Grace Doll

by Jennifer Laurens

  Go away! But I can’t kick Brenden out—he’s Jonathan’s son—and I need that vial. You can do this, sis, Oscar told me when I put him to bed. It’s time for you to let go. I’d nodded, but only to put his concerns at ease so he’d rest. Inside I’d known being near Brenden would be as tricky as corralling a herd of wild horses.

  I knew that the moment he’d extended the empty mug to me.

  But, letting go of decades of conditioning is like walking blindfolded into the ocean.

  “I’m really sorry if me being here is an inconvenience,” Brenden says.

  This will be good for you, Oscar told me before I left him. He’s right. Part of me knows he’s right, another part of me is afraid to open this door to anyone.

  I release the harp, keeping my eyes on them. An empty black silence chokes the room. “It’s not an inconvenience,” I say. “I’m so sorry about Jonathan.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Are you hungry?” I ask, hoping he is so I can leave the room.

  “No.”

  I am. Starved. But not for food. I’m astounded that feelings so long repressed leap inside of me with a vigor I know is precarious.

  “When did Grace pass away?”

  A pit gnarls in my stomach. Squeezing any words about the past from my mouth is dreadful. Uncomfortable. After another deep breath, I turn my chair so I face him. Those eyes cut through decades of self preservation. Behind him, out the window, the blizzard continues to dump snow, the ground growing higher and higher, burying us deeper and deeper.

  “You were an actress,” Oscar’s said over and over again, “you spoke to kings and scoundrels.” I’d hated the pretenders with such loathing, it had taken me years to forget the Grace Doll Rufus had created and find my real self.

  The hardest part has been reconciling the two.

  “Do you mind if we talk about Jonathan?”I ask.

  He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to hide disappointment. His hands fist on the arms of the chair. “I told you, he and I weren’t close.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Jonathan.”

  “Maybe it was the age difference, I don’t know. We just never…bonded. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me more about this—you, Oscar. How hard would it have been?”

  “I’m sure he had reasons.” If Jonathan had explained what had happened this moment would be much smoother for Oscar and me, that was certain.

  “How would you know?” he snaps.

  I swivel in the chair and face the window, watching him through the reflection. He’s not going to let this go. I can’t blame him, and he does deserve some answers. He catches me watching and another round of confusion tightens his features.

  “How often did you see him?” The pain in his tone means he’s bracing for the answer. I can’t tell him the truth: As often as Jonathan could get away, he would.

  “Occasionally.”

  “Did she—Grace—know he was in love with her?”

  I swallow. The pain in his eyes is achingly raw. “Yes.”

  We watch each other’s reflections.

  He lowers his head. The action reminds me of Jonathan and my heart hurts. In the beginning I’d tried to talk myself into loving him, but even guilt, years, and loyalty couldn’t light the spark of a wick that didn’t exist. When he’d finally understood that, he’d wept.

  I clear my throat of impending emotion. To his credit, Jonathan never asked me for what I wasn’t able to give him—a cross he carried with silent dignity I hope Brenden can understand someday.

  “Does that news surprise you?” I ask. “He was your father, after all.”

  “He may have been my father, and he may have married Mom—and Judy—but he loved Grace.”

  I face him. “Surely he loved your mother.”

  He stares at me, anger darkening his face. If he knew it was I his father had loved and longed for I don’t know what he’d do.

  “Like I said, I didn’t really know him,” he murmurs.

  “This is too soon.”

  “It’s not going to hurt any less tomorrow or in five months.” His voice slices the cold air. “I’ve lived with this for eighteen years. It sucks.” His eyes flash with resentment.“It’s his fault.”

  “What is his fault?” I ask carefully.

  “If he and Mom had stayed together, she would have had a better life. He could have been there for her while she was sick. He should have been there.”

  “She’s lucky she had you.”

  He shifts as if he’s swamped with emotions he’s not comfortable showing me. “He got it back in the end. Nobody was there for him.”

  Oh Jonathan. My heart pinches and I avert my gaze to the storm raging outside the window.

