Grace Doll

by Jennifer Laurens

  “Hell,” I mutter, and scrub my face.

  “Something wrong?” he asks.

  A million things. Dad was a stranger. I wanted to know him, and he didn’t want to know me. Yet he traveled around the world spending time with people who weren’t family. He expects me to do this for him—and all I get is pacification money—not even a thank you. Sure, the money will be great. But it doesn’t patch the wound inside.

  I won’t even have the satisfaction of telling Grace Doll off.

  “She knew him too?” I jerk my head in the direction of the empty hall.

  Oscar nods.

  “Figures.”

  The girl appears, face flushed, eyes red as if she’s been crying. She pauses in the doorframe, her chest rising and falling. What’s wrong? She hasn’t taken off her winter coat. Black jeans frame long legs with black boots, the top trimmed in fur. She stands with her hands behind her back, her spine against the doorframe as if she needs support. As her breathing begins to slow, the redness in her cheeks fades. Her ocean-blue eyes stay lifted, like she’s unable to look anywhere but at the ceiling.

  “I—the news of Jonathan’s death—“ Her voice is breathy. She closes her eyes, as if thinking about Dad hurts. Join the club. “It comes as a shock.”

  “So you weren’t in regular contact with him?” I ask.

  Her eyes open. “It had been a few months since his last letter.”

  “I wasn’t sure what to expect when I got here.” I dig through my backpack for the silver box and pull it out. “All he told me was that I needed to bring this to Grace.”

  Yes, now she looks. Her eyes lock on the container. She takes in a deep breath. Oscar, too, seems shocked to see it in my hand. Moments drag like hours in silence. My heart starts to pound. What’s in this damned thing? Finally, she steps toward me like a fawn taking its first steps, and reaches for the box.

  Instinct has me tucking it close. The silence stiffens.

  “I’m supposed to give it to Grace. Only Grace.”

  Chapter Eleven

  ~Grace~

  Jonathan took Dr. Lemarchal’s vial and placed it in safe keeping years ago. To keep me from doing something rash. Something final. Before I had a chance to understand the gravity of what had been done to me.

  The years passed and I understood. Gravity had yet to do anything but keep me floating through life as a hormonal, drama-prone seventeen-year-old. Yes, I’d tucked the nightmarish memories of that night, and the memory of the vial, into a dark locked vault. And we’d all forgotten about it. Until Jonathan’s last letter arrived. Now, it feels like a dam has burst open and I’m a leaf carried through a torrential current of past, present, and future all bearing down on me at once.

  “I’m sending my son Brenden with the vial. It should be in your possession from here on.”

  “How long have you known about this?” I ask.

  “You mean the box?”

  I mean me. Us. But I nod.

  “After Dad died. He left me instructions in a safe deposit box.”

  “Does anyone else know?” Oscar asks. I hold my breath.

  Brenden shakes his head. “Mr. Ridgeway—his lawyer—gave me the key after the funeral. He said Dad wanted me to have it as soon as possible after his death.”

  “My,” Oscar whispers.

  Jonathan. Loyal to the end.

  He really is gone. And he didn’t tell his son about me. I’m not surprised. Jonathan, for all of his admirable qualities, avoided confrontations in his latter years. Maybe it was age beating him down. Maybe regret.

  I’ve been caught up in the enormity of my own grief and concerns and overlooked that this is Brenden’s loss, too. “It must be difficult for you.”

  Is that anger flashing in his expression? A tremor, like an old memory, echoes through me. How many times did I see that same look in Jonathan? Anger at Rufus, at the ambiguity of my life, at his mortality taking its toll while I remained unchanged.

  Brenden studies the box in his cupped hands. “Dad and I were strangers.”

  Oscar and I exchange glances. Part of me wants to say, No, that can’t be true. But that would be a lie. I knew Jonathan better than his own son knew him, and that doesn’t settle well inside.

  The silence spreading between us is sticky and hot. I’m not sure what to say. I can’t comfort someone I feel partially responsible for hurting.

  “Anyway,” he sighs, “if I could just get this over with, then I can go.” He lifts his troubled gaze, looks around. “Where is she?”

