Forever? Rufus smiles, nods. “Yes, my darling. From this day forward you will never age. Spectacular, isn’t it?”
Dr. Lemarchal’s brow furrows, he glances from me to Rufus. “You did not tell her?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.” His voice slithers and winds like a snake around my neck. I’m speechless.
“No need to fear, Madame,” Dr. Lemarchal pats my hand. “The treatment has worked in my laboratory for thirty-five years. It is perfectly safe.”
A moan resonates from deep within the house. Rufus looks up at the ceiling. Dr. Lemarchal, too, glances around the room. “Everything all right Mr. Solomon?”
“There’s no one here but us. Perhaps the wind has picked up. Get on with it.”
My bones tremble. Rufus stands opposite the doctor. His eyes glitter with a thrill I’ve seen only twice—the day I signed the contract binding me to him. And the day he married me.
When the needle slips into my vein and is taped in place, I don’t look, my eyes stay closed for the time Dr. Lemarchal says is required for me to lay and wait. My heart beat slows. I wait to feel something, but I don’t feel anything.
“You see Madame?” The doctor’s soft pat on my wrist has my eyes opening. “You are a recipient of a most wonderful gift. One that I have spent my life’s fortune studying. Nefertiti herself spent half of her life searching for the fountain of youth. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t have the help of modern science like we do.” His shoulders straighten with pride.
“Yes, yes, it is remarkable,” Rufus adds. “But Miss Doll doesn’t need a lesson in science.”
“She might want to know that what I am putting into her body will not harm her, only keep her exactly the way she is.” His smile causes me to shiver. “A derivative of the astragalus. Very exciting. From this day forward and forever you will not age. This will make everyone who loves you very happy. You see?”
Rufus twitches with impatience. “And then I want it.”
“Of course, Mr. Solomon.”
My stomach threatens to heave. Rufus getting the treatment? I can’t bear the thought. Living forever—with him—would be eternal hell.
Moments drip along. Dr. Lemarchal continues to explain how the treatment works but the words are a foreign language of a scientific nature that tumbles through my consciousness. After the treatment, the IV is removed and I am ordered to lie still. I feel slightly drowsy but sneak a glance out the door where the air appears to be thickening to a grey haze. Fire?
Jonathan.
Another deep groan rumbles through the house.
Rufus rolls up the sleeve of his shirt and crosses to Dr. Lemarchal.
“She should rest for another ten minutes, then we can begin your treatment.”
“I don’t want to wait,” Rufus hisses.
“Let me attend to Miss Doll, Mr. Solomon.”
Panic flutters through me. If justice exists, I will vanish from Rufus’ life, leaving him to live forever without me.
Rufus and the doctor argue, but I don’t listen. My eyes are trained on the thickening smoke out in the hall, and in the dining room. My heart beats faster. Grey oozes in from the cracks and seams of the walls, from the light fixtures, in a suffocating promise of death. A boom shakes the Dollhouse. Rufus’ heads snaps up. So does the doctor’s. Flames crackle from out in the hall.
Dr. Lemarchal, in the middle of preparing a second IV, abruptly stops. Rufus glares at him. “Damn it. The treatment!”
“But—”
I sit upright.
“Do it, man!” Rufus yanks the needle from Dr. Lemarchal’s fingers and plunges it into his vein. His head jerks my direction, eyes wild. “Get her out of here.”
Dr. Lemarchal shuffles toward me. The house groans. Overhead, a massive crack splits through the ceiling. Giant chunks of plaster fall. I jump up from the couch, and the doctor reaches out for me.
A wood beam breaks from above, crashing down like the blade of an enflamed guillotine, lodging between where Rufus stands and where Dr. Lemarchal and I are. The ceiling erupts into rippling white fire. Smoke billows in from every direction. My heart feels like it’s tearing through my chest. I retrieve a handkerchief I’ve stowed in my front pocket.
“Grace!” Rufus screams. “Run! Get out!”
Dr. Lemarchal covers his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm and reaches out for me. A ravaging wall of flame leaps and stretches as rugs flare, furnishings explode.
