Lifelike

by Sheila A. Nielson

  Aunt Victoria looked at me from across the room. “I may not have much use for organized religion, Wren, but I’ve always believed in life after death,” she said. “There is far too much evidence to ignore. People die and have experiences while their bodies flat-line and their brain activity stops. And yet, they see a light and have visions of dead family members coming to greet them. Even the scientific community can’t completely write off all the stories because there are just too many.”

  “Do you think my parents and Benji are still out there somewhere?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Aunt Victoria’s voice was gentle. “It’s what you believe that counts. Hope comes from within—it can’t be given to us by someone else.”

  Jack’s death was only the beginning for Aunt Victoria. Not a year later, her own mother died of breast cancer. Grandfather Chasswell quickly abandoned his two daughters to start a new life, and Aunt Victoria was forced to drop out of college in order to raise Mom. Aunt Victoria lost everything in the end, even the younger sister she’d given up all her dreams to take care of. How could anyone carry so much pain around and still be strong? How did Aunt Victoria get up each morning and live life without wanting to sit in a dark corner and cry helplessly every moment of every day? Where did someone find that kind of strength?

  “Aunt Victoria?” I said slowly. “Yesterday, when I talked to Gabrielle and Matt—I mean—do they know about my cancer?”

  Aunt Victoria closed her eyes a moment, thinking to herself. “No, I guess they don’t. In fact, none of the staff do.” She gave a tired sigh and opened her eyes again. “I figured it was my prerogative if I wanted to keep my family troubles private and not burden others with them. I suppose things are different now that you live here. Gabrielle knows about the accident, of course. She might have told some of the others about it.” Aunt Victoria looked over at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll discreetly let all the staff know about the cancer, next chance I get.”

  “Is it okay with you if we don’t tell any of them yet?”

  Aunt Victoria paused, searching my face with her steady blue gaze. “Leukemia is not something you can hide.”

  I stared silently back at her, trying think of what I could say to make her understand how strongly I felt about this. “I’ve spent the last four years of my life just trying to survive. Even when I was in remission, Mom kept me out of school for fear I’d catch something and die because of my weakened immune system. I didn’t go anywhere except to my violin recitals. I’ve never even set foot in a high school in my life.”

  Aunt Victoria gave me a sympathetic nod, urging me to continue.

  “I was so busy trying to survive that I never actually got a chance to live,” I said. “If you tell the staff about my cancer it will start all over again. They’ll treat me like a broken doll to be put away in some safe place, so I’ll last as long as possible. Well I’m tired of being broken. If I’m going to die, at least let me see what it’s like to be a normal kid first.”

  Aunt Victoria looked straight at me, her gaze unblinking. “How do you feel these days?” she asked point blank. “I want complete honesty, Wren.”

  “Tired,” I admitted. Perhaps tired was not a strong enough word for the weariness that burrowed itself down into the very marrow of my bones every waking moment, but I felt it was an honest enough description. “I haven’t felt all that sick since they stopped the treatments. Chemo was much worse.”

  Aunt Victoria nodded silently in response. She’d seen me go through enough rounds of chemo to know what it was like.

  “All right. For now, we won’t say anything to the others.” Aunt Victoria continued to watch me with careful blue eyes. Everything about her exuded a patient serenity that acted as a solid anchor to my storm-tossed soul. How lucky was I to have her? Someone who’d met death often enough she wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

  As we sat there together, a strangely tangible feeling of peacefulness crept over the room. I got to my feet, crossed over to the couch and sat down beside Aunt Victoria. Without a word, she slipped her arm around my waist and pulled me closer. I let my head sink down onto her shoulder. At first it felt awkward—touchy feely was so not me—but for some reason, at that moment, I didn’t care.

  “You act like you feel a little better today?” Aunt Victoria murmured.

  “There’s something about this room,” I said, sitting up. “It just seems to suck out sadness like a sponge. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was enchanted.”

