“So did your dad get any more feedback on that article?” Evan asks. Elizabeth had told him about the e-mail from Eva Goodman.
“Yes, actually.” Elizabeth puts down the book she is holding. “I meant to tell you. We heard from another guy who says he used to have the doll. Here in Toronto.”
“Really!” Evan looks at her eagerly. “Tell me.”
“He’s a vet,” says Elizabeth. She looks slightly uncomfortable.
“A vet?” Evan frowns. “Like an animal doctor?”
“Um, no.” Elizabeth snorts. “Like a veteran. From the war. In Afghanistan.” She’s still not making eye contact.
“Ah,” says Evan, blushing. “Right.”
“His name is Alex. He lost a leg over there.” She looks worried.
Evan puts an arm around her. “Your dad will be fine,” he says.
Elizabeth ignores him. “He said his mom gave him the doll. He said an American soldier gave it to her in Vietnam.”
“Wow,” says Evan. He sits back. “It’s really been around, huh?”
“I know,” says Elizabeth. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? My dad’s been updating Margaret Merriweather. He’s obsessed.”
“So are you going to London soon?”
“Yes!” says Elizabeth, perking up. “We booked our tickets yesterday! I forgot to tell you. We’re going to go when my dad has leave, in October.”
“So lucky!” Evan looks at her enviously. “I’ve never been to England.”
“I know, I wish you could come. But it’s kind of a family thing. Dad’s meeting us, from Afghanistan…”
“I understand.” Evan squeezes her hand.
“I promise.” Elizabeth squeezes back. “I’ll text you the entire time.”
“Make sure you get me an autograph. I’ll give you my copy of Autumn Evening. It could be worth something someday.”
“You’re obsessed. Anyway, you’d sell it?”
“Of course not. It’s knowing it’s worth a lot.”
Elizabeth shakes her head. “You’re crazy.”
“You love it.” He grins slyly.
She tilts her head coquettishly. “Maybe.”
Smiling, he pulls her to him, knocking over a stack of books. Elizabeth groans loudly. “There goes an hour’s work. And you almost killed Boris.”
Evan looks down at the large rabbit, who stares up at him indignantly, flexing his front paw.
“Sorry, my furry friend,” he says apologetically. He ruffles Boris’s back and reaches again for Elizabeth. He narrowly misses hitting her head against the desk as he pulls her in for a kiss.
. . .
Elizabeth lugs the heavy shopping bag home, grunting with the effort. I should have just let Mom drive me to the mall to get this stuff. She winces as the overstuffed bag pinches her shoulder, as if the handle were alive with teeth or claws. The bag brims with pens, pencils, notebooks, and a variety of other school supplies. Elizabeth secretly enjoys back-to-school shopping. There is something about crisp, new, yet-to-be-opened notebooks and fresh, unused pens with their caps still in place that makes her feel excited and optimistic about the upcoming academic year. She had gone to the store with Emily, who spent most of their outing quizzing her on the finer points of her relationship with Evan.
“So when you guys are at work together and no one’s around, do you ever, you know—” Emily raised her eyebrows suggestively.
“Em!” Elizabeth cut her off. “No! It’s a store. People can walk in at any time!”
“Not even a kiss?” Emily looked at her friend knowingly. Elizabeth blushed, and Emily grinned triumphantly. “I knew it!”
“Sh,” said Elizabeth, scandalized, looking around the office supply store. “Someone will hear you!”
“No one’s listening to us,” said Emily impatiently. She leaned in toward Elizabeth conspiratorially. “You’re sure you’re just kissing?”
“Yes! Shut up!”
Elizabeth grins now at the memory of her friend. She shifts the bag to her right shoulder, revealing an ugly, red, welt-like mark on the other one. “Ugh,” she says, shuddering. She’s almost home now. She drops the bag to the ground and drags it behind her up the front stairs.
The house is unusually quiet when she walks in. She’s grown accustomed to having her mother around—she’s been wrapping up her days early lately, even making it home before Elizabeth. Her mother is the kind of person who likes background noise and often has the television or radio blaring, regardless of whether she’s actually watching or listening. Today, though, there is silence.
