. . .
Elizabeth fills her mother in over supper that night. It’s another lasagna; only this time, it’s Elizabeth who prepared it. After the phone call with Mike, she spent some time thinking.
It’s hard to be the one who lives. It was true. She found it hard to understand how, when her father was gone, she was expected to continue on, to recreate something like the life they’d had before, only with him missing.
But Mike had done it. Eva Goodman had done the same. They had all managed, Elizabeth realized, to be the ones who lived. And she would have to do it, too. For her sake and for her mother’s and, most of all, for the baby.
Elizabeth had left the house for the first time that week, unsure of her destination but happy to be outside. She drank in the warm air, which, as September approached, was no longer humid but quite pleasant. She noted that some of the trees had begun to turn already, little dots of red and yellow in a sea of green. It would start to get chilly at night now. She watched a squirrel dart by and wondered if it was already foraging for the long winter.
She found herself at the bookstore, tapping on the glass. The store was closed for lunch, but she could see the shadow of Evan’s legs underneath the desk. She held her breath as he came over to unlock the door.
“Well,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “You left the house.”
“I did,” she said. There was a pause. “I’ve missed you.”
“Oh, Liz,” he said. He pulled her to him. “I know it’s so hard.”
“I’m sorry,” she sniffed, burying her head in his shoulder. “It’s just been so bad.”
“I know,” he said, and held her. “I know.”
They stayed that way for a while. Then Evan cheered her up with some new tricks he was trying to teach Boris.
“Watch this,” he said, waving a piece of lettuce in the air. “Jump, Boris!”
Boris gave him a look and hopped in the other direction.
“It worked before,” said Evan, frowning.
“Can you teach a rabbit tricks?” asked Elizabeth, trying not to laugh.
“Maybe not,” Evan admitted. He tossed the lettuce at Boris and grinned sheepishly at her.
On her way back from visiting Evan, Elizabeth passed the grocery store and, on impulse, went inside. She’d never cooked anything in her life but macaroni and cheese or chocolate chip cookies, but she figured it couldn’t be that complicated. She’d find a recipe somewhere on the Internet. Elizabeth tossed items into the cart: noodles, a jar of sauce, some cheese, a couple of red peppers, some mushrooms. The mushrooms even came all sliced and ready to go, wrapped in plastic on a little Styrofoam tray. As she passed the prepared food section, Elizabeth resisted the temptation to buy a ready-to-eat lasagna and pass it off as her own. Once home, Elizabeth had painstakingly followed online directions and cobbled together what looked, once it was done, like an actual, real lasagna! Elizabeth stood back and admired her handiwork. Cooking wasn’t so bad. Then she looked around the kitchen. The counter was covered with spilled sauce; crumbs of cheese littered the floor; and the leftover noodles were now stuck, congealed, to the bottom of the pot. It then took Elizabeth longer to clean the kitchen than it did to make supper.
“This is great, Liz,” says her mom at dinner, reaching for another serving. “Does that mean you’ll be taking over the cooking now?” She smiles.
“Ha,” says Elizabeth. “I’d have to drop out of school. It took me, like, the entire day to make it and then clean up. Cooking is so messy.”
“The trick is to clean as you go,” her mother says, scooping her last bites into her mouth.
“I think the trick might be to buy the ready-made one at the store.”
Elizabeth finishes telling her mother about Mike. “He seemed like he was going to cry when he talked about the doll,” says Elizabeth, twirling melted cheese around her fork. “I wonder why.”
Her mother shrugs. “Who knows? Things are complicated in war.”
“I’ll say.” Elizabeth reaches for another serving.
“You seem better.” Her mother’s voice is cautious. “Did something else happen?”
Elizabeth finishes chewing and nods. “It was something he said.”
“Mike?”
“Yeah. He said ‘it’s hard to be the one who lives,’ or something like that.”
Her mother nods. “It’s true.”
“Yeah. So it made me think, maybe I need to be stronger—I need to live.”
“It’s great to hear you talk like that.” Her mother looks relieved. She puts her fork down and reaches for Elizabeth’s hand. “Does that mean you want to go? To London?”
Elizabeth winces and looks away. “You really think we should?”
“I do.” Her mother is firm. “It’s what your father would have wanted.”
“It feels so weird though, without Dad.” Elizabeth’s voice quavers as she stacks their plates.
“I know. But I think we should go, the two of us. It’s important.”
There is silence for a moment. Elizabeth scratches her fork along her plate, thinking. “Okay,” she says finally. “You’re right.”
“Good.” Her mother smiles approvingly. “It’s the right choice, hon. If we wait much longer, may never have another chance. Margaret Merriweather is an old woman; she isn’t going to live forever.”
“I guess you’re right,” Elizabeth says quietly. She’s still staring down at her plate.