  It was a joke, I swear. But my voice came out breathless and intense, as if I really meant it. I thought about my dream—of the girl, Felicity, who was locked in a wardrobe. A story I should not have known anything about.

  My eyes shifted toward the music box, as I remembered the strange way its lingering melody had lulled me into sleep, almost against my will.

  Aunt Victoria followed my gaze to the music box. “Beautiful isn’t it?” she said. “You should hear one of these big music boxes play sometime, absolute heaven. Too bad that one is broken, or I’d show you what I mean.”

  I turned to her in surprise. “Broken?” It sounded fine last night.

  Aunt Victoria bent down, popped open the catch, and lifted the lid. Inside I could see a flat golden disk with lots of little holes in it. She lifted the disk and pointed to an empty space underneath.

  “It’s missing the metal comb that plays the music. The music box and the disk inside were Xavier’s original possessions. Broken or not, they’re too valuable to throw out. I’ve considered having a new part made but haven’t really had the time to hunt down a restorer.” Aunt Victoria carefully replaced the disk and closed the lid.

  I stared down at the music box until my eyes watered.

  “I’ve often wondered what melody it plays,” Aunt Victoria went on. “What song did the infamous Xavier Kensington like to listen to on his own private music box, do you think?”

  I remembered again the softly sad, yet comforting chimes of the song as it played last night.

  “Moonlight Sonata”

  Enchanted, my eye. This room was freaking haunted! Or I was losing my mind. Neither prospect seemed like a particularly good one for me.

  Chapter Seven

  Not wanting to think about the night’s unexplainable events, I went back to my room, threw on some clothes, and tried to take on my untamable, strawberry blond curls in a vicious full-frontal assault that relieved some of my feelings. I didn’t mind the short, curls anymore. I didn’t even mind that my strawberry blond had grown back more ginger than blond. After being bald, having any kind of hair at all felt like the height of luxury.

  I got myself looking minimally presentable, then paused a moment to finger the long, knobby bump just below my right collar bone. It wasn’t that noticeable, about the size and shape of a large blood vessel.

  Port-a-Cath tube, anyone?

  Even though I was done with chemo, the doctors decided to leave my port implanted in my chest, just in case I was hospitalized or needed some major pain killers—toward the end. Now that I was off the treatments, the port didn’t have to be flushed quite as often as it used to, so it was easy to forget it was even there most of the time.

  I turned slowly away from my mirror and almost stumbled over the violin case which Aunt Victoria had left sitting on the bedroom floor. I frowned down at it in annoyance.

  I remembered how it felt—playing it. The feel of its smooth, gloss finish as it lay cool against my skin. The taut strings that cut deep into my fingertips. Musical vibrations would move through my body, distracting me from the horrible reality of chemo. At times my hands shook so bad you could hardly tell what piece I attempted to play. Sometimes I threw up in between movements. Not pretty, I can tell you.

  When I played, the beauty of the violin’s bittersweet music drew me outside of the pain and helped to fill up the endless, empty hours when I thought I’d go mad from being bedridden. I poured all my loneliness and suffering into that instrument�
�as well as all my hope for better days. A future without cancer.

  I knew better now.

  My gaze moved instinctively to the framed picture sitting on my bedside table. It was of my family picnicking together last summer. Mom wore those stupid pink flip flops Benji gave her for her birthday. Dad’s hair stood up in the wind. Aunt Victoria took the picture that day, so we were all in it. Mom, Dad, Benji and I—laughing and having a good time. I’d been in remission then.

  Well, I was done with remissions. And with feeling sorry for myself.

  With a weary sigh, I picked up the violin case and moved it into the very back of my closet where I wouldn’t have to see it. Slipping my west wing key into my pocket, I decided to go get myself something to eat.

  Judging by the size of this place, if I started looking systematically from room to room I should be able to find the kitchen by, oh say, next week sometime? Aunt Victoria would know where it was. The only problem was Aunt Victoria seemed to have disappeared along with the phantom kitchen. I decided to hunt for her downstairs.