Probably seeing a late patient, Elizabeth reasons. She slips off her shoes and stares at the bag at her feet, tempted to leave it for now. Then she considers her mother’s reaction to the bag and, sighing, hauls it up the final flight of stairs to her room.
“Liz?”
Elizabeth blinks, surprised. Her mom is home after all. She peers into the hall from her bedroom. Why is she in her room with the lights off?
“I need to talk to you.”
Heart hammering, Elizabeth makes her way to her mother, who is lying on top of the made bed. She reaches over to turn on a bedside lamp, and Elizabeth can see her eyes are red and puffy, her cheeks stained black with running makeup.
“Mom?” Elizabeth’s voice is small. “What is it?”
“Oh, honey.” Her mother takes a deep breath. “It’s Dad.”
Elizabeth feels dizzy, as if she has been knocked off her feet. “No,” she whispers. Her heart pounds loudly in her chest in an unnatural rhythm, and she can feel the blood rushing in her ears.
“It was a bomb of some kind at the base, a terrorist attack—”
“No!” Elizabeth’s voice is shrill. “He’s just an engineer!”
“I know, sweetheart, I know. It was a terrorist attack, there was nothing—”
“He said he’d be okay, that he was just an engineer!” Elizabeth is crying now.
“It’s a terrible tragedy,” her mother says robotically, crying now, too.
“How do they know for sure? Are they sure?” Elizabeth collapses onto the bed.
“They know, Liz. There was a—”
“Don’t say it!” Elizabeth’s voice rises again in pitch. She can’t bear to hear the word body, to hear her father described as an inanimate object, as an it instead of a he.
“Oh, Elizabeth.” Her mom’s voice breaks. “I’m so sorry.”
Elizabeth stares helplessly at the wall. Her parents’ wedding portrait hangs there, her parents smiling at her from another time, a happier one. She looks into her father’s unseeing, laughing eyes and feels the grief overtake her like an avalanche from within.
“Are you all right?” Her mom looks worried.
“I can’t breathe.” Elizabeth shudders.
“Just let it out,” her mother replies gently.
Elizabeth does, wailing noisily into her mother’s pillow. Her mother strokes her hair and makes soothing noises, the way she used to when Elizabeth was a little girl.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” Elizabeth sniffles, turning to look at her mother. “I should be doing this for you.”
“Don’t be silly,” her mom says, waving her hand.
Elizabeth sits up. She huddles close to her mother, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them tightly.
“What are we going to do?” Elizabeth’s voice is quiet again. She stares out the window now. In the backyard below, she catches sight of her father’s little shed. She quickly looks away, feeling as if her heart might actually break.
“We have to be strong.” Her mother grasps her hand tightly. “I need you to be strong.”
“What if I can’t?” Elizabeth’s voice is dull. “I don’t think I can, Mom.”
“Don’t be silly
,” Her mother’s tone is sharper now. “I need you to be strong, Liz.” She takes a deep breath. “I—I have something else to tell you.”
Elizabeth stares at her mother, her eyes frantic. “What?” she cries. “What is it? You’re not sick, are you?” She searches her mother’s face for signs of illness. Her heart is thudding hard again, and she feels as if she might be sick.
“No! Not like that, anyway.” Her mother pulls Elizabeth to her and holds her hard against her chest.
“What do you mean? What does that mean—not like that?” Elizabeth pulls back slightly and looks at her mother suspiciously. She’s still frightened.
“I’m pregnant.” Her mother says it quietly. Her hands go to her stomach.
Elizabeth stares at her, dumbfounded. “What?”
“I’m pregnant.” Her mom gives her a weak smile.
“Does—did Dad know?” Elizabeth winces at the past tense. Pregnant! Her mind reels with shock.
“Yes—we were hoping to tell you together. I didn’t find out until after he left. Right after, actually.”
“When—when is the baby due?”
“April.”