  “Don’t feel sorry for him,” Brenden sneers. “He deserved it. You get out of relationships what you put into them, and he put in zero.”

  Brenden may never understand the man I knew. I’m saddened—Jonathan was a good person, a hero to me. But his attention—the completeness of our relationship—came at the expense of his family.

  Talking about Jonathan isn’t doing anything but deepening Brenden’s disappointment and my guilt.

  “I need a drink.” I rise and cross to the kitchen. What I really need is that vial. A way out. Dr. Lemarchal’s words haunted me for years. As Oscar and Jonathan aged, I’d often wondered what would happen if I consumed the contents of that vial. Dredging up the past blankets me in an old weariness.

  I’m tired and ready to let go.

  Brenden’s cell phone vibrates. From the corner of my eye, I see him pull it out of his front pocket, then shove it back. Who’s calling? Girlfriend? The phone continues to beg for his attention. “Are you sure you don’t want something?” I ask, reaching for a teacup.

  He shakes his head. Everything inside of me sparks to attention when he looks at me. Thankfully, he remains in the living room. But he’s still in full view.

  Hands shaking, I make myself hot milk and stir in some honey.

  I return to the living room and sit. The hot drink usually soothes me. Not now. Steam drifts into the air, and it seems to magnify the heat bubbling between Brenden and me.

  “Is that hot milk and honey?” His tone is sharp.

  “Yes.” I sip. “Would you like some?”

  “No.” Bitterness cracks in the air. “Dad used to drink that stuff.”

  My stomach sloshes. He’s right. It was Jonathan who introduced me to the soothing drink. Unspoken accusations dart into the air and I feel like I’m the target. I can barely endure the reprimand in his eyes and am ready to open my mouth, defend myself when he rises and crosses to me. Fear tangles with excitement. There’s so much confusion inside of him, it seems to pound through his flesh with each step.

  “Were Grace and my Dad lovers?” he demands.

  Seconds pass hard and heavy between us, our gazes connected without a blink to break the tension. Sweat drenches my skin. What a question. His closeness challenges me, and I stand. His scent swirls through my head, making me dizzy. That old, sleepy yearning he’s awakened stretches to life deep inside of me. Ghost-like desires so long dead in their fragile existence brush the contours of my body in whispers. My limbs numb. The teacup my hand careens forward, splashing hot milk down the front of him.

  He jumps back.

  We stare at each other, neither of us sure what to do next. I snatch the empty cup off the floor and dart to the kitchen. I plunk it on the sink and grab hold of the counter to steady my weak knees. Catch my breath. What a fool. Cheeks flushed, I snatch dishtowels and return to the living room.

  He hasn’t moved. “You can shower and change in the bathroom,“ I suggest. Fire flushes my skin from head to toe. I kneel down and dab the towels into the wet carpet and avoid looking at him. He remains statue-still.

  “Were they lovers?” he repeats.

  My hands pause on the damp rags. Heart pounding, I meet his gaze. “No.”

  The room squeezes in around us. Air thickens to u
nbearable.

  Then he’s gone.

  I gulp in a breath. Maybe now my skin will cool, my pulse will slow. But I doubt it. This reaction, this uninvited ecstasy and heat, is the reason I’ve stayed away from men and relationships. A side effect from Dr. Lemarchal’s treatment—a disabling desire that overpowers me when I come into contact with a man I’m attracted to.

  Attracted to.

  I hear the guest bedroom door close. Fool, fool, fool. The sound of water flowing through the pipes causes my mind to conjure an image of Brenden pulling off his shirt.

  My fingers ache, the joints whiten from plunging the towel into the carpet. The hope that my heart will stop pounding vanishes as I find myself listening to the sound of the shower running.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ~Brenden~

  I’m not sure what to do with my milk-stained clothes. I figure I’ll find a laundromat somewhere in this rinky-dink town. Or maybe she’ll will let me use her washer and dryer.

  Katherine. She’s Grace’s doppelganger from head to toe. I still want to know how the two of them are related.