  My eyes slide to Oscar, who watches with interest. Sweat springs from my pores. I can’t tell Brenden the truth. I know nothing about him. Yes, he’s Jonathan’s son, but as Brenden so sadly admitted, he wasn’t the focus of Jonathan’s life. How can I trust that he will keep our secret?

  I take a deep breath. “She’s…gone, Brenden.” His eyes probe mine in disbelief. “I’m sure you have questions. I can—”

  Brenden jerks to his feet. The gray in his eyes storms with confusion and anger. “My father just died. I’m here because he wanted me to deliver something to her. He said she was alive. That was only two weeks ago. Where is she?”

  “She’s gone,” I repeat.

  “What do you mean gone? Did she move? Is she in a rest home? What?”

  “Give me the box so it doesn’t get broken.”

  “I’m not going to break it,” he growls. “I want to see Grace.”

  Oscar’s expression is cautious. The moment seems surreal, even though I have wondered if admitting the truth to anyone would ever come. Grief gathers at the edge of my emotions, ready to weep. I cross to the hearth and stand in front of the fire, stare into the flames. Heat blazes my skin, but the lie I must tell chills me.

  I turn and face Brenden.“She’s dead.”

  His skin turns ashen. He looks from me, to Oscar, then back to me as if he can’t believe what I’ve just told him.

  “I’m…sorry,” he says. “I can’t believe…It was his last wish I give her this. I missed it.” The rigidity in his body crumples. I’m surprised that he seems so disappointed.

  “Figures.” Brenden shakes his head, looks at the box. “My luck sucks.”

  “Jonathan would understand,” I say. Stepping closer, I extend my hand for the box. “You did your best.”

  Wariness flashes in his narrowed eyes. “He told me to give it to Grace. If she’s gone, then it stays with me. Sorry, but I don’t know you.”

  A string of panic tightens inside of me. The vial belongs to me. The urgency in Oscar’s eyes as he nods Brenden’s direction seems to say the same thing.

  “This is a shock to all of us,” Oscar’s tone is soothing. “We come home, find you here with the news of Jon’s passing. You expect to find Grace, and give her the…item. It’s not what any of us planned for the end of our day. Tell me, Brenden, have you a place to stay?”

  Brenden shakes his head and tucks the box into his backpack, then he swings one strap over his shoulder and his hand locks around it.

  “Well you can stay here, then, can’t he, sis?” Oscar suggests. “It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other.” Brenden glances out the window. “Storm as it is, that’s your best option,” Oscar adds.

  I can’t imagine having a stranger sleeping under the same roof. The thought rattles me to the core. I open my mouth to protest but Oscar’s glare tells me to keep quiet.

  “There aren’t any motels around?” Brenden asks.

  “None,” Oscar says. “Not a one.”

  Brenden looks doubtful that Oscar’s telling the truth, and he stands in the room with the awkward discomfort of someone somewhere they don’t want to be. He’s taller than Jonathan, but lean like he was. His posture has defensive edge. My living room, with him in it, goes from asleep to alive.

  “Jon would want you to stay with us, wouldn’t he, Katherine?”

  Chapter Twelve

  ~Brenden~

  The girl’s eyes flash with what looks like terror,
then the terror’s gone, replaced by a smooth, cool look. She takes a deep breath and her lips part, as if she’s going to speak. Maybe she’s going to throw me out in the snow.

  My stomach’s hollow. I wanted—so many wants that will now go unsatisfied. Anger and injustice collide inside of me. Grace is dead.

  I still can’t believe it.

  The old man and girl stare at me. I’ve been an idiot to these people. They’ve suffered their own loss. A stifling slug slams me in the chest. I feel stuck. Screwed. I’m angry at fate’s timing—timing, sorry Dad. I’m beyond pissed I came all this way and will never see Grace Doll.

  Katherine doesn’t answer Oscar’s question. ”I need to get Oscar settled in bed,” she says.

  “Now?” Oscar’s tone barbs the air.

  “Yes.” She crosses to him. “Now.”

  Oscar’s expression shifts to annoyance. “I think we should talk about this.”

  “You need rest.” She urges him to his feet. “It’s been a big day.”

