Soldier Doll (3 page)

“Kind of.”

“I forgot.”

“Which part? That I don't have any friends here?” Elizabeth's face flushes. Hearing herself say the words out loud makes it more real, and she feels her heart speed up in fear at the truth of the statement.
I have no friends.
She shudders.

“I'm really sorry. It was thoughtless. I'm an idiot.”

“Yeah.”

He leans over and peers at her computer screen. “That's Facebook?” he asks, curious.

“Dad!” Elizabeth protests. She twists the screen out of his line of vision. “That's private!”

“Sorry, sorry! I'm not trying to spy. I'm just interested.”

“It's not so interesting. I'm just talking to Katie.”

“How's she doing?”

Elizabeth looks at her father's face. He looks so kind, so sincere. For a moment she says nothing. Then she feels her resolve crumble, and she gestures toward the screen. “Everyone went on a hike yesterday.” The unspoken words
without me
hang in the air between them. She avoids her father's stare and looks at a spot on the wall beyond him, where he's just put up a calendar. She closes her eyes; she doesn't want to see that, either. It's already mid-July.
Less than two months to go until school
.

“I'm sorry, hon.” He pauses. “Have you thought about trying to meet some people before school starts?”

“I've thought about it.”

“And?”

“Dad. You don't just decide to meet people. Think about what you just said.”

“I'm zero for two, aren't I?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Maybe your mother has some ideas.” He sounds halfhearted, as if even he doesn't truly believe what he's saying. Now he avoids her gaze. He stares at a nick in the wood table that wasn't there before the move.

Elizabeth raises her eyebrows. “Sure,” she says. “We'll ask her. Put it on the list with the potato masher.”

“Zero for three?” he asks.

“Yup.”

“I guess suggesting you go to the community center would be like digging my own grave at this point.”

“Community center, really? Have we unpacked the shovel?”

Grave. Elizabeth suddenly thinks of Afghanistan and feels a twinge of guilt.
What if something happens to him?
She pushes the feelings aside, buries them. “Sorry, Dad. I just need some alone time right now. Okay?”

“Absolutely.” He stands up and pats her awkwardly on the back. “I'll go tackle the basement,” he says. He fiddles with his watch for a second, then disappears.

Elizabeth watches him go, before turning back to her computer. Katie is online, and she wants to know all about the new house.

• how's ur room?
  
• ok. big. have my own bathroom here.
  
• lucky!! i have to share with andrew. he's disgusting, there was PUBIC HAIR in the sink. WHAT is he doing in there???
  
• EW!
  
• I know. Anyway—talk later? My mom is screaming about something.
  
• OK. bye. Say hi to Elise and everyone.
  

Elizabeth stares at the screen.
What would it be like to share a bathroom with a brother?
Brother. The concept is foreign to her. When she was little, she found it harder, being an only child. It was more obvious back then, at friends' houses or at the playground. As she got older, she grew more comfortable with not having brothers or sisters around. Even so, there were moments when she still felt that emptiness, that sense that someone was missing from her life. Worse, her parents never talked about it, and she knew they had wanted more children. When she was little, she'd sometimes catch her parents whispering; she heard words like “miscarriage” and “infertility.” She hadn't known what they meant then, but she did now. She would have liked to talk about it, but she worried it would hurt her mother. She didn't want to see her cry. Not about that. Not again.

Elizabeth remembers that day clearly: first grade. How proud she'd felt! Miss James had singled her Popsicle-stick picture frame out for praise, complimenting her choice of color. Light blue—Mom's favorite—she recalls. She'd had to mix the white and blue paints carefully to get the right shade.

Where was her mom, anyway? Only six, Elizabeth had been confused. It wasn't like her mother not to be waiting at the front door when she came home from school, waiting to ask her questions about what she'd learned and whom she'd played with. Bewildered, Elizabeth had walked around the house, then up the stairs, searching. Why was the bedroom door closed? It was always open. She listened. What was that inside? Was she on the phone? Elizabeth listened closer. Was that crying? She took a step back, frightened, then peered into her parents' room.

Her mother sat huddled on the bed, holding an old sleeper of Elizabeth's and crying. The sleeper was pink and faded. Her mother brought it to her face. She gave a stifled sob and closed her eyes.

Elizabeth had stood at the door, clutching her frame. Should she go in? Give her a hug? The frame? She watched her mother for another moment. Then, frame in hand, she turned and walked away. She never told her mother what she'd seen.

