulder. For a split second, she caught her mother's gaze. Alison turned away fast, but not before she registered a complete lack of recognition in her mother's face.

She'd been home for less than an hour when her phone rang. She ignored it. No doubt it was her mother, coming to rescue her from her isolation and loneliness, her poor pathetic daughter locked away alone.

She popped out her prosthetic eye and threw it on the floor, not caring if it cracked. What did it matter? It was a trick, a fake. Like the album. Or the tiny diamond ring tucked away in her jewelry box. Oh, the stone was real enough, but the love behind it wasn't. Not real enough for a Monstergirl, but she didn't blame him. Who would want to be with someone who wore her real face? No one. No one sane and normal and healthy would.

And what would happen when she reached the last photograph? How did she even know there were more? Maybe it was all a game. She was clinging to the hope that she'd keep finding new pages, new photos, until her scars were fully healed, but what if the next page revealed a blank page with no way back into the paper world? Would George be that cruel? She'd be the child allowed to eat half the ice cream cone before it was taken away. The homeless woman dressed in silk and satin, taken to the best restaurant, then tossed back onto the streets. The ash-girl turned into a princess, until the clock struck twelve.

Her phone rang again. She tossed it aside with a snarl. Imprisoned by her scars when broken; trapped without them when whole.

She woke from a dead sleep in the middle of the night. All around her, the house settled in tiny creaks and moans. Her eyelids grew heavy. Then real footsteps, not made of house noise, tapped in the hallway. She sat up, holding the blankets close to her chest. No one could be in the house; she had good locks on all the windows and doors.

Someone is here
, Purple said.
Someone wrong.

Another footstep, hesitant and halting, as though—

They know you're awake.

Or they were unsure of their footing in the real world.

Panic oil-slicking her mouth, she slid her legs from beneath the blankets, feeling the pull in her hips because not only did she have a nocturnal visitor, she had her scars back, too. When she attempted to stand, the best she could do was a feeble hunch because her muscles ached, and all she wanted to do was climb back in bed and sleep it all away, and in the morning she could pretend nothing had happened.

Out in the hallway, there was a tiny thump, the sound a shoulder or arm bumping against the wall would make. Alison shuffled closer to her open bedroom door. Another step and then another until she stood next to the doorway, still hidden inside her room. She'd left the bathroom light on with the door half-closed, enough light to prevent a fall, not enough to turn everything bright.

The hallway was empty. House noise after all.

A shadow, vaguely human shaped, twitched on the wall. Footsteps pressed on the floor, a floorboard gave an answering creak, and the apparition stretched into a long and amorphous darkness. It changed once more, shrinking down and down and down, then melted into the wall and disappeared.

Alison clamped both hands over her mouth. Small sounds crept out between the gaps in her fingers. She shoved her door wide open and staggered out into the hall. One shaking hand touched the wall, but felt nothing.

Stupid girl. Your scars.

She turned her arm, pressed skin that wasn't numb to the wall. It was cool, yet no different from the surface a foot away. Using the side of her hand, she knocked on the wall. Moved a few inches away. Knocked again. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Get rid of the album. Throw it out now!

“I can't,” Alison said, her voice small and ineffectual. She curled her misshapen hands into painful fists. “I need it.”

Two days later, Alison emerged from a cocoon of blankets with dark circles under her eyes and hollows beneath her cheeks. While waiting for tea to brew, she rummaged through her cabinets. Her stomach rumbled but looking at oatmeal packets and cookies made her queasy.

She slammed the cabinet door shut. It bounced back open. She left it that way and listened to the messages on her phone. Meredith again, asking if Alison had found her
camera
. It wasn't life or death, it was a stupid camera. Couldn't she wait until the next appointment? Couldn't she use her phone instead? And several messages from her mother, of course. Alison deleted them all, her mouth twisted in a frown.

She ate a small container of yogurt while standing next to the refrigerator, not tasting, but eating nonetheless. When finished, she made toast and carried it into the living room. It didn't take long for her to abandon the toast in favor of the pillow on her sofa.

A quiet knock on the door jarred her from a half-sleep. She limped to the door, raising her face to the peephole, and sighed. Her mother. Alison swallowed her irritation.

Her mother gave her a long look. “I've been calling and calling. You look terrible, babygirl. Why didn't you call me? I would've come over.”

“I'm fine, Mom. I was trying to take a nap.”

“You don't look fine at all. Meredith said she thought you were losing weight—”

“Meredith called you?”

“Yes, she did, but don't worry about that. Sit down, let me fix you something to eat and—”

“I just ate.”

Her mother glanced at the plate of toast. “One bite of toast isn't eating.”

She reached out to touch Alison's face; Alison stepped back before she made contact. “I'll eat more later.”

“Have you called the doctor?”

“No, I haven't. If it was something major, I would, but it isn't. It's just a cold. If you and Meredith don't want to believe that, fine, but don't go running around my back gossiping like fishwives.”

“Alison, we didn't gossip.”

“Talking about somebody behind their back is gossip.”

“We were talking about your health. Your health.”

“And I said I was fine. Drop it.”

“Meredith also told me some of the scars look like they're healing,” her mother said in a small voice.

“That's what she said, yes.”

Her mother smiled. “May I look?”

“No.”

“But Ali—”

“I said no. I'm not something to be examined under a microscope.”

“I never said you were, but she said there's a spot near your hip where the scars have healed. Don't you think that's reason enough to go see Dr. Simon?”

“No. And I don't want to talk it about it anymore.”

“I don't understand why you're so angry,” her mother said.

“Just leave it alone.”

Her mother held her gaze for a long time. Finally, she gave a small sigh. Another wave of dizziness struck, a bigger one this time, and Alison staggered back. The muscles of her hip spasmed. Her face contorted in pain.

“That's it. I'm calling the doctor.”