Soldier Doll Read online

  “It’s a coping mechanism.”

  Her dad looks up. “What do you mean, Liz?”

  “It means that otherwise I’d focus on having no friends. Also, no life.”

  “Ah, well in that case, I think you mean a defense mechanism.” Her mom licks some icing off her fingers.

  “Whatever. What’s the difference, anyway?”

  “Don’t they teach you anything in school?” her mother says.

  “Not really. Wait. We did spend a lot of time learning about isotherms.”

  Her dad shakes his head. “I think you mean isotopes.”

  “I’m sure it was isotherms.”

  “No, Liz. Isotopes. You’re dad’s right. Like in chemistry, when a molecule has two shapes or something.”

  “Actually, Amanda, I think those are isomers.” Her dad looks delighted. It’s not often he gets to prove her mother wrong. He drums his fingers happily on the table.

  “You’re both crazy.” Elizabeth pushes her chair back and stands up. “I haven’t even taken chemistry. These have something to do with geography. Like in the tundra?”

  “What is tundra again?” Her mother frowns.

  “Near the Arctic. Like, in between where it’s cold and really, really cold.” Elizabeth walks toward the door. “I’ll go get the matches.”

  Elizabeth hurries up the stairs. She’d found the matches yesterday, in the underwear box. She hadn’t exactly been careful about what went in which box when packing. At the time, it didn’t seem like a big deal: So what if she packed her hair products with her textbooks? Now, though, finding her belongings is like an ongoing scavenger hunt, only there are no clues. Worse, her history textbook is completely covered in mousse.

  Matches in hand, she returns to the kitchen. “Liz, any idea why this was in a box marked dishes?” Her mother holds up a pair of lab goggles. Elizabeth has a vague memory of tossing them in after a particularly difficult ninth grade science lab involving hydrochloric acid. She hopes her mom plans on running the dishes through the dishwasher before serving food on them again.

  “Sorry. Why is there a nine on Dad’s cake?”

  “It was the only candle I could find.”

  “Wouldn’t no candle be better?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. This is a birthday cake.” Her mother takes a match and lights the nine-shaped candle, which is pink and cracked. The cake is iced white with green trim and blue roses, only the roses have melted slightly in the afternoon heat and now look more like blobs of finger paint.

  “Dad?”

  “I’m not arguing over this one, sweetie. I have to pick my battles.”

  “Oh, right. The lamps.”

  Her dad blows out his candle. Her mother uses a carving knife to slice the cake; she can’t find the cake server.

  “That looks scary, Mom.” Elizabeth nods at the knife, which cuts easily through the layers of cake and icing. “Freakish.”

  “Just be glad I found it. Otherwise I would have had to use a box-cutter.”

  “Gross.”

  Elizabeth takes a large bite. “The icing is too creamy,” she says.

  “Oh, well, sorry, Your Highness,” says her mom. “Should I take your piece, then?”

  “Ha. You did name me after the queen, you know. And no, I’ll keep it. It’s better than starving.”

  “All right, Princess. Do you have a gift for the King here?”

  “Of course.” Elizabeth reaches under the table, where she’s stowed her purse. She pulls out the little parcel and hands it to her father. “Happy ninth birthday, Dad.”

  “This is wrapped so nicely, Liz,” he says. Thank you.”

  “It’s newspaper, Dad.”

  “I know, but it’s so neat.”

  Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “Just open it!”

  He peels back the tape and carefully unwraps the paper, picking up the wooden soldier inside with both hands.

  “Oh, Liz.” He turns it over, examining it. His hands are large, and the little doll looks tiny by comparison. “This is wonderful. Thank you.”

  Her mom peers over his shoulder, interested. “Strange,” she says. “It looks like a baby doll, doesn’t it? But it’s been painted as a soldier.”

  Elizabeth nods. “The woman at the yard sale called it a ‘soldier baby,’” she says.

  Her mother shoots her a grateful look. “Thank you for picking something so small.”

  “What happened to the lamps, Mom?”

  “Boiler room.”

  “Ah.”

  Her dad shakes his head. “So unfair. They were such an interesting plaid,” he says. He looks down at the doll again. “Thank you, honey. I love it. I’ll take it with me to Kabul. A good luck charm.”

  “I thought the outfit looked a little like what you wore in the old pictures,” says Elizabeth shyly. “Before you switched to engineering.” Her dad had been a pilot before becoming an aeronautical engineer.

  He smiles, remembering. “It does a bit, doesn’t it?”

  Her mother stares at the doll, frowning. Her father notices and clutches it protectively to his chest. “I’m not getting rid of it. This isn’t junk, it’s—”

  “No, no.” Her mom shakes her head. “It just reminds me of something. But I can’t remember what, exactly.”

  “Really? You’ve seen something like this before?” He looks interested.

  “No. Yes. I’m not sure.” She shakes her head again. “It feels like it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  “Maybe there are lots of these,” suggests Elizabeth. “Was it a toy or something way back?”