Only child. She sometimes hates that term. It makes her feel as if there's something wrong with her, with her family. There aren't labels for other families. No one says to Katie, “Oh, you're a pair-child.” It annoys her. It feels like judgment. Now, though, Elizabeth can't help wondering what it might have been like to have a sibling to share this move with—even if it was a brother like Andrew. Built-in company that wasn't your parents: the idea feels foreign to her.

Elizabeth takes a last look at the new photos on Katie's Facebook page and snaps the laptop shut.
Enough self-torture for one day
. She looks around the kitchen. It's bigger than their old one, and brighter. Everything is white: the cabinets, the counters. The walls. She pictures the old house in Vancouver. Everything had been smaller there, but it hadn't felt cramped. It had been cozy. It felt like home. What's the new family like? She thinks of someone else living in her room and feels strange, as if someone is watching her, a prickly feeling on the back of her neck. This new house isn't bad, but it's not quite home. Not yet, anyway.

Elizabeth's gaze falls upon the little soldier doll, which is perched on the kitchen counter next to an unpacked box labeled “fancy dishes.”
That is so Dad
. She rolls her eyes. Her father has an annoying habit of leaving his things in a trail around the house, Hansel and Gretel style. It drives her mother crazy.
It's going to end up with the potato masher
, she thinks. She goes over to pick it up, to move it to safety. It looks back at her, unblinking. “You really are a weird little thing, aren't you?” she muses. She settles it carefully on the fireplace mantle.

Chapter 2

Toronto, Canada

2007

“Do you think you'll ever leave the house?” Her mother is unloading the dishwasher. She carefully sets a mug on the counter and looks at Elizabeth, who sticks out her tongue.

“I leave the house all the time.”

“Going to the corner store for ice-cream sandwiches doesn't count.”

“Why doesn't it count?”

Her mom sighs. “I'm surprised at you, Liz. This is a great neighborhood. Lots of good stuff. Used clothing stores. Stuff you'd like.”

Elizabeth looks away. “I've been busy.”

“Going on the Facebook isn't
busy
.”

Elizabeth cringes. “It's just Facebook. There's no
the
.”

“Does it matter?” Her mother throws her hands up in the air. Elizabeth feels a small sense of satisfaction and doesn't answer.
It does matter
.
You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know everything.

“Why don't you go for a walk tomorrow instead of sitting at your computer all day?”

“Whatever.” Elizabeth scowls. “Fine.”

Her mom rolls her eyes. “You know, the whole surly teenager thing doesn't really suit you,” she says. Her voice is light. “I know you're trying hard at it, but it might be time to try a different stereotype.”

Elizabeth scowls again. She's really angry now. Her fists are clenched and her mouth is twisted up on the left, the way it always gets when she loses her temper. “Stop doing that!”

“What did I do?”

“You know. Making fun of me. It's not fair. I'm allowed to be upset.”

“You are. But you need to get outside. You can't sit around moping. It's been weeks.”

“I have no one to go out with.”
Not here
, she adds silently.

“You used to spend hours walking around the city by yourself in Vancouver! All those used clothing stores—”

That's it. “Vintage!” She's shouting now. Her mother, looking startled, loses her train of thought. Her voice trails off, and there is silence between them.

“It's vintage clothing,” says Elizabeth quietly. “Not
used
. You want me to go out?” She stands up. Her eyes are flashing, and her cheeks are hot with anger. “Fine! I'll go!”

“Liz—”

Elizabeth doesn't answer. She slams the front door on her way out.

The night air feels thick and stale with heat. Even the trees look hot, their branches drooping dejectedly in the face of such oppressive temperatures. As she walks, Elizabeth feels increasingly uncomfortable. Her clothes quickly take on an irritating sticky quality, as if they've been washed in corn syrup and only half dried. Little droplets of sweat trickle with an almost predictable rhythm from her forehead down one side of her nose. Elizabeth doesn't wear much makeup, but she's sure the little she did bother to put on that morning is melting off at a rapid pace.
I can almost feel my hair frizzing
. She examines a strand and makes a face. I must look like a witch. Turning a corner, she passes the high school. She notices some girls about her own age camped out under a maple tree; they're laughing about something. Elizabeth hurries past, feeling shy.

Despite the weather, the city is pulsing with life. Restaurants have crammed extra seating onto already tiny patios, leaving diners struggling to use their cutlery without elbowing strangers at the next table. The line at the ice-cream store extends almost around the block. Children with water guns chase each other and are, in turn, chased by their parents. Couples walk close to one another but don't hold hands; it isn't really hand-holding weather. Elizabeth watches a group of girls slightly older than her try to attract the attention of two oblivious boys. They're all dressed alike; all wearing tiny shorts and skimpy tank tops.
How do they tell each other apart?
She stares, wondering if they go to her new high school.

