Soldier Doll (22 page)

“I'll write you,” she'd whispered last night. “And please call. Call my cell phone.”

Alex had turned away in disgust. She was so afraid of his stupid father that she didn't even want him, her only son, to call the house. At that moment, he hated her, hated her as much as he hated his father. He was glad they refused to see him off, to say good-bye.

Alex wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck as he lugged his bag down the driveway. Icy rain whipped his face, stinging his cheeks in needles of pain. At the bottom of the incline, he lost his footing and slipped, landing on his back with a sickening crunch. When he'd caught his breath, he righted himself, dusting the snow off his soaking jeans. He shook off his backpack to see if there was any damage, but the crunching sound had just been a half-open bag of pretzels. He started to close the bag and then noticed the soldier doll.

He picked it up and stared hard at it. His mother hadn't even come downstairs to say good-bye. “I don't need you,” he said to it. “I don't need anyone.” He tossed the doll on the side of the road and walked quickly to the bus stop.

Chapter 13

Toronto, Canada

2007

“Mom?” Elizabeth kicks off her shoes and walks into the house, carefully stepping over her discarded footwear. Her mother sticks her head into the hallway from the kitchen, frowning at the haphazardly dumped yellow platform sandals.

“Someone could kill themselves on those things,” she says disapprovingly.

Elizabeth kicks the shoes to one side. “Who ever got killed by a killer pair of shoes?” she quips.

“Those aren't just shoes. Look at the size of the heels! You could sustain a concussion if you tripped in them.”

“Yeah, if you're a total spaz, maybe,” Elizabeth snorts. “Death by fashion.”

“It's been known to happen.” Her mom leans against the doorway and folds her arms across her chest.

“Right.”

“There was a dancer once; I can't remember her name. She was wearing a really long fashionable scarf, and it got wound up in the wheel of the car she was in, and she was strangled.”

“Come on.” Elizabeth casts her eyes heavenward in mock exasperation.

“I'm telling you. Look it up on your Wikipedia or whatever.”

Elizabeth raises her eyebrows. “Even if it's true, it doesn't prove anything. She could have been wearing a practical, warm scarf and the same thing might have happened.”

Her mother gives a resigned sigh. “You'd make a good lawyer, Liz. You have an answer for everything.”

Elizabeth grins triumphantly. “Does that mean I win?”

“No. You still have to put your shoes away.”

“Boo.” Elizabeth sticks out her tongue.

“I'm the boss of this house.”

“What about Dad?”

“He's not here right now, remember? So I'm in charge.”

Elizabeth is quiet for a moment. Her father left a week ago, but she still isn't used to his absence. It's as if something isn't quite right in the house without his silly jokes or enthusiastic laugh. It feels strange, now that it's just her and her mom in this new house; it suddenly makes the space feel much larger than it did a month ago.

“I miss Dad.” The words tumble out before she can stop them.

“Oh, honey.” Elizabeth's mother comes over and puts an arm around her daughter's narrow shoulders. “So do I.”

Elizabeth lets her mother hug her for a minute before pulling away. “Did he call today?”

“Yes. And he sent an e-mail. He's had a lot of interesting replies to his article on the soldier doll.”

“Oh yeah?” Elizabeth looks at her with interest. Her dad and Dr. McLeod had co-written an article on the discovery of the doll for a national newspaper, and it had been published last week.

Her mother motions for Elizabeth to join her at the kitchen table.

“Most were just Margaret Merriweather fans,” her mom said. “But there was one really interesting one. It was from an older woman who'd had the doll at a concentration camp called Terezín. It was near Prague,” Her mother leans back in her chair. “Her name is Eva Goodman. Here, I printed it for you.” She reaches into her back jeans' pocket and retrieves a folded square of paper.

“Thanks.” Elizabeth snatches the paper from her mother and unfolds it, smoothing it against the wooden surface of the tabletop.

The e-mail is quite long. Mrs. Goodman begins by explaining to Elizabeth's father how a fellow prisoner, a German Jew named Franz Roth, had presented her with the doll as a small gift.

He told me the doll was a good-luck charm, that his friend had given it to him on the battlefield in the Great War. He said they'd found it on an English soldier
, wrote Mrs. Goodman.

Elizabeth looks up at her mother. “An English soldier?” she asks excitedly. “Do you think it could be Ned?”

“Your father certainly does. He was beside himself over this e-mail. Like a little boy.” Her mother grins.

“I can imagine,” says Elizabeth. She goes back to reading.