  “It’s seven-thirty.”

  “Bedtime.”

  “I’m not two years old.” Oscar’s gaze shifts from her to me, back to her. “Brenden, stay the night,” he reiterates. She seems impatient for him to grasp the walker, and her back is to me as if to say you aren’t important. I get that. In fact, I’m fine with it because I need a second to deal with the fact that I came here for nothing.

  Katherine escorts Oscar out of the room.

  How close had I been? Did Grace die a day ago? A week? It’s over—and a dread of finality spreads inside of me. Fail. I want to get out of here. Take the damned box and leave. But my return flight was canceled, the airport closed.

  Compounding the situation, that chick isn’t enthused about me staying. There’s definitely tension between us. Of course —she’s mourning the loss of her grandma—or, God forbid—mother. Really? That’d take irony of this situation to a whole new level.

  I peer down the dark hall. There are six doors off the hallway, all of them closed.

  I’d been too frozen when I’d first come into the house to notice anything but walls, roof, and heat. Dark woods and natural colors make up the living room. Recessed light. A plasma TV. A cherry wood bookshelf. Did the books belong to Grace? A giant gold harp sits in the corner. Having never seen one up close, I cross to it and touch the taut strings. Cool.

  Had Grace played it? Had she lived here? Or had she been in a rest home?

  I want answers.

  The constant rhythm from the grandfather clock ticks through my blood. I try to take my mind off of the discomfort of being in a strange place, of my homelessness.

  Loneliness settles in like pleurisy.

  Slowly, I make my way around the room. What had belonged to Grace? I check out book titles, organized alphabetically, like a library. All that’s missing is the Dewey Decimal symbols. Classics sit next to books on biology, science, landscaping, interior design, fashion, travel. Few pictures sit out. In fact, I only see three. My heart skips. Dad.

  I carefully pick up the frame. It’s odd, seeing his photo here, in this place. His thick sandy hair, mussed from wind, half covers his eyes. He’s got long sideburns. A smile spreads his lips wide. I can tell by the attentive way he’s looking at the camera, he’s looking at Grace.

  My throat thickens. I swallow another familiar surge of frustration and put the photo back on the shelf.

  The next picture is Oscar, much younger. His thick hair is dark. He’s standing beneath the Mona Lisa. I’m intrigued by this. Where did they live? How did they manage to stay anonymous? Is there more family?

  Another photo is of Oscar and—the girl—together. In the right hand corner is a set of neon numbers: 1-23-79.

  As if an electromagnetic force enters the room, I turn. She stands in the doorframe. There’s something guarded in her eyes—just like Grace Doll’s expression in her photographs. I get the feeling she doesn’t trust quickly.

  The determined set of her mouth—the way her hair frames her face—is exactly like the images hanging on the walls in Solomon’s house. I blink. Focus.

  I stuff my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. “Hey.”

  “Hello.”

  “Do you know what’s in the box?”

  “Something your father kept for Grace.”

  “So, you knew that. Oscar knew that. I was the last to know.” I shake my head with a snort. “Figures.”

  She remains framed in the hall opening. “Perhaps we should talk about this tomorrow. Let me show you to your room.”

  “Yeah, okay I guess.”

  “You’d rather not stay here?”

  “I’d rather talk about Grace.”

  “Not now.” She turns and vanishes. I grab my backpack and follow her down the hall, lit by soft recessed lights overhead.

  I can’t argue with her. And I’m grateful for the hospitable invitation. I could be out in the street in this podunk town. “What made her want to live all the way out here?”

  “Privacy.” She says without turning around.

  She takes a left and flicks on a light. The small room is painted a deep chocolate brown. A fat, double-wide chair angles out from one corner. There’s a large table with two sewing machines, more bookshelves filled with books, and an upright piano. A guitar sits in a stand in the corner. Two dress dummies fill another corner. One has a black dress on, the other a skirt and jacket—sleeves missing. Did Grace like to sew? Or is it Katherine’s hobby? The retro styles of both garments remind me of costumes.