  Now open to the public for business, the museum was a very different place than it had been when I arrived the night before. I tried to descend the grand staircase, but quickly found my way blocked by a roped off partition. I read the attached sign.

  Second Floor Closed to the Public

  Tours by Appointment Only

  Dressed in his baggy, brown security uniform, Matt stood at the bottom of the stairs giving a tour to a group of day-campers. The kids sat on the grand staircase like seats in an amphitheater, watching Matt with horrified fascination as he spoke to them from below.

  “No one knows where the carved message over Kensington House’s main entrance came from,” Matt said in hushed tones. “One morning the whole house awoke to find the mysterious words carved deep into the wood beams. Many believe it was a ghostly hand that wrote them there.”

  Good thing I didn’t know that when I read those words yesterday, otherwise I might have turned right around and set up housekeeping in the van.

  Trying to wade through all those kids was gonna be a nightmare. I debated going back up to my room, but my starving stomach protested loudly against the idea. I slipped under the red velvet ropes unnoticed and crept toward the two sixth grade girls sitting closest to the top of the stairs. I reached out and silently touched the shoulder of the girl on the right.

  Before I could even excuse myself to get by, the girl let out a scream that would have drowned out a roaring locomotive. Panic moved through the rest of the group like a wave. The volume rose and crested to ear-splitting heights as more and more kids joined their voices to the screaming chorus. Some were genuinely frightened, while others grinned joyfully as they added to the confusion, purposely trying keep the chaos going as long as possible.

  Matt waved his arms in the air attempting to regain control. The woman stationed behind the welcome desk jumped up and hurried over to lend him a hand. She was a plump, round-cheeked, older woman with a halo of short, white hair. She had to be at least sixty years old, possibly past retirement age, but she moved with the speed and grace of a much younger woman. Ms. Sarah, I presumed. Owner of the electric fireflies.

  Matt put two fingers into his mouth and let loose a killer whistle that cut through the noise of the freaked-out kids. Heavy silence fell over the group. A sea of wide, unblinking owl-eyes stared up at me.

  Note to future self: Never sneak up on anyone in a haunted doll museum.

  Ever.

  Matt fought a smile as he motioned with one hand for me to come down the stairs. The kids gaped in blatant curiosity as I descended, parting like the Red Sea as I passed through. Matt’s walkie-talkie squawked at his belt.

  “Matt, is everything all right down there?” Aunt Victoria’s distant voice asked over the radio. At least I knew she was somewhere in the building.

  “Everything is A-okay and under control,” Matt answered her, grinning in my direction. The day campers all broke into nervous giggles. Seeing everything was fine, Ms. Sarah went to help a visitor waiting to pay at her welcome desk. I thought about borrowing Matt’s walkie-talkie to find out where Aunt Victoria was, but decided not to interrupt him now that he seemed to have things back under control.

  Let’s see if there’s any more damage I can do this morning.

  Turning my attention to the rest of the museum, I took a moment to admire the ornate chandelier far above my head. It reminded me of an upside-down wedding cake with several tiers worth of sparkling prisms hanging from it. The morning sun shone through the upper windows, casting sunbursts of light against the high ceiling above. Suddenly all the reflections quivered, as if disturbed by an invisible finger. The lights flitted about like hundreds of tiny, shimmering fairies fluttering excitedly about the ceiling. I glanced at the chandelier, curious to find what had caused them to start dancing about. I could see the prisms swaying ever so slightly within their fixtures as if a draft had caught them just as the air conditioner kicked on.

  I looked again at the dancing reflections on the ceiling, mesmerized by the rhythm and beauty of their hypnotic movement. There was one particularly spectacular reflection that caught my attention. It was made up of every color of the rainbow and seemed to be swaying at a slower rate than any of the others. I watched as that one reflection moved away from the rest of the group and slid its way across the roof. When it ran out of ceiling it slipped over the edge and began crawling methodically down the wall.