“Grace!” Rufus yanks out the IV and tries to lunge through the flames. Exploding heat forces his forearms to cover his face.
The doctor, coughing and choking, reaches for me. “Come, Madame. Come!” But I don’t want either of them. Dr. Lemarchal snatches my hand and tugs. I pull back.
Even through the gray haze thickening between us I see his eyes widen, as if he’s shocked that I would reject his assistance. Run! I step back, ready to give myself to the suffocating smoke when he grabs my hand again and I feel something cool and glassy in my palm.
“A way out,” he shouts.
I glance at the vial, filled with clear liquid.
Then he’s devoured by smoke. I’m unable to breathe. Afraid to move. Heat seems to melt my skin. Like a trapped animal, Rufus darts back and forth on the other side of the fallen, burning beam, his terrified gaze locks on me through the wall of screeching flame separating us. “Grace!” He plunges through the fire, and comes at me. He screams, swallowed in a gaping jaw of burning fire.
I dart into the bank of smoke, not sure where I’m going. A hand grabs my wrist, but I recognize the familiar grip of Jonathan. His face, protected behind a gas mask, comes within inches of mine. He slips another mask over my nose and mouth and jerks his head.
Chapter Four
~Brenden~
Today.
I stare at the casket—dark wood, brass handles—covered with flowers. All kinds of flowers. So many the chapel smells like the floral shop Mom used to go to.
Mom.
I buried her three months ago. I’m still bruised inside. I haven’t caught my breath.
Now Dad. I keep waiting for his death to hit me.
This place is filled with people I don’t know. They sit behind me, to the sides of me. They stare at the casket, too.
Or maybe they’re looking at the large, black and white portrait propped on the easel. The man in the photograph is young. He wears a suit and tie. His hair is slicked back. His light blue eyes hold the lens in a slanted, concerned way—like he’s content. Dad looks like someone important. Admired. Famous.
For a second I wish the picture would come to life.
Next to me, his wife, Judy, stares at her hands, clasped in her lap. Blood red nail polish with gold diamonds at the tips decoupage her nails. Her spicy perfume competes with the scent of the flowers, the two odors embedding in my head. I’ll never smell any of these scents again and not think of this day.
Dad’s funeral.
I haven’t cried.
I’m dry after losing Mom.
Judy’s dabbed at her eyes a couple of times during the service. But at home I haven’t seen her cry. Maybe reality hasn’t sunk in yet. I think she’s faking it, she was in show business after all.
I wasn’t close to Dad. I only moved in with him and Judy after Mom died. He lived in Bel Air. Mom and I lived in Redondo Beach. Not that the miles in between have anything to do with our lackluster relationship. He was eighty-seven, I’m eighteen. Our relationship sucked.
I read—for the twelfth time—the piece of paper wrinkled in my hand: Jonathan Lane—Beloved friend. I suppress a snort and crush the paper in my fists—again. No mention of Mom? Jonathan leaves behind his devoted wife Judy Bernard Lane and son Brenden. My spine bristles at the implication that blood connects us. Judy’s as motherly as a gerbil.
And what’s this bull about Jonathan Lane’s genuineness? Sterling integrity? He was a trusted friend.
Too bad he wasn’t much of a father.
“I trust you,
Brenden,” he’d said the final time I saw him—in the hospital—the last day he was coherent. “You’re a good man.”
Man.
Rehearsed lines—nothing more.
Hollywood bullshit.
I don’t care about who these people are. I’m jealous. They all knew Dad better than me, longer than me. I feel cheated. I got nothing but the last three months of his life.
Now it’s over.
A surge of anger rises up inside me. I fantasize throwing off the flowers, ripping open the casket, grabbing Dad by the lapels and demanding answers.
I look away. Breathe.
I’m angry with him for meeting Mom—what kind of man looks at a girl thirty years younger than him? Then gets her pregnant.
I’m angry because he only saw me when the court ordered it: once a month.
Once.
A.
Month.
Once a month that spread out to once a year.
Birthday phone calls. Christmas cards.