  “That’s not it,” her mom says. She’s still frowning.

  “I’m sure it will come to you,” says her father. He pats her on the arm.

  “I feel like I’m losing it.”

  “Have you put your keys in the dishwasher or anything?”

  “Huh?” Her parents both turn to look at Elizabeth.

  “It was a joke. Sort of. I saw this thing on TV about Alzheimer’s. It showed people in the early stages putting things in the wrong place. The example they gave was keys in the dishwasher.”

  “I’m forty, not four hundred.” Her mom looks offended now. “You know, if I had said something like that to my mother, I would have been slapped.”

  Her father laughs. “My dad used to threaten to drop me off at the orphanage.”

  “Are there still orphanages?” asks Elizabeth, curious.

  “Not in Canada. Now children have foster parents if there’s no one to look after them.”

  Her mother nods. “Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. If you’re so unhappy here, maybe we should take you to live with a foster family!”

  “My mom used to wash our mouths out with soap. How about you?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” Her mother eyes Elizabeth.

  “Don’t even think about it.” Elizabeth stares back defiantly. “Do you want me to go live with a foster family?”

  They’re laughing now. Elizabeth watches her mother. She closes her eyes when she laughs. She closes them tight and scrunches up her nose and cheeks. It’s not exactly flattering, but her good humor is infectious. When her mom laughs, people usually join in.

  “Has it come to you?” Her dad turns to her mom. “About the doll?”

  “No, not yet,” she says. She shakes her head again. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks again, sweetie.” He leans over and gives Elizabeth a kiss on the cheek, quickly, so she doesn’t have a chance to move away. “I really like it. Very thoughtful.”

  “You’re welcome, Dad.”

  “My turn.” Her mom smiles. “It’s outside.”

  Elizabeth looks at her eagerly. “Is it a new car?”

  “
Sadly, no. But I think it will make your father very happy. Go look out the window to the backyard.”

  The new kitchen opens to a large family room with a double set of glass French doors to the back deck. The three go over and stand, staring.

  “What are we looking at, Mom?”

  “Look at the far left corner.” She points.

  It’s a small shed that looks almost like a little barn. It’s painted black and white with a bright red door, just like their new house.

  “I had it delivered from Home Depot this morning.”

  “Oh, Amanda. Thank you.” Her father presses his face against the glass to get a better look, and then turns back to his wife. “For my finds?”

  “Yes. A junk shed. Since we don’t have a garage here.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” He puts his arm around her.

  Elizabeth watches her parents and wonders how old you have to be to get excited over a shed as a birthday present. She hopes it’s a long way away.

  “You’re welcome, Johnny.”

  Johnny? Ugh. Her parents are entwined now, like a pair of middle schoolers slow dancing in a school gym. They’re kissing, too. They always get like this on special occasions. Gross. She looks away, embarrassed, then turns back to the kitchen. She sees the half-eaten cake out of the corner of her eye. It hasn’t yet been put away.

  Couldn’t hurt to have another slice, she reasons. Attacking it directly with a fork, she shaves some off one of the edges and takes a large bite. Maybe the icing isn’t so bad after all. She scoops the remaining flowers off the top.

  . . .

  “Any plans for the weekend?”

  Elizabeth looks up from her laptop. Is he serious? “I do, actually,” she says. Her voice is riddled with sarcasm. “I plan to buy myself a bag of barbecue chips. Then I plan to eat the whole bag.”

  Her dad sighs. Elizabeth watches him. He’s unpacking a box of utensils. He can tell she’s upset, but the sarcasm is lost on him; he’s too earnest. Looking uncertain, he holds up a potato masher. “Any idea where this goes?”

  “That depends.” Elizabeth eyes it suspiciously. What is it?”

  “It’s for mashing potatoes.”

  “Why do we have that?”

  “What do you mean?” Her father looks confused.

  “Has anyone here ever mashed potatoes?” Elizabeth goes back to typing. She ducks her head behind her laptop so her dad can’t tell she’s rolling her eyes.

  “Your mother makes mashed potatoes all the time.”

  “They come from a package, Dad.”

  “Do they? Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re so good though.”

  “That’s why we don’t need a potato masher.”

  “Right.” Her father looks around. “I’ll just stick it in this drawer.”

  Elizabeth sighs, exasperated. She stops typing again. “Throw it out!”

  “I think it might have been a wedding present.” Her dad looks guiltily at the potato masher.

  Elizabeth rolls her eyes again, this time not bothering to duck behind the screen. “You’ve been married for, like, fifty years. You can throw it out now.”

  “Seventeen,” her father corrects her, looking affronted. “And what if it was from someone important?”

  “Like who? The pope?”

  “Funny. Like Granny?”

  “Who do you think taught Mom about the instant potatoes?”

  He puts the masher on the counter. “I’ll let your mother deal with it,” he says. He sits down at the table next to Elizabeth. “I’m sorry about the weekend question. I guess that was stupid.”

  “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.