Alison Lovett
Alison sits in her bed, wrapped up in the gentle blankets like a cocoon. The bed is so new that it smells of nothing but her, and she smells of home. Her real home, in Miami Florida. But while this should be comforting, it’s nothing but painful. It only serves as a reminder of all she’s lost.
The walls of her clean, large bedrooms are brown, and the carpet is dark red with little golden splotches. There aren’t any windows, and the light is fake. Nothing about this dark, cold room can comfort her.
She digs her nails into the mattress. Little tears pinch the corners of her eyes. Her breathing is uneven, sometimes rapid, sometimes slow, and sweat stains her forehead. Oh God….she begs, a little gasp escaping from the corner of her throat. What on earth am I supposed to do now? She’s never felt so hopeless, so lost, so completely and utterly alone.
But of course I have. A tiny, strangely familiar voice whispers from the back of her subconscious. Of course I know what it’s like to feel lonely and helpless. Images, so clear it’s as if she only viewed them yesterday, begin to fill her mind. An old man with thin hair and wrinkles lining his skin. Except he really isn’t so old, just sick. Very sick. Daddy.
Alison shrugs the covers away, sits up suddenly and blinks, the bright light hurting her eyes. She runs a shaking hand through her frizzed curls. The man in her memory isn’t Daddy. It isn’t her father. Alison’s father is an explorer—strong and healthy and full of adventure. What’s going on?
I remember what life was like before Daddy got sick. He was so strong. He used to lift me up on his shoulders, and I’d be so high that I could taste clouds. Alison can smell summer air. She can feel sunlight dance across her skin. She remembers those shoulders, once strong and lean—shoulders of a man who she keeps thinking of as her father, but he isn’t. He can’t be.
I miss Daddy.
And then suddenly, just like that, Alison gets it. She slides out of bed, at last, and stands, rolling her hands into fists. Her nails dig into her palms, and leave bright red markings. The color is so brilliant, so real. Her toes are bare, and she curls them over the carpet beneath her. She can feel fuzz scratch against her skin. It feels real. The air smells of perfumes and salt. She can taste tears. She can hear the murmured laughter a few rooms down from her own. Real, real, real. Everything is real.
Too real.
She closes her eyes and thinks hard. Alison Lovett knows exactly what she’s going to do now. She takes a deep breath. You know what you’re doing here, don’t you?
Eleanor Brown is real. Eleanor Brown—the southern girl with a sick father and a dead mother who lives with her kind aunt and older cousin—the other Alison, doesn’t answer, but Alison isn’t surprised. I’ve been in bed all morning. She hears Eleanor think. Aunt Molly must be worried somethin’ terrible.
Good. Because I sure don’t. Alison thinks carefully. Do you think it would be best if I just let you do everything? I just keep messing up Eleanor…and this isn’t a dream, is it. A little tear flows down Alison’s cheek. Her skin feels very hot. But you, you know exactly what to do.
I wonder how late it is, Eleanor ponders. It’s not like I can tell, with this awful lack of windows.
And for the first time in two days, Alison smiles.
I should probably head to the dining hall, the other Alison concludes.
And that’s exactly what she does.