  I glanced uneasily at the chandelier, trying to figure out which prism was casting that rogue reflection and what could have caused it to go so far off course from the others? There was nothing out of place as far as I could see. I looked back at the reflection moving silently down the pink rosebud wallpaper, like a spider, creeping along with eerie purpose. Suddenly the light changed direction, heading for the open doorway. It skipped over the doorframe and vanished.

  Hesitantly, I followed it—finding it again a moment later at the far end of the next room over. It flickered over the polished surfaces of the display cases, before finally coming to rest on the shoulder of one lone woman who stood with her back to the door. She was dressed in a pair of washed-out jeans and a leather jacket. I waited for the sunburst to move on, but it continued to sit on the woman’s shoulder, flickering and twinkling in an inviting way.

  Curious, I moved closer, pausing only long enough to glance at the plaque over the room’s entrance. Postmodern Doll Room, it read.

  Okay. I was game.

  Most of the dolls in this room were brands I recognized. Madam Alexander, Shirley Temple, even a few old, classic Barbies.

  That might explain what Postmodern meant.

  The woman in the leather jacket stood before a large display case filled with dolls that must have been popular when my mom was a kid. The museum guest seemed particularly interested in a Cabbage Patch Doll. It was an older version, with bright red yarn for hair, chubby cheeks, and a row of freckles over the bridge of its squashed, little nose.

  I could only see three quarters of the woman’s profile, but she looked like she might be in her late thirties. And yet, she had the sunken haggard look of someone who had lived through a lot more in some thirty-odd years than most people do in a lifetime. Her skin hung loose on her, like she’d lost weight in a hurry.

  The refracted light on the woman’s shoulder shivered violently for a moment and she turned her head slightly in my direction as the light’s movement caught her attention. Her eyes were red, swollen with tears. There were dark smudges beneath each of her eyes where the mascara had run. Even as I watched, a black tear slid down her cheek and she quickly wiped it away before anyone would notice. But it was too late—I had noticed.

  My pounding heart silently beat out the passage of time. The prism of light continued to flicker against the woman’s left shoulder, beckoning me onward with its warm brilliance.

  I didn’t want to get involved, I told myself. I had enough of my own pain to deal with. I was too
tired and too beat up to help someone else—especially a stranger I knew nothing about. All I wanted was to curl up in a ball and protect all the tender, wounded parts inside myself. To stay away from even more suffering.

  And yet…

  I knew what kind of effort it took to keep your crying quiet the way that woman did. A lot of energy was expended when you denied the sobs wanting to rip themselves out of your chest. Not a sound escaped the woman in the leather jacket, not even a sniffle. I took that first step in her direction without even thinking. Catching the movement out of the corner of her eye, the woman spun about in surprise.

  Way to almost scare her to death, Wren. Haunted house, remember? No sneaking allowed.

  I could see now that the woman had a nose ring in one nostril and five piercings running up her ear. She looked tough on the outside. Too tough to be crying over a Cabbage Patch doll with red hair.

  “A-are you all right?” I asked, my voice jumping nervously. “You seemed upset and I—well, I just wanted to make sure, you know.” Even before the words were out of my mouth, I felt like an idiot. This woman was not the kind of person who needed help from a stupid teenager.

  The woman hesitated a moment, her eyes fixed on my face. Then, to my surprise, she smiled at me through her tears. It was a gentle, peaceful smile. Feeling encouraged, I moved in closer.

  “I’m fine. Really,” the woman spoke in the kind of deep, husky voice normally associated with those who had been chain smokers for years. But she didn’t smell like cigarettes in any way, so she must have broken the habit.

  “I’m not crying because I’m sad,” she said, blinking the tears back. “It was the doll there.” She pointed with one finger at the redheaded Cabbage Patch doll sitting in the display in front of us.

  I nodded silently, waiting for her to go on.

  “I had one that looked just like it when I was a little girl. My old man was a mean drunk—and that was at the best of times. I couldn’t sleep at night unless I had my Emma Jane with me. When I held that doll close, I felt safe. It was the only time I ever felt that way growing up.”