  I’m just relieved we’re not.

  I step out of my jeans, leave them on the floor. My stomach drops. I only have one pair. Instinctively, I look around the perfectly kept room even though I know I’m not going to see another pair of jeans. I should have brought a backup.

  No coat. No backup jeans. Could I be anymore unprepared?

  I rip off my tee shirt and toss it on the bed. Not on the bed, Mom’s voice echoes. I almost laugh but the echo of her voice hurts. I snatch the tee shirt and glance around. No dirty clothes hamper, so, what? I enter the bathroom: a sand-colored, tiled space so clean it’s institutional except for black towels and teardrop lights. I drop the shirt on the tile floor and strip off my boxers. Flick on the shower knob, wait for the water to heat. A charcoal sketch of Grace, framed in black, hangs on the wall. I recognize the style. I know the artist.

  Jonathan Lane.

  His scrawled signature sits in the right-hand corner. My fingers graze the glass. Her sapphire eyes are the only color in the charcoal. I stare at the drawing until the room steams, clouding my vision, bringing Katherine’s face to mind.

  So many questions I want to ask, but I can’t read her. Is she standoffish or just in mourning?

  I shower and try to abate disappointment from fogging my head. After I get out and dry, I glance at the sketch. Grace’s eyes watch me, sending a tremor just under my skin. I’m confused at the reaction.

  I brought two pairs of boxers, so I pull on a fresh pair. I can’t parade around like this. With a sigh, I reach into my backpack and find a clean, crumpled shirt and slip it on.

  The room piques my interest. I cross to the large table where bolts of fabric are stacked like a pyramid. Nice textures, colors. I skim my fingers over them.

  Curious, I move to the closet, quietly open it. Dresses and coats hang in perfect alignment. The lower area is filled with cubby holes, each with perfectly stacked sweaters, blouses, scarves, belts and gloves. Somebody likes clothes.

  I shut the doors, careful not to make a sound, just in case she’s got her ear to the door.

  I go to it and crack it open—don’t hear anything, but there’s still a light burning from the living room so I pad quietly to the entrance. The room’s empty. There’s a large wet spot in the carpet where the milk spilled.

  She clears her throat behind me and I turn. Her eyes are huge, and quickly skim me from head to toe.

  “I only brought one pair of jeans.”

  “Oh.” It’s dark in the hall, but I swear the color in her cheeks deepens. “I might be able to scrounge up an old pair of Oscar’s sweat pants.”

  “That’ll work.”

  Like a dreamy vapor she floats through the dark corridor and opens a door at the end of the hall. She flicks on a light. Stairs lead downward. Wall sconces in the hall are lit to dim, casting a snowy glaze on every surface.

  Within moments she’s back, a folded pair of navy sweatpants in her hands. They’re cold when she hands them to me.

  “He won’t mind?”

  Her tentative smile causes my heart to swoop. It’s the first time she’s smiled since I got here—and she smiles just like Grace—with a fresh beauty that causes my breath to hitch. “He hasn’t worn them in years.” Her voice is light, lyrical—like Grace Dolls’. “I just can’t bring myself to throw anything away.”

  “Th-thank you.” She’s tied my tongue in a knot. And I’m sweating again.

  Her brows lift forming delicate arches, accentuating her eyes. “Perhaps…you should get dressed?”

  “Yeah.” I step into the sweats and pull them up. They’re too short, clearing my ankles by four inches. “Wow,” I laugh. “At least I’m decent.” Am I imagining that her eyes sparkle?

  She crosses her arms over her chest but then unfolds them. She strokes strands of her hair.

  “The resemblance between you and Grace is—it’s mind-blowing.”

  Her eyes narrow for a second, like she’s not sure she appreciates the compliment. She rounds my shoulder and continues into the kitchen. I follow her. “Do people ever tell you that you look like her?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I think you look just like her. Maybe it’s because of all that’s happened with the safe deposit box and Dad’s picture, but she’s in my head.”