“How did this happen?” Elizabeth shakes her head, struggling to come to terms with the news.
Her mother manages a small smile. “Are you sure you want to know the answer to that question?”
“Come on. You know what I mean. After all this time?”
Her mom shrugs, exhales. “I don’t know. It’s a miracle, really.”
“Is it—should we—” Elizabeth struggles to find the right words. She remembers the darker days of her childhood, the days when her mother shut herself up in her room and Elizabeth could hear the crying. “Is it too soon to…talk about it?” she says finally. Her voice is tentative.
“The doctor says everything looks good,” her mother replies. “I had an early scan, and it looked good.”
“Wow,” says Elizabeth. “A baby.”
“I know.” Her mother is crying again. “I’m going to need your help, Liz.”
Elizabeth folds herself into her mother’s arms and cries, her heart heavy with joy and sorrow, sorrow and joy. She cries for her father, who is gone, and for the little unborn brother or sister who will never hear his laughter or know his love.
Chapter 14
Toronto, Canada
2007
“Liz, can you get that?”
Elizabeth stares hard at the phone, mentally willing it to be silent. She slumps in her seat, pretending she hasn’t heard her mother yelling from upstairs.
“Liz!”
With a sigh, Elizabeth rises slowly from her seat and reaches for the phone, still hoping that it will cease its incessant ringing. You’d think whoever’s on the other end would get the point, she mutters to herself in irritation. She waits for one more ring—the tenth—before resigning herself to the caller’s inexplicable persistence.
“Hello?” Her tone is rude and harsh. She doesn’t want to talk to this person—or anyone, for that matter. She just wants to be left alone.
“Oh—hi!” The voice sounds surprised. “I didn’t think anyone was going to answer.”
“Who is this?” Elizabeth is short.
“Oh, sorry. Um, my name is Mike Stepanek. I’m looking for John Bryant. I’m calling about his article in the paper. The one about the soldier doll? I saw it online.”
“Oh,” says Elizabeth quietly.
“The editor gave me his contact information. I tried e-mailing that address, but it’s been weeks, and no one replied, and I thought, well, maybe I’d try calling…” His voice trails off as he waits for a response.
No one replied. The words pierce Elizabeth, and it’s as if she’s just learning the bad news all over again. It’s like this each time.
“Hello?” The man sounds awkward now. “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” says Elizabeth quietly. “It’s just, he’s not here. John Bryant. He…went to Afghanistan. And we’re not really interested in the doll anymore.” She feels a twinge of guilt as she says this, but pushes it aside. It’s the truth. She isn’t interested in the soldier doll any longer. What was the point? She doesn’t want to go to London, either. She’s been pressuring her mother to cancel the trip. Her mother strongly disagrees with her on this, of course, as does Evan. She doesn’t agree with them on much now.
“But Liz,” Evan had said, shaking his head. “Your dad was so into the soldier doll. He’d have wanted you to go to London.”
“What do you know about my dad and what he wanted?” she’d shot back. “You didn’t even know him.”
Hurt, Evan had dropped the subject. He didn’t provoke her much these days—when she agreed to see him. Most days, she wasn’t in the mood. She had quit the job at the bookstore the day before the funeral and now spent most of her time in her pajamas in front of the television.
Her mother acted the same way as Evan. “Dad would have wanted us to go to London and see Ms. Merriweather,” her mother had said firmly. “I think we should still go.”
“I don’t care about the doll,” Elizabeth had snapped back. “It’s just a stupid toy. And I can’t believe you want to do anything like that now that Dad’s gone.”
“So we should spend the rest of our lives lying around here? In our pajamas? Watching crappy reruns of reality TV?”
“Leave me alone.”
But now, Elizabeth finds herself second-guessing her decision to abandon the matter of the soldier doll: the man on the phone seems disappointed at her words.
“Really?” The man, Mike, sounds dejected. “I was really hoping to get some information on that doll. I think it’s the one I had; it was from my aunt, from Czechoslovakia, well, the former Czechoslovakia I guess, and I gave it to this kid in ’Nam, and I always—”
“Czechoslovakia? Vietnam?” Elizabeth’s curiosity gets the better of her. “Did you say your aunt? Was she near Prague?” She thinks of Eva Goodman’s e-mail to her father.
