the Fálcon, subtle yet definitely there. Or, should I say, not there.
Transparent. Like I can see through her. Like she’s there but isn’t.
Penley’s thin, but she’s not
that
thin! How is this happening again? Why?
I flip on the light, spinning around to face the black corkboard behind me. The other shots, my father — I never checked to see if the effect was happening with the photos of him. Did I just not notice?
My eyes race along every picture pinned to the wall, and not a single one has the effect.
No problem with these shots — just a man who’s been dead for twelve years!
So it isn’t the lens after all. The new one did the same thing the old one did. Must be the camera, then. At least I hope it’s the camera.
I remember a business card that Javier at Gotham Photo once gave me. On the back he wrote his cell phone number. I think maybe he was fishing for a date. Nonetheless, he said I should call him anytime I have a problem with my pictures.
I think this qualifies.
The only question now is where I put that card. I start with my wallet, shuffling through ATM receipts, my AmEx, Visa, Discover, driver’s license, a frequent-coffee-drinker card from the Java Joint.
Javier’s card isn’t there.
I check all the drawers in my bedroom, including the one in my nightstand. It’s amazing how much junk I accumulate. Do I really have to take a book of matches from every restaurant I eat in, for God’s sake?
C’mon, Javier’s card, where are you?
I try to think back to when he handed it to me. When was it, what time of year?
Winter, I decide.
Maybe it’s still in a coat. In fact, I’m pretty sure I know which one. A shearling I splurged on — a beautiful “just gotta have it” that I saw in the window at Saks. I ate a lot of tuna fish sandwiches for dinner that month, as I recall.
I also recall Javier complimenting me on it . . .
when he handed me his card.
I’m pretty impressed with my memory as I head for the hall closet. Maybe I’m not
completely
losing it.
With any luck, I’ll reach Javier and we can meet. I’ll show him the pictures, he’ll study my camera, and he’ll tell me what’s wrong. Simple as that. Mystery solved.
First things first, though — that card of his.
I open the closet door.
At least I try to. It’s stuck. The knob twists, but the door itself seems to be jammed.
Oh, brother.
Now I’m not so sure I want to get into this closet.
But I have to, so I pull harder. Then harder still, with both hands. It’s almost as if the damn door is locked from the inside; only that’s impossible, isn’t it? This closet’s never been locked. Who would lock it?
Changing my grip on the knob, I really put some muscle into it. I yank so hard my shoulders ache.
Slowly, the door begins to give — until it flies open.
I look inside.
Oh, no! Oh, God! Help me!
And then I’m screaming at the top of my lungs.
Chapter 45
“KRISTIN, WAKE UP. Wake up!”
My eyes snap open, and I gaze around, confused and out of sorts. Not to mention petrified. Everything is soft focus. “Where am I?”
“You’re in my apartment,” says Connie. “On the planet Earth.” She looks concerned, scared, even.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
“Am I okay?”
Connie shakes her head in disbelief. “My God, the way you were screaming, I thought somebody was trying to kill you in here!”
I can see sunlight slicing through the blinds. It’s morning, and I’m lying on the pullout couch in Connie’s living room on the Upper East Side, that much I’ve got figured out. Everything else is sketchy at best.
“I . . . don’t . . . remember. . . .”
“You came here last night,
hysterical,
” explains Connie. “You were going on and on about this dream and some pictures you’d taken — oh, and you were telling me about your closet. The one in the front hallway? Is any of this ringing a bell?”
“The cockroaches . . .”
“Yeah, you said there were a million of them. It was horrifying
Transparent. Like I can see through her. Like she’s there but isn’t.
Penley’s thin, but she’s not
that
thin! How is this happening again? Why?
I flip on the light, spinning around to face the black corkboard behind me. The other shots, my father — I never checked to see if the effect was happening with the photos of him. Did I just not notice?
My eyes race along every picture pinned to the wall, and not a single one has the effect.
No problem with these shots — just a man who’s been dead for twelve years!
So it isn’t the lens after all. The new one did the same thing the old one did. Must be the camera, then. At least I hope it’s the camera.
I remember a business card that Javier at Gotham Photo once gave me. On the back he wrote his cell phone number. I think maybe he was fishing for a date. Nonetheless, he said I should call him anytime I have a problem with my pictures.
I think this qualifies.
The only question now is where I put that card. I start with my wallet, shuffling through ATM receipts, my AmEx, Visa, Discover, driver’s license, a frequent-coffee-drinker card from the Java Joint.
Javier’s card isn’t there.
I check all the drawers in my bedroom, including the one in my nightstand. It’s amazing how much junk I accumulate. Do I really have to take a book of matches from every restaurant I eat in, for God’s sake?
C’mon, Javier’s card, where are you?
I try to think back to when he handed it to me. When was it, what time of year?
Winter, I decide.
Maybe it’s still in a coat. In fact, I’m pretty sure I know which one. A shearling I splurged on — a beautiful “just gotta have it” that I saw in the window at Saks. I ate a lot of tuna fish sandwiches for dinner that month, as I recall.
I also recall Javier complimenting me on it . . .
when he handed me his card.
I’m pretty impressed with my memory as I head for the hall closet. Maybe I’m not
completely
losing it.
With any luck, I’ll reach Javier and we can meet. I’ll show him the pictures, he’ll study my camera, and he’ll tell me what’s wrong. Simple as that. Mystery solved.
First things first, though — that card of his.
I open the closet door.
At least I try to. It’s stuck. The knob twists, but the door itself seems to be jammed.
Oh, brother.
Now I’m not so sure I want to get into this closet.
But I have to, so I pull harder. Then harder still, with both hands. It’s almost as if the damn door is locked from the inside; only that’s impossible, isn’t it? This closet’s never been locked. Who would lock it?
Changing my grip on the knob, I really put some muscle into it. I yank so hard my shoulders ache.
Slowly, the door begins to give — until it flies open.
I look inside.
Oh, no! Oh, God! Help me!
And then I’m screaming at the top of my lungs.
Chapter 45
“KRISTIN, WAKE UP. Wake up!”
My eyes snap open, and I gaze around, confused and out of sorts. Not to mention petrified. Everything is soft focus. “Where am I?”
“You’re in my apartment,” says Connie. “On the planet Earth.” She looks concerned, scared, even.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
“Am I okay?”
Connie shakes her head in disbelief. “My God, the way you were screaming, I thought somebody was trying to kill you in here!”
I can see sunlight slicing through the blinds. It’s morning, and I’m lying on the pullout couch in Connie’s living room on the Upper East Side, that much I’ve got figured out. Everything else is sketchy at best.
“I . . . don’t . . . remember. . . .”
“You came here last night,
hysterical,
” explains Connie. “You were going on and on about this dream and some pictures you’d taken — oh, and you were telling me about your closet. The one in the front hallway? Is any of this ringing a bell?”
“The cockroaches . . .”
“Yeah, you said there were a million of them. It was horrifying
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