After the War,
Mrs. Goodman concludes,
before I immigrated to America, I gave the small toy to an orphanage in Prague. A dear friend of mine, who I later learned had perished at Auschwitz, had spent time there. I donated it in her memory.

Elizabeth finishes reading the e-mail to herself, which includes further details of life at Terezín and Mrs. Goodman's deportation to another camp called Treblinka, just before she was finally liberated by the American army in 1945. She had then married an American soldier and immigrated to New York.

“Wow,” says Elizabeth when she's finished. She looks shaken. “Did you read this?”

“I did,” says her mother in a somber tone. She looks at her daughter curiously. “You learned about the Holocaust in school, didn't you?”

“We did,” says Elizabeth, frowning. She has a faraway look in her eyes. “It's different, though, when you read it like this. In an e-mail. When you read the books and stuff, it just seems so long ago.”

Her mom nods. “Makes it seem more real. More personal.” They sit quietly for a moment, contemplating.

“Dad must have been so excited to get this,” Elizabeth says again. She smiles, thinking of how thrilled her father would have been to receive the message.

Her mother laughs. “Look at all the exclamation marks in the subject line when he forwarded it to me.”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes and scans the top of the e-mail for her father's words. “He doesn't really say much, though,” she observes. “It would be nice to get a little more information.”

“He'll probably call again tomorrow,” says her mom. “He's got a lot going on there, and the Internet connection is slow. I'm sure he'll be in touch whenever he can. And he did promise we're all going to go to England on his first leave.”

“That's true,” says Elizabeth, brightening. It's what she's looking forward to most—going to London. She looks around the kitchen. “Is there anything for supper?”

“Yes!” Her mother rises proudly from her chair and opens the fridge, gesturing triumphantly.

“What is it?” Elizabeth looks suspiciously at the casserole dish inside.

“Lasagna.” Her mom beams.

Elizabeth eyes her skeptically. “Where's it from?”

“I made it!” Her mother looks very pleased with herself.

“Seriously? Like with noodles, from scratch?” Elizabeth walks over and pokes at the dish in disbelief, prying open the lid to look inside.

“And vegetables.”

“No!” Elizabeth steps back from the fridge and feigns shock, fanning herself with her hands as if she might faint. “I don't believe it.”

“Believe it.” Her mom looks smug. “
Now
what can you say about me, since I'm no longer forcing you to eat pizza?”

“Me?” says Elizabeth innocently. “What did I say?”

“Ha.” Her mother slides the lasagna out of the fridge and carefully places it in the oven.

“Do you even know how to turn that on?” Elizabeth cocks her head to one side and grins slyly.

“Funny.” Her mother elbows her gently in the ribs as she switches on the heat and sets the timer. Impatient for the generous topping of cheese to begin to bubble, the two stare at the glass oven door while the dish inside slowly cooks.

. . .

“Would anyone really buy this?” Elizabeth holds up a hardcover book, displaying the cover for Evan. She looks doubtful. “Maybe one for the free book table?” She nods in the direction of the door. Outside, unwanted books, cast off even by Sam, sit, forlorn, on a table marked “Free to a Good Home.”

“
Soap: A History
.” Evan reads the title. “I'm not so sure. It could be interesting. How it was discovered, how it became popular. You know, people didn't bathe until recently. Like, doctors didn't even wash their hands.”

“Gross.” Elizabeth wrinkles her nose. “But if they didn't wash their hands, then that wouldn't really be part of the history of soap, would it?”

“I don't know,” says Evan pointedly. “You'd have to read it to find out.”

Elizabeth sighs. Evan is protective of the books. He treats them like children, reluctant to banish them to the free book table. She peels off a price sticker and carefully places it in the top left-hand corner. “It's a dollar book, then.”

Evan winces. “Poor soap book.”

Elizabeth laughs. “No wonder Sam wanted to hire someone else to help you with this,” she says. “You're impossible. He'd never be able to turn over inventory with you here alone.”

Evan looks wounded. “Untrue,” he says, pouting. “I got rid of all those atlases.”

“Evan, they were so old that most of the European countries in them don't even exist anymore.”

“Exactly. They were antiques.” He jumps up. “They could be worth something! I'm going out to get them.”

“Oh, sit down.” Impatiently, Elizabeth pulls him back down to the floor, where they've been sorting books for hours. Sam had hired her to work with Evan these last few weeks of summer to help clear out the old books to make room for new ones in the fall. It's been fun working together as a couple, and they often spend their evenings together, too.