  “Picture?” At the sink, she wrings out the cloth she used to sop up the milk.

  “The one Dad had in the safe deposit box.”

  Her hands go still. “What picture is that?”

  I hold up a finger, indicating I’ll be right back, then I jog down the hall to the room where my backpack is. Thankfully, I put the photo in the backpack or it might have gotten ruined by the snow or milk.

  My gaze locks on the face in the picture. Grace looks—happy? Content? What is the emotion loosening the tension in her brow, lightening her eyes, spreading her lips wide in an expression of…

  Freedom?

  Katherine’s folding the dishrags into perfect squares on the countertop when I return. I extend the photo to her. Her eyes widen. She dries her hands and reaches out, then snaps her hand back.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  Slowly, she extends a shaking hand for the photo. She gingerly plucks it from the opposite side as if she’s making sure not to touch my fingers.“Have you ever seen it?” I ask.

  She blinks rapidly. Is she holding back tears? Of course she is. She’s looking at a photo of her grandmother—or mother— who’s dead.“Do you know why he’d keep that photo in a safe deposit box?” I ask.

  As if clearing away an unsettling memory, she shakes her head.

  “He had me draw it once.”

  Her eyes flash to mine. “He had you draw this photo?” she murmurs, eyeing the picture again.

  “Yeah. I was thirteen. He had it locked in a drawer in his office at home. Maybe it was taken somewhere special. It had to have meant something. Do you want it?”

  She extends the photograph to me. “If he kept it locked away, it must have meant a lot to him. You should keep it.”

  I take the photo. “Maybe it’s worth something.”

  Her eyes turn cold.

  “Look, I realize she was your—whatever relation Grace was to you—but that photo…the fact that it meant something to Dad…doesn’t matter to me. If you want it, take it because I’d sell it just to spite him.”

  Her brows crease. As if she has to work her mind, body, and soul into believing my words she cradles the photograph to her chest, studying me. “You really do hate him, don’t you?”

  I don’t respond. Can’t. Her gaze tumbles emotion into me and I cross my arms over my chest, clear my throat.

  Finally, she exits the kitchen, heading to the living room. She crosses to the fireplace stopping at the edge of the hearth. Is she mourning her loss? Does she miss Dad?

  Flames stretch and crackle, the orange hot reflectio
n colors her skin. Without another glance at the picture, she tosses it into the fire. Lavender blue sparks mingle with the orange flames. The photograph curls in on itself. Grace’s beautiful face burns to black. A pang of remorse races through me.

  She takes a deep breath. The tightness in her brow and lips begins to fade.

  “Did you hate her too?” I ask.

  Flames pop and snap. Her eyes don’t break from mine, and my heart notches to a pound, waiting for her answer.

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  ~Grace~

  Brenden tries his best to pretend he’s not shocked by my admittance, but as an actress I studied faces. Having been married to a monster, I studied nuances behind expressions. The skill never left me. It always feels good to admit the truth. Even if I’m admitting something I don’t want to talk about. It’s been so many years since I’ve even thought about my life as Rufus’ Grace Doll that this moment is more freeing than I would have ever believed.

  Like I used to feel when I was on set.

  Heat from the fire warms my back. Red flames dance in his eyes, shadowing his cheekbones, lips. I realize I’m staring at his mouth too late: his lips curve up slightly. My gaze moves to his eyes again.

  “That look on your face—that’s what her picture was about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never seen it in any other picture of her. It’s freedom.”

  I’m surprised. Pleased. He’s more intuitive than Jonathan was—my heart flutters. Jonathan had loved that photo for the same reason. He’d taken it the first day we’d reunited after Oscar and I returned from living overseas.

  “She looked free,” he says.

  “I didn’t notice.” I turn and face the flames, but the heat is too much. Heat from the fire, heat from Brenden. Heat from the truth.

  I cross the living room—but why? I’ve nowhere to go. The staged move throws me off guard. I’m reacting to him like we’re two actors rehearsing a scene. I’m surprised that I step into the moment with so little provocation.