Elizabeth stops to buy herself a Popsicle at the grocery store. Her favorite—cherry. It isn't quite as good as an ice cream, but not having to wait in line for it makes it taste better than it might have on an ordinary night. She passes by two vintage clothing stores right next to each other. They're closed for the evening, but the window displays are enticing. A red crocodile-skin purse with a jeweled clasp catches her eye, as does a lavender wrap dress that she thinks might be designer. One store is advertising a shoe sale.
Mom was right
, she thinks.
It's good to get out
. She feels a pang of guilt but keeps walking.

Elizabeth feels a sudden drop of cool water hit her neck. She looks up at the sky, but it's a clear night. She looks up again and sees the offending agent, an air conditioner. Old and clunky, it's practically groaning with effort to do its job in the stifling heat. A steady stream of water leaks onto the pavement below.

Elizabeth peeks into the store underneath. “Read It Again, Sam” says the sign above the window. Inside, the lights are on, and she can see shelves and tables stacked haphazardly with books. She pushes the door open, and a bell tinkles, announcing her entry.

Elizabeth inhales deeply, smelling that familiar odor of dust, aging paper, and old glue. She loves to read, but it's more than that, really. She loves books. When she loves a story, she wants to own it. Not just to read it again, though of course that's a part of it. There is something about having a copy of a book you love on the shelf, knowing that the book is yours and yours alone. She likes how when she reads a book again, she can sometimes recall where she'd been, or what she'd been doing, the other times she'd read it. A faint stain of dripped tea or the lingering scent of a candle or perfume—each triggers its own memories, its own set of thoughts.

“Hi, can I help you?”

Elizabeth stares at the clerk. He's about her age. Tall, he's wearing faded cutoffs and a green concert T-shirt listing tour dates in 1982 for a band she's never heard of. He has glasses and the kind of hair that sticks up in a bunch of different directions. Elizabeth thinks of her own sweaty, frizzing hair and feels herself go slightly pink.

“Thanks—I'm just looking,” she says.

“As long as you're not selling.” He looks relieved. “If I have to do any more inventory today, I'm quitting.”

“So you buy old books here?”

“Yeah. We buy and sell. Most of our stuff's used. You probably noticed.” He gestures around him.

Elizabeth nods and tries to think of something clever to say.
What was that?
She recoils, feeling something brush against her leg. Something furry. “What the—argh!” She gives a small shriek and jumps back.

“Oh no! Sorry!” The clerk rushes out from behind the desk. “That's just Boris,” he explains. “Sometimes I let him out of the cage at night, when there aren't a lot of customers.”

An enormous black-and-white rabbit lumbers, curious, around Elizabeth's ankles. He's sniffing her chipping purple toe polish suspiciously.

“Are you okay with him doing that? He's a good rabbit, I promise.”

“Yeah, of course.” Elizabeth grins and reaches down to pet Boris gently between the ears. “I've never heard of a rabbit in a bookstore before. Usually it's a cat.” Boris's ears twitch, as if he knows they're talking about him. “He's huge.”

The boy nods. “Sam—that's the owner—had a baby, and the kid was allergic to poor Boris. So he brought him here. He's a really good rabbit, very friendly. He is huge though. People are always shocked.”

“I think he's eating my flip-flop.”

“Oh no! Boris! Cut that out.”

“It's okay.”

The clerk puts out his hand. “I'm Evan.”

“Elizabeth.” They shake hands.

“Do you live around here?”

“Yeah. We just moved.”

“Really?” Evan looks interested. “From where?”

“Vancouver.”

“Oh wow! So you, like, really moved. Not just houses.” Evan sounds impressed. “That's really cool.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, for sure. Vancouver's awesome. I was there once. Snowboarding. I guess you board, right?”

Elizabeth blushes again. “No.”

“No? Why?”

“Bad experience.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.”

“Bad, like, a full-body cast?”

“Something like that.” Elizabeth doesn't elaborate. She certainly isn't going to tell Evan the story of how, at age nine, she'd gone for skiing lessons and her new braces had got stuck on the rope tow. She'd been screaming in fear, and the evil contraption had taken advantage of her open-mouthed expression. The hill had been shut down for over an hour while paramedics had been called in to disentangle Elizabeth's orthodontia from the yellow twine.

