Things Unsaid: A Novel (18 page)

Aida thought of Nancy, way back then. Star student. Why had Aida hoodwinked Bob into marrying her instead?
That was one helluva misstep. One bookworm should have married another
.

Aida had to remind herself that Sarah was not a plaything, a “reborn doll” like one of those displayed in her étagère. She had a case full of the humanlike dolls, each one in hand-sewn attire from different periods in American history. She had a Betsy Ross doll, a Pocahontas doll, a Southern belle antebellum doll, First and Second World War dolls,
Great Gatsby period dolls, and frontier dolls, too. An expensive—but not a frivolous—hobby.

Sarah seemed to love those reborn dolls as much as she did. They shared a ritual. Now that Sarah was entering her teens, Aida hoped that her granddaughter wouldn’t outgrow her fondness for the Sarah doll. Or become like Megan, who studied the historical background for each doll, ominously like what Julia would have done. Megan was never going to be anyone’s plaything.

When Sarah was little, Aida had described to her the time-consuming process of creating the Sarah doll. Every apartment at SafeHarbour had a decorative tchotchke displayed in the alcove by the front door where a plaque hung with each resident’s name. The O’Reillys had a photo of Stonehenge. The Ludwigs had a family photo of three generations. The Whitmans had a photo of Aida’s Sarah doll.

Her granddaughter had peeked up at the shelf. Aida, only slightly taller than Sarah, had unfolded the stepladder because she herself couldn’t quite see the top shelf either. She explained how she had looked at boxes of Sarah’s baby photos, compared them, and decided which one captured the essence of perfect babyhood.

“Sarah, you just knew when a camera was pointed at you. Always so cooperative. Doing what you were expected. Not like other babies. You knew how to pose.”

“Well, I hate having my picture taken now,” Sarah said. “They all make me ugly as sin.” She had taught her granddaughter that expression. “I look fat in most of the photos anyway.”

“How can you say that, darling? You’re beautiful. You could be a model. I pored through boxes and boxes of scrapbooks. And then I found the one. Finally sent the doll manufacturer this photo of you at about eight months old. See?” she said, passing the baby picture to her granddaughter, excited about its pristine condition. “Here’s a lock of your baby hair I sent FedEx insured. The ‘Sarah doll,’ custom ordered, came by express mail about a week later, a month before you entered kindergarten.”

Today, on their special afternoons together—even as a teenager, way past the age for dolls—Sarah asked about her reborn doll. With an exaggerated dramatic gesture, like the ones she practiced for the
musical
Oklahoma!
, Aida reached for the doll, loving the buildup of suspense both for her and for her granddaughter. She had gotten all dressed up for Sarah—was wearing a pale Valentine’s Day–pink blouse, the sheer, low-cut type she preferred when singing in Rodgers and Hammerstein productions.

“Well, you know, Sarah, this
is
my favorite,” Aida singsonged, absolutely delighted. Gently lowering the baby doll from its stand, she kissed it and stroked its skin and wisps of hair. Stepping down, trying to conceal her arthritic hands, she handed her prized doll to Sarah, presenting it as a gift.

Sarah’s face glowed with the honor of holding her namesake; she hugged it awkwardly, perhaps afraid she would drop it.

Aida was pleased to see that Sarah was not too old to play with dolls. “This baby photo was the right one for your doll. I keep it in an envelope in the display case, too. Right here,” she said as she patted the envelope where it sat in the étagère.

The Sarah doll, which had cost more than one thousand dollars, looked as human as possible without being quite a corpse. That was part of its ethereal beauty for Aida: a statement of beauty from cradle to grave.

When Sarah was little she had stroked the doll’s skin and looked under the white “christening” dress at its diaper, and her eyes had grown large. “Sarah’s skin looks just like mine,” she had muttered, touching her chin with her index finger and then the doll’s.

“My doll even has the same birthday as yours, hon. Do you want to see her birth announcement?” Aida had asked. “My Sarah is made from some pricey silicon-vinyl mix. Doesn’t it look like real skin though? You can touch it again if you want.”

“I want to look at my doll, Grandma—the Sarah doll—in my own way,” Sarah had said, putting the announcement Aida handed her on the coffee table with barely a glance at it. She looked closely at the doll, then at her baby photo, and back at the doll. She didn’t say a word.

After a long inspection, she finally spoke: “The eyes are too real.” That was all she volunteered. She seemed spellbound, unblinking, staring at the doll’s eyes. They looked like glass to Aida.

There were two birthday cakes, always, for Sarah’s birthday every year: one for Sarah, and one for the doll sitting next to her.

“I can’t remember, Grandma,” Sarah said, interrupting Aida’s thoughts. “I know you told me before, but is the hair real?”

“Sure is. I’ve told you before, many times. The hair is yours. And the eyes look so lifelike because they are made from an advanced material, a sort of synthesized form of Pyrex.”

“The skin’s kind of reddish and veiny, though. I’m not sure I like it. Was I that way as a baby?”

Pausing, Aida thought of Sarah as an infant. The sight of her had taken her breath away. As if she would have shattered if she had stared at her too long. Delicate—a fragile, almost supernatural beauty. “My Sarah weighs exactly the same as you did at three months of age,” she answered. “That’s the age when you could focus on your mother’s face. And mine, too, of course.” Stretching the voile fabric between her fingers, she admired the delicate French ivory silk. “This was actually
your
christening outfit. I’ve saved it all these years. And I get it dry-cleaned and heirloomed on your birthday each year.” She sighed, and drifted in her own thoughts for a moment. “We can dress her up in your old baby clothes, too, if you want. I’ve saved the prettiest ones in special zipped organizers so they won’t get dirty or musty. Nothing old and ugly for my Sarah.”