“Yes! She was in Prague. Does that mean you’re still interested?” Mike Stepanek sounds hopeful.
“I guess I am,” admits Elizabeth quietly. She realizes she’s said the words out loud and continues hastily. “I mean, yes, please, go ahead. I’d like to hear your story.” She adopts a more businesslike tone.
“Okay, great.” Mike’s voice is eager now. “Where should I begin?”
“Um, at the beginning, I guess.” Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “How did you get it?”
“It’s kind of a long story. I think you should hear the whole thing though. Do you have some time?”
Elizabeth looks down at her pink-plaid flannel pajamas, then up at the TV. She reaches for the remote and shuts it off.
“Actually,” she says, “I do.” She tucks the phone under her chin and settles back on the sofa.
“I was one of the first to be drafted,” Mike explains. “Today, people talk about Vietnam; they talk about how it was an unnecessary war. My son—he can’t understand why I went. But it wasn’t so simple. I wasn’t sure what the right thing to do was. I don’t think the right thing was that clear. I guess it never is, not in a war, really.”
Elizabeth thinks of her father and feels her stomach tighten.
“I think you’re right,” she says softly. It’s the first thing she’s said since Mike began talking, and he seems startled to hear her voice. It’s as if he’s forgotten there is anyone else there, someone on the other line to whom he is bearing his soul. Pausing to exhale loudly, he continues with his tale, going on to inform Elizabeth about the horrors of Vietnam: the fighting, the misery, the friends whose blood had been fatally mixed with the slippery mud of the jungle.
Mike reaches the end of his story. “I gave it to a girl in a village…a little village where we were sent off to check for weap
ons.” His voice sounds far away now as he remembers. “She was just a little girl, and she was hungry. She was begging for food.”
Elizabeth waits for him to go on, but he is silent for a moment.
“I gave her the doll,” he says, speaking up again. “I thought—I thought it would remind her that she was just a little girl. I don’t know. It sounds stupid.” He sounds embarrassed.
“It doesn’t,” says Elizabeth sincerely. She pauses. “The girl—I might know who she is. I mean, she might live here. In Toronto.”
“She—you know her?” Mike sounds shocked.
“Maybe. A guy got in touch with us, an Afghan vet. He said his mother got the doll from a soldier in Vietnam. I guess that’s her, then. She’s a consultant of some kind now, I think.” Elizabeth hoped she wasn’t babbling.
“That’s—that’s wonderful.” Mike’s voice catches, and Elizabeth worries for a second that he will cry. She can’t cope with anyone else crying right now, not when she always feels on the verge of tears herself.
“Do you want to get in touch with her? Because I could ask—”
“No. No.” Mike responds quickly, and Elizabeth can almost hear him shaking his head. “No. She wouldn’t—it’s not a good idea. No, just knowing she’s well and a mother…that’s enough for me. That’s wonderful,” he says again, and Elizabeth can tell he’s definitely crying now. She looks over at the soldier doll on the fireplace mantle and is suddenly overwhelmed by what it has witnessed.
Elizabeth feels awkward. Mike is clearly crying on the other end of the phone, and she isn’t in any state to offer him words of comfort or advice.
“Thank you for listening,” says Mike sincerely. “I was so disappointed when I didn’t hear anything after my e-mail.”
Elizabeth takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry about that,” she says. “My dad…it’s my dad’s e-mail. Was,” she corrects herself. “He—he was killed a few weeks ago. In Afghanistan.”
“Oh,” says Mike. It comes out more of a groan, and it is full of knowing and understanding. “I’m so very sorry.”
“Thank you,” says Elizabeth quietly.
“It never goes away, but it does get better,” Mike says. His voice radiates with sympathy. “I—I remember. It’s hard to be the one who lives. The guilt at still being alive, and the pain because they’re not.”
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