Then three months ago Mom died and I went to live with him and Judy.
Sure he gave Mom a few hundred bucks a month for child support. He even helped when she was diagnosed with cancer. But after everything she didn’t have any money and I’m as good as broke, and without extended family.
A palpable weight of loneliness heaves on my shoulders. I can’t forgive him for leaving her. Us. I hate that she lived her life alone. I hate that he married the gold-digger.
I glance at Judy, sniffling with plenty of drama. I resent the performance. She has more memories of him than I do.
My memories fit in two hands.
The funeral ends. Somebody plays the piano—Someone To Watch Over Me—Dad’s favorite song.
I glare at the closed casket, jaw aching.
It’s over.
I look around the chapel. People stare at me. Judy’s elbow nudges my ribs. “You’re a pallbearer,” she hisses. “Go.”
I’m supposed to carry the casket.
I stand at the front. Everyone around me is old. Strangers.
The casket is heavier than I expect. We parade out into the afternoon Los Angeles sun. It’s winter, but I start to sweat. We walk quietly in step to the waiting hearse, the back door wide open.
Is he really dead? Inside this box? The sight of that long, death car makes my spine twitch. If it was me, I’d burst from the confinement right now.
I didn’t get to see him die, so I don’t know if he’s really dead. I didn’t get to see him in the casket—Judy ordered it closed. How do I know he’s really gone? Maybe this is an act?
What if it’s a lie?
What if it isn’t really over? If he’s really back at the house, sitting in that chair he loved, the one in front of the glass doors that face the back yard, the pool. The pool I swam in when I was a kid.
He’d watched me.
I’d wanted a dad who could jump in and play with me. Not a dad who lowered himself into a patio chair like his body might break if he moved too fast.
My head plays a dream: me opening the casket revealing its emptiness.
Dad. Still alive. Still time for us.
* * *
After the funeral, there’s supposed to be a ‘gathering’ at Dad and Judy’s. There’s no way I’m going to stand around and watch her play widow to an audience. I don’t know any of their friends, and she’s made it clear I have two weeks to “get my act together and get out.”
The moment the limo drops us at the house I steal into the guest bedroom—the place I’ve been living in since I moved in—and I strip out of the shirt, tie, jacket and dress slacks. I pull on my board shorts and a tee shirt, slide my feet into flip flops and grab a striped beach towel.
Dad gave me the keys to his old, orange and white VW Van when I turned sixteen. In spite of our distant relationship, the gift had been the coolest thing ever. The beast is in primo condition. Only has 70,000 miles on it. “VW’s are easy to fix,” he told me when he dropped the keys in my palm. “They run forever and they’re fun. Girls like them.”
That was true. When I’d driven the car to school, my friends—especially the girls—had all noticed.
I sneak out the back door, because there are already crowds arriving. If I don’t hurry, my car will be pinned in the driveway. A few dark-clothed, older people shuffling from their cars to the house raise their brows when I ram the van in gear and speed down the drive and into the street.
Relieved, I buzz through the winding streets of Bel Air. I need this. It takes me thirty minutes to get to the Santa Monica beach. I squeeze into a spot along Pacific Coast Highway, park and grab my wetsuit. I tuck my board under my arm and I’m out of the car and into the cool winter sun.
My mood’s crap. I’m angry. Scared.
What’s next for me?
The chilly sidewalk doesn’t hurt my bare feet, my soles are tough as leather. I cross the sidewalk and my pulse races. I can’t wait to dive into the waves even though they’re not much to look at today.
The beach is empty, the sea mild.
Part of me wishes it was choppy, that a red flag was up at the life guard station.
I pull on my wetsuit and dive. Cold salt water nips at my exposed skin. It rushes over my body, filling my ears and nose. The massive strength in the ocean cradles me, lures me, and pulls me out further. I come up for air, swim west.
And keep swimming.
If I go too far, the endless power will carry my insignificant weight into oblivion. A rush of hot tears spills from my eyes and I go under again. No tears.
They’re lost at sea.