  “The bathroom’s here.” She crosses the room to a door. “Everything’s clean—towels, sheets—the chair pulls out into a bed.” At the mention of the word bed, she freezes, looking like a deer in headlights. Then she clears her throat and gestures to the closet.

  “You can hang your belongings in there if you’d like,” her voice warbles. Is she nervous? Her wide eyes almost look—fearful. I glance around, wondering what would cause that reaction.

  “Okay.” I leave the doorjamb and enter the room, placing my backpack on the top of a dust-free desk. “Nice office. Yours?”

  She makes a wide sweep around the other side of the desk and heads to the exit. “Yes.” For long, itchy minutes she stands in the door, her gaze fastened on me.

  I’ve never met a girl whose stare paralyzes.

  “If you need anything….” Her lips remain parted but no more words come out. She backs through the door and shuts it. What am I supposed to make of this weird moment?

  Chapter Thirteen

  ~Grace~

  My nerves are so taut they’re ready to fray. I’ve had the occasional repairman in the house but having someone I don’t know sleep under the same roof makes my skin pucker in discomfort. My voice is swallowed in anxiety.

  He’s Jonathan’s son.

  I stand in the hall, staring at the closed door. I hear him moving around and try to relax, try to believe that everything will be all right, that my carefully constructed and guarded world will remain quiet and protected now that Brenden is here.

  Tomorrow will be better. The storm will stop.

  Then what?

  I can’t move, listening. Foreign sounds. Normally, I’d be in the office sewing or in the living room playing the harp, maybe watching a documentary or listening to music. But Brenden’s presence has immobilized me body and soul. I can feel him—penetrating the walls of the house. Like the heater is turned up. Like water has burst through the pipes, flooding me with sensation. My heart thrums. Stop this. You know better. Stop now. But my commands go unheeded by a body programmed to listen to the genetic stimulation of a girl stuck at seventeen.

  My bedroom is next to the room Brenden occupies. I lock the door. He’s your best friend’s son, not a criminal. Still, I undress quickly, and when the air hits my nakedness, the warm tingle racing over my skin submerges want deep into my flesh.

  I slip on silk pajamas and a silk robe, tying the sash so tight I almost cut the air from my lungs. Having fabric c
over my skin only intensifies the song of desire humming beneath my skin with warmth, with friction. Lowering to the bed, eyes on the wall, I listen to the occasional muffled sounds coming from the other side.

  At some point, I take a deep breath and glance at the clock. It’s eight-thirty. Holding my breath, I tiptoe down the hall. Even with the door closed, he presses out at me. I sit in the chair at the rear of my harp and the moment my fingers make contact with the tight strings, it’s as if with each strum, tension oozes from my shoulders, neck, arms, and my soul. Forget he’s here.

  But he’s male. Jonathan’s son. And there’s something about the fierce look in his eyes that makes it impossible to keep myself sequestered. And Jonathan sent him, so I should be able to talk to him, shouldn’t I? I don’t have to be afraid.

  Suddenly, he’s in the doorway. My fingers freeze on the strings. The brown sweatshirt is gone, he’s in a gray teeshirt, the same color as his eyes. Both hands are buried in the front pockets of his jeans. He’s not wearing shoes, but he has on black socks. A ripple breaks loose inside of me—something about him wearing socks—like he feels at ease here in my house—makes me squirm and melt.

  “Can’t sleep?” The rasp of his voice rolls into the room like a mystical carpet, inviting and dangerous.

  “No.”

  “It’s a little early, I mean, the night’s just getting started, right?” His tone and the suggestion weaves tingling thrill through my ear canal, down the tender side of my neck, spreading out through my arms and legs. His eyes—with their directness—ignite me.

  “That was beautiful,” he says. “Can I listen?”

  I can’t relax. “All right,” I say, tone cooler than I intend. I won’t be able to play now, not with him watching.

  He crosses to the chair by the hearth, then glances at me. The chair is only four feet away, whereas the couch is ten feet away. “Wouldn’t you prefer the couch?”

  “Uh.” He glances at the chair, couch, then at me.

  Brenden sits carefully on the couch and even with the distance, I feel like I’m in the room with a tiger. Tension purrs in the air. My hands shake holding the strings. Stop this ridiculousness now.