Sarah nodded, smiling and obedient, looking past the doll, staring off. Was her favorite granddaughter bored of her?

“Hey, Sarah, before we have a snack, let’s look at baby Sarah a little more closely. All of the other babies in my little nursery can be ignored. Their skin and their bodies aren’t as perfect as yours, baby Sarah.”

“I’m not a baby anymore, Grandma,” Sarah said, hesitating. “And I don’t want to touch the skin. I don’t like how I can’t tell the difference between what’s real—natural—and what’s not with her.” Sarah smiled sweetly, her face relaxed. Aida liked to think it was a special smile reserved only for her, and she focused on that—rather than on her annoyance at the girl’s constant use of the word “Grandma.” Made her seem so old.

“You won’t have a pizza face, darling. A face of zits like so many of those homely teenage girls. Your skin will be without blemish, like mine. Even at my age, I like to pamper my skin.”

“Oh, Grandma, you’re the most beautiful one in here. Everyone else is so old and funny looking,” Sarah said.

Aida drew closer to her granddaughter and gave her a kiss on the forehead. How good her Sarah’s soft velvety, perfect skin felt against her lips.

“Grandma, you’re getting extra skin around your face and neck,” Sarah said. “I think that’s cool. Didn’t know you could keep adding skin.”

Why did she have to ruin the moment?
Aida thought, her temper flaring.
Then again, what do kids know?
She fluffed the pink ruffles around her neck, the way she’d done when she had a date back in the day.

“But I want to be more than just pretty,” Sarah went on. “I want to be an orthodontist. Have a career using my mind—like Aunt Jules.”

Aida no longer heard Sarah’s voice; she was drifting to a time, far away, when she was young, beautiful, and a singer. Her Yellow Brick Road to a Land of Oz where dreams could come true. She caressed the skin of the Sarah doll as if it were her dearly beloved in an open casket. Humming “Doin’ What Comes Natur’lly.” Time stood still.

She tried to breathe, but the air came in jagged. She inhaled and held for far too long. She choked, and then she read the note again, panting and trembling. Jules could smell her own sweat. She vomited until nothing but yellow, piss-colored liquid rained down on the welcome mat.

Jules
,

I can’t stand by and watch what you are doing to all of us in the name of duty and family obligation. We’re family, too. Your real family. Not the fake one you insist on choosing over us. Until you know what we mean to you, I am taking Zoë on a camping trip across the country … for two weeks, maybe more. When we get back, I hope you will have made the right decision. You have no idea what sacrifices I have made for you.

I still love you, no matter what.

Mike

Mike was planning his way out. He’d found an escape hatch. And she wanted to escape
with
him and Zoë—otherwise, there would be nothing left. Everything was the opposite of what it was supposed to be right now.

She carefully folded the note into even rectangles, origami-style, and slipped it in her purse. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? What a fool she had been—so blind, so driven to be a good daughter and get
her parents’ approval, to prove she was a better person than either one of them. Children took care of their aging parents, didn’t they? Mustn’t they?

Jules hadn’t slept in days. She looked at the answering machine. Not a single message. Over one week had gone by since she’d found Mike’s note. That wasn’t like him—not to text or even send an e-mail, however curt. Just silence. No Mike and no Zoë.

She texted them both, hoping that Zoë, too, would text her back, just this once.
“Please, please come home. I can’t live without you. You know how much I love you, don’t you? I have been so stupid! Can you forgive me?”

Then, only three- or four-word text messages—and from Mike, never Zoë.
“We’re fine.” “Don’t worry.”

Yeah, right.

Mike was still refusing to talk to her, camping only-God-knew-where with Zoë. Or was Zoë hanging out at Stanford already? She had called Zoë’s friends but they’d all acted as if Jules were diseased. She let it all sink in, taking her down. A rabbit hole. No worse, an abyss. An awful, frightening lethal silence. She wondered what Mike had said to their daughter about their problems. How could she redeem herself in their eyes? How could she have lost all sense of consequences? They no longer assumed she loved them; and why should they?

The phone rang. Jules picked up.

“Mom?” It was Zoë! But the connection was unclear, full of static.

“Zoë? It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“I miss you, Mom. What’s going on? Dad doesn’t say much, and I’m tired of camping now. With just him. I want to come home. Besides, I’ll miss Stanford classes if we’re not back in a few days. Dad said I could go to summer school there. He’s going to sell his car and start biking to work.”

Jules’s sucked in her breath. Maybe they would be back soon. Zoë’s voice was like a symphonic chorus in her ears.

“I miss you, too, sweetheart. Where are you?”

Zoë explained they had gone up the coast to Oregon. To look for rocks at a jade beach. And would be at Stanford in two days.

“You can come home whenever you want to. What does your dad say? Can you put him on the phone?” Jules waited expectantly.

“Dad’s being vague. Says it’s up to you. That you need to have a break from us. Is that true, Mom? Do you need a break from us?”

“No, honey—well, it’s complicated,” she answered. She was trying to be honest, but she didn’t want to blame Mike. This was happening because of her mistakes, not because of him. “I love you. And miss you. You know that, don’t you?” Mike had not picked up the phone since they left. Two weeks since her mother’s birthday, and in that short time, everything had unraveled.

“I can still find a way to go to Stanford, can’t I?” Zoe said, more hoping than asking as far as Jules could tell.