“Are you going to Westwood?” Evan is talking again.

Just hearing the name of the high school is enough to set off the butterflies in Elizabeth's stomach. “Yeah,” she says. An old poster catches her eye; it's for
Gone with the Wind
. Her mom's favorite. The butterflies morph into a knife-like feeling, which she ignores.

“Me too. I mean, I go there.” He leans back on his elbows against the desk. “Do you—oh no!” He swears under his breath as a small pile of books crashes to the floor.

Elizabeth bends down. “Let me help.”

“No, no. You don't have to do that.” He stoops over and tries to take the books she's collecting.

“Well, I'm not going to just let Boris eat this copy of
The Fountainhead
.”

“Boris!”

Elizabeth hands the remaining books to Evan. On the top of the pile is a copy of Margaret Merriweather's
Autumn Evening
. “Oh, I love that one.” She takes it back and turns it over in her hands.

“Which one?” Evan peers at the cover. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “It's great. Did you do it in ninth grade?”

“Yes! You too?”

“Yeah. Sometimes teachers pick really crappy books for class, but most people like that one.” Evan runs his hand through his hair, making it look even messier.

Elizabeth opens the novel and reads the first paragraph.

“Have you read any of her other stuff?” Evan is watching her.

She stops reading, embarrassed. “I thought this was her only novel.”

“It is. You don't read poetry?”

“I didn't know she wrote poetry.” Elizabeth looks away, pretending to be absorbed by a display of science fiction from the seventies.

“Really?” Evan looks surprised. “You didn't do ‘The Soldier Doll' in tenth grade?”

“No. Well, not yet. I'm going into ten. Wait—” Elizabeth looks up at him. “What did you say?”

“Huh? What did I say?” He looks confused. “I'm going into eleven, by the way.”

“Sorry.” Elizabeth shakes her head. “The poem. Did you say ‘The Soldier Doll'?”

“Yeah, why?” Evan is giving her a curious look. He gathers up some books and stacks them in a haphazard pile.

“I've just never heard of it,” she says evasively. She puts the Merriweather book down and picks up an old recipe book, studying the cover intently.

Evan doesn't notice. “Apparently it's really famous,” he says. He adds another book to the pile, which looks as if it might collapse. “You know, like, with adults. It's about war. We did it at the same time as ‘In Flanders Fields.'”

“That's the poem about the poppies?” Finally, something she knows. Relieved, Elizabeth looks up again.

“Yeah.”

“What's the poem about—‘The Soldier Doll'?” Elizabeth tries to sound casual.

“Actually, it's really interesting.” Evan leans against the desk again, this time accidentally knocking over a container of pens. Elizabeth tries not to smile as they roll off the desk and onto the weather-beaten parquet floor. Boris hops over eagerly to sniff them; realizing they are not food, his nose twitches and he turns his back, dejected. Evan scoops up the pens and continues without missing a beat. “It's apparently based on a real doll, but it went missing.”

“Missing?” Involuntarily, Elizabeth leans toward him and notices he has a dimple on his left cheek. She feels herself blushing again and averts her eyes back to the sci-fi.

“Yeah,” he says. “That's what my teacher said, anyway. Lost in a war or something. People are always looking for it and whatever.” He looks pleased to see that Elizabeth is so enthralled. He grins, smug with his knowledge, as he carefully places the pens back in their container.

“A real soldier doll?” Elizabeth feels her heart start to pound. Any louder and it's going to overtake the noise of the air conditioner.

“Yeah. It's the symbolism, right? The idea of innocence in war.” Evan brightens. “Let me see if I have a copy of Merriweather's poetry.” He goes over to the computer.

Elizabeth watches Evan type something on the keyboard, which is old and clunky. It looks as if it was probably once white but is now worn and yellowed.
You're being silly
, she tells herself. She picks up the copy of
Autumn Evening
again and stares at the cover.
It's just a coincidence.

“Good news.” Evan is talking again. “We have one!”

“I'll take it!” Elizabeth feels a thrill of excitement. Her fingers clutch the copy of
Autumn Evening
tightly; she feels the cover dig into her palm.

“Great. One sec.” Evan walks to the back of the store, where the poetry section is apparently located. She watches him climb onto a rickety step stool, cursing under his breath again as it creaks beneath him. He comes back, triumphantly waving a slim hardcover. It's old and battered-looking.

“More good news,” he says. “It's only two bucks.”

Elizabeth reaches into her bag, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees the lollipop again. She carefully avoids it.