“You have no appreciation for antiquities,” grumbles Evan, picking up an old volume of
Encyclopedia Britannica
and examining it critically.

“Me? How dare you. You're talking to the current owner of the soldier doll.”

“Which you had never heard of until I mentioned it.”

“Stop sulking, it's annoying.”

Evan sticks his tongue out, and Elizabeth laughs. She whacks him gently on the head with an old paperback destined for the twenty-five-cent pile.

“So did your dad get any more feedback on that article?” Evan asks. Elizabeth had told him about the e-mail from Eva Goodman.

“Yes, actually.” Elizabeth puts down the book she is holding. “I meant to tell you. We heard from another guy who says he used to have the doll. Here in Toronto.”

“Really!” Evan looks at her eagerly. “Tell me.”

“He's a vet,” says Elizabeth. She looks slightly uncomfortable.

“A vet?” Evan frowns. “Like an animal doctor?”

“Um, no.” Elizabeth snorts. “Like a veteran. From the war. In Afghanistan.” She's still not making eye contact.

“Ah,” says Evan, blushing. “Right.”

“His name is Alex. He lost a leg over there.” She looks worried.

Evan puts an arm around her. “Your dad will be fine,” he says.

Elizabeth ignores him. “He said his mom gave him the doll. He said an American soldier gave it to her in Vietnam.”

“Wow,” says Evan. He sits back. “It's really been around, huh?”

“I know,” says Elizabeth. “It's crazy, isn't it? My dad's been updating Margaret Merriweather. He's obsessed.”

“So are you going to London soon?”

“Yes!” says Elizabeth, perking up. “We booked our tickets yesterday! I forgot to tell you. We're going to go when my dad has leave, in October.”

“So lucky!” Evan looks at her enviously. “I've never been to England.”

“I know, I wish you could come. But it's kind of a family thing. Dad's meeting us, from Afghanistan…”

“I understand.” Evan squeezes her hand.

“I promise.” Elizabeth squeezes back. “I'll text you the entire time.”

“Make sure you get me an autograph. I'll give you my copy of
Autumn Evening
. It could be worth something someday.”

“You're obsessed. Anyway, you'd
sell
it?”

“Of course not. It's
knowing
it's worth a lot.”

Elizabeth shakes her head. “You're crazy.”

“You love it.” He grins slyly.

She tilts her head coquettishly. “Maybe.”

Smiling, he pulls her to him, knocking over a stack of books. Elizabeth groans loudly. “There goes an hour's work. And you almost killed Boris.”

Evan looks down at the large rabbit, who stares up at him indignantly, flexing his front paw.

“Sorry, my furry friend,” he says apologetically. He ruffles Boris's back and reaches again for Elizabeth. He narrowly misses hitting her head against the desk as he pulls her in for a kiss.

. . .

Elizabeth lugs the heavy shopping bag home, grunting with the effort
. I should have just let Mom drive me to the mall to get this stuff
. She winces as the overstuffed bag pinches her shoulder, as if the handle were alive with teeth or claws. The bag brims with pens, pencils, notebooks, and a variety of other school supplies. Elizabeth secretly enjoys back-to-school shopping. There is something about crisp, new, yet-to-be-opened notebooks and fresh, unused pens with their caps still in place that makes her feel excited and optimistic about the upcoming academic year. She had gone to the store with Emily, who spent most of their outing quizzing her on the finer points of her relationship with Evan.

“So when you guys are at work together and no one's around, do you ever, you know—” Emily raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“Em!” Elizabeth cut her off. “No! It's a store. People can walk in at any time!”

“Not even a kiss?” Emily looked at her friend knowingly. Elizabeth blushed, and Emily grinned triumphantly. “I knew it!”

“Sh,” said Elizabeth, scandalized, looking around the office supply store. “Someone will hear you!”

“No one's listening to us,” said Emily impatiently. She leaned in toward Elizabeth conspiratorially. “You're sure you're just kissing?”

“Yes! Shut up!”

Elizabeth grins now at the memory of her friend. She shifts the bag to her right shoulder, revealing an ugly, red, welt-like mark on the other one. “Ugh,” she says, shuddering. She's almost home now. She drops the bag to the ground and drags it behind her up the front stairs.

The house is unusually quiet when she walks in. She's grown accustomed to having her mother around—she's been wrapping up her days early lately, even making it home before Elizabeth. Her mother is the kind of person who likes background noise and often has the television or radio blaring, regardless of whether she's actually watching or listening. Today, though, there is silence.