“I have some good news, too.”
Elizabeth looks up at her mom, who is smiling now. “What is it?”
“I got the test results back. You know, about the baby. Everything is fine; the baby is healthy and normal.”
Elizabeth perks up. “That’s great! Thank goodness.”
“And…”
“And what?” Elizabeth looks at her, curious.
“It’s a girl.”
A girl! Elizabeth tries to imagine what it will be like, after all these years, to have a sister. She laughs. Her mother looks at her, surprised, and laughs too.
Epilogue
London
2007
Elizabeth looks at the scrap of paper in her hand and compares it to the number painted in black script above the large glass entryway.
“Twenty-three,” she says to her mother. “I guess this is it.”
Her mother nods, and Elizabeth presses a button. A loud buzzer sounds, and the door swings open slowly.
“Hello.” A young woman dressed in pink scrubs greets them with a pleasant smile. “Are you Mrs. Bryant and Elizabeth? Here to see Ms. Merriweather?”
“Yes, thank you,” says Elizabeth.
“I’m Janet,” she says. “Meg’s nurse. Come along this way.”
Elizabeth and her mother follow Janet down a series of hallways. The nursing home looks like a cross between a hospital and a stately old home. There are nurses’ stations and medical equipment tucked into corners, but also elegant molding and grand-looking furniture.
Janet leads them to a room labeled 2A and knocks on the door. “Meg?” she calls out. “Your visitors are here.” Then she opens the door.
The woman in the room is indeed very old. Her face is etched with deep lines, like those on a map, and her white hair is tied in a neat knot near the top of her head. When she smiles, though, she suddenly looks much younger, and Elizabeth can’t help but smile back at the transformation.
“You must be Elizabeth and Mrs. Bryant,” the woman says. “Please, come in.”
“Thank you, Ms. Merriweather,” says Elizabeth’s mother, nudging her daughter forward.
Elizabeth stammers her own thanks and steps into the room, her mother close at her heels. Janet takes their coats and leaves the room, and Ms. Merriweather motions for them to sit with her around a
little wooden table. Elizabeth glances around, taking in the scene before her. A vase of fresh flowers rests on the windowsill, and an ancient-looking secretary’s desk sits in the corner. She wonders if it’s Ms. Merriweather’s, and commits it to memory.
“Memorize every detail,” Evan had instructed her before she’d left for the airport. “I want a full report. Don’t leave anything out.”
“I won’t,” she’d promised.
He’d pulled her to him, kissing her gently at first and then more urgently. It was the kind of kiss you felt all the way down to your toes. Elizabeth feels flush with happiness recalling it. She turns back to Mrs. Merriweather, who is eyeing her with a smile.
“That’s my old escritoire,” she says, as if reading Elizabeth’s mind. “I brought it with me to the nursing home. They were very accommodating. Please,” she says, “make yourselves comfortable. And call me Meg. Everyone does.”
They sit down, and Meg pours them tea. Elizabeth watches the old woman’s hand tremble ever so slightly as she handles the small china teapot. It’s white with gold piping and painted with delicate pink and green flowers. Meg offers her a cup, and Elizabeth handles the delicate vessel with great care; it looks very expensive. Elizabeth has a brief mental image of the teacup shattering, its fragments scattered and mingling with tea on the carpet. She shudders and holds the teacup tighter.
Meg clears her throat and looks solemnly at mother and daughter. “Please accept my sincere condolences on your loss,” she says softly.
Elizabeth winces and says nothing. She has been trying not to think of how much her father would have liked to be here, to have sat at this table and drank tea with the famous author.
“Thank you,” says Elizabeth’s mother immediately. “John would have loved to be here.” She looks at her daughter, but Elizabeth is staring hard at her teacup, still silent.
Meg is watching Elizabeth. She reaches out suddenly and puts a wrinkled hand on the girl’s arm, gripping it gently. “I understand,” she says simply.
Elizabeth looks up at her, startled. Their eyes meet for a moment. Neither says anything, but the mood changes; the atmosphere becomes more relaxed, less awkward. Elizabeth nods slightly and puts her own smooth hand on top of Meg’s withered one, resting it there for a moment.
Elizabeth takes a deep breath. “I have the doll,” she says. She places her teacup cautiously in its saucer and reaches for her bag. She retrieves the small figure from within. She’s wrapped it again in the baby blanket, and she unravels it carefully now as her mother and Meg watch.
“Here it is,” she says. The doll stares, unblinking, at Elizabeth. Elizabeth feels a small pang of regret as she hands it back to its rightful owner. She has a fleeting thought, not for the first time, that if only her father had taken the doll with him, it would have protected him, kept him safe. She shakes her head at her own foolishness and looks away.