Mom’s face comes into my mind. Her tears. The ones she’d cried for me when she knew her life was going to end. “I’m sorry, Brenden,” she’d said, looking at me like her heart had burst.
I float on my back. Cold sea presses into me. Mom presses into me. Dad—the lack of him—presses into me. I wish I could sink, drown the ache.
I feel a subtle shift in the tide. More force. As if the tide dares me to tease it any longer before it rips me out and away into fish food.
I dive, swim, pushing back to shore against the strengthening caress of sea. Each stroke is like swimming through sand.
Dragging myself out of the water, my lungs heave for air. I collapse next to my towel and board, the sand adhering to my wetsuit, coating me from head to foot. The familiar dusty scent of sand soothes my aches. Sleep curls its fingers around my bones. I could die in sleep. Never wake up.
Maybe I do sleep, I’m not sure. Suddenly, a shadow comes over me, stealing the overcast light. I open my eyes. A man, dressed in a black suit, stands above me.
“Brenden Lane?” he asks. His silver hair is neatly combed. He’s tan for winter, but then this is So Cal.
“Yeah?”
“My employer wants to speak with you about the death of your father.”
A thread of concern dangles inside of me. “What for?” Who is this guy? FBI? Someone Judy’s hired for some unexplainable reason?
“He’s prepared to pay you for your time. One hundred dollars an hour.”
I sit upright. Sand flutters away from my skin. “Seriously?”
The suit nods. He extends a card to me and I take it. It’s white, with a gold phone number on it.
“Can I tell him that you’ll call?”
Hell yes. I nod. “Sure. Who is he?”
“Rufus Solomon, an old friend of your father’s. Call him as soon as possible,” he says, then he turns, crossing the sand in his black suit, to the highway where a black limo waits.
Rufus Solomon. The name dislodges from cobwebs in my memory but I forget where he fits in with Dad. Curiosity pushes me to my feet. I grab my towel and board, following him, keeping a good twenty-foot distance.
The suit opens the back door of the vehicle, gets in and shuts the door. I jog over. Who is this guy and, is Rufus Solomon inside the car?
The limo doesn’t move. I see my reflection in the onyx windows, my blond mussed hair, my curious fa
ce peering back at me. A shiver spins down my spine. Whoever’s inside is watching me.
Chapter Five
I drive to Bel Air, unease eating at me. The man in the limo must have been at the funeral. That makes sense. And he’d followed me to the beach, right? This is L.A. Anything is possible. Creeped, I toss glances over my shoulder as I head up Roscomare Road.
At a stoplight, I pull out the white card, grab my cell phone, and dial.
A gravelly voice answers. “Yes?”
“This is Brenden Lane.”
Silence follows. “Brenden. Rufus Solomon. I knew your father many years ago. He worked for me. ”
Then I remember. Mom told me that Rufus Soloman had once been a big shot movie producer back in the day. “Oh.” I don’t know what else to say, I just want the money.
“My condolences. “
“Thank you.”
“I’d like to meet and ask you some questions about Jonathan. In exchange I’m offering you compensation for your time. Is that agreeable?”
“Why?”
“I’ll answer your questions when we meet. I’ll send my driver. He’ll be there in an hour.”
“Today?”
“As soon as possible.” His voice sounds crisp.
The funeral was hours ago. Still, with Judy on the “you need to get your act together” bandwagon I need money and sticking around the house will weigh me down.
“Okay.” Click. Phone’s dead. Money’s money, and I don’t have enough of it. No way am I telling Judy about this. Still, she might see the limo pull up, wonder who—then it hits me—I didn’t tell Mr. Solomon where I live.
I dial the number on the card again.
“Yes?”
“This is Brenden Lane. I forgot to tell you where I live.”
“I know where you live. See you in an hour.” Click.
I stare at my cell phone. A blaring horn startles me. The light’s green, so I drive. A voice of warning chimes in my head, but I need money. A hundred bucks doesn’t go beyond a day or two but it’s a hundred bucks more than I have. God knows Dad probably hasn’t left me anything.
Grace Doll Page 3