Meg exhales audibly as she takes the doll from Elizabeth, leaning in close to examine it. Elizabeth and her mother turn to look as the older woman inspects the doll, touching its fingers, its toes, its hair.
“This is certainly my little Will,” Meg says. Her eyes are tearing, and her voice catches slightly. “That’s what I used to call him, before I painted him and gave him to my Ned.”
“We’re sorry for your loss, as well,” says Elizabeth’s mother kindly. “I’m sure it’s still difficult, even after all this time.”
Meg turns to look at her. “The pain, it does lessen with time,” she says softly, a faraway look in her eyes.
She pats the little doll and smiles at it. “My father made it for me,” she tells them. “My mother had died. He was a good friend to me in those days. And what an adventure he’s had! I never could have guessed it, not back then.” She turns to the two younger women. “Thank you for bringing him back to me. I am ever so grateful.”
“You’re welcome.” Elizabeth speaks up now. “It was our pleasure.”
“I’m glad,” Meg replies, smiling. She’s looking at the doll again, tracing the shape of its left boot with her index finger.
Meg straightens and turns to Elizabeth again. She holds out the doll in her hands, in an offering gesture. Elizabeth stares at her, surprised.
“Thank you for finding him for me,” says Meg again. “I’m so happy to have seen him one last time.” She places the doll back in Elizabeth’s arms.
“But—it’s yours,” stutters Elizabeth, confused. “We brought it back here, to you.”
“Oh, no,” says Meg. She shakes her head. “It was mine, once, and I most definitely did want to see it again. But the doll is yours now. It belongs to you.”
“No!” says Elizabeth. She jumps up, her face red. She’s on the verge of tears. “I saved it for you, to bring it here to you!” Her voice is shaking now. “I would have given it to my dad, when he shipped out, it might have…” Her voice trails off, and she turns away, avoiding the woman’s stare.
“Elizabeth!” says her mother, scandalized, but Meg nods at her.
“It’s all right,” says the ancient woman. “I understand.” She looks at Elizabeth, who still refuses to meet her gaze. “Elizabeth. I understand. I had the same hopes for the doll when I gave it to my Ned. But it didn’t save Ned, and it couldn’t have saved your father.” Elizabeth looks up at her slowly, her cheeks red and damp. Meg continues. “A doll cannot save someone. I know you know this. You’re a smart girl.”
Elizabeth nods slightly. “I’m sorry,” she says, accepting the offer of a tissue. “I can’t help it.”
Meg nods. “I understand,” she says again.
There is quiet for a moment. Elizabeth speaks up. “But Ms. Merriweather—Meg—the doll is yours. It belongs to you. Don’t you want it?”
Meg smiles at her. “I’m a very old woman, past a hundred,” she says simply. “My time on this earth is running out. A doll doesn’t need an old woman. It needs a child to care for it.”
“I’m not a child!” protests Elizabeth automatically, looking offended. She ignores her mother’s glare and crosses her arms.
Meg laughs. “I know you’re not.” She looks over at Elizabeth’s mother’s belly, which already shows signs of pregnancy. “You might find you have use for it, though, in a few months’ time.”
Comprehension dawns on Elizabeth’s face, which lights up at the mention of the baby. “It’s a girl,” she says softly. “A sister.”
Meg smiles. “The soldier doll is, at its heart, still a doll,” she says. “And a doll needs someone to love it. A little girl should do just fine, don’t you think?”
Elizabeth smiles and takes the doll. “I’ll keep it safe for her,” she promises. Looking into the doll’s blue eyes, she grins again and tucks it back in her bag.
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t have been possible without the assistance and support of many people, so I will try to thank them all here: To Ibi Kaslik, without whose mentorship this book would never have been possible; to my editor, Kathryn White, who tirelessly plowed through version and version of the manuscript and always seemed cheerful about it; to Margie Wolfe, Kathryn Cole, Emma Rodgers and the staff of Second Story Press for having faith in the book and making it a reality; to authors Karl Marlantes, James Webb, Tim O’Brien and Philip Caputo for saving me a trip to Vietnam; to Judy Cohen and Carla Pearson, my third and tenth grade English teachers, for encouraging me to write; to Dara Laxer and Cheryl Ellison, my best friends and beta readers; to Paul and Jess Gold for their technical support and endless enthusiasm; to my husband, Adam Goodman, who never doubted Soldier Doll would be published, and who took our son to the museum fifteen weeks in a row so I could attend writing workshops; to Teddy and Violet, for inspiring me to write and making me want to be a better person; and finally, to my parents, Howard and Karen Gold, for a lifetime of love and encouragement that made it possible f
or me to believe I could do this.
About the Author
JENNIFER GOLD is a lawyer and mother of two young children living in Toronto. A history buff, she also has degrees in psychology, law, and public health. Soldier Doll is her first book. Visit her online at www.jennifergold.ca
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