by Karen White
He raised his eyebrows.
“The dollhouse’s provenance. Just in case.”
“Just in case what?” he asked slowly.
“To find out exactly what came with the dollhouse besides just furniture and dolls.”
His eyes met mine for a moment before I turned away and led him toward the front door.
“And if something did?” he asked.
I paused just for a moment. “We could give it away. To Rebecca.”
Jack’s head tilted. “Why Rebecca?”
“Because the spirits would take one look at the pink haven she calls her bedroom and they’d be tripping over themselves to get to the light.”
I could tell he was trying very hard not to laugh. “Good night, Mellie.”
“Good night, Jack.”
I’d already closed the door behind him before I thought to remind him again not to call me Mellie.
CHAPTER 6
For the second time in less than a year, I found myself on my mother’s doorstep with stuffed suitcases, except this time I also came with a recalcitrant teenager. I was almost looking forward to the stay, if only so I’d have an ally in the war against the sullen surliness I was now experiencing on an almost hourly basis. I knew it was mostly because objects in Nola’s room refused to stay put and she believed that I was responsible, but I somehow felt that it was easier accepting the blame than telling her the truth.
Nola looked up at the square, brick Georgian house with the two-tiered portico, her mouth open. Even the late-spring garden was opulent in its display of colors and scents, and a new trellis arbor—courtesy of my father—showed off its stunning crimson offering of butterfly roses. My mother had grown up in this house, and I’d spent the first six years of my life visiting my grandmother here. I suppose that was why I never noticed the grandness of it or how imposing it might seem to a stranger who’d never experienced the love and warmth inside. Or its ghosts.
“Holy shit,” she said.
I frowned at Nola, recalling something my mother had once said when I was still young enough to listen, after I’d repeated something my father had said when he thought I was out of hearing. I could still taste the Dial soap on my tongue. Speaking softly, I said, “Ladies don’t use foul language. And if my mother hears any, she’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”
Nola’s eyes widened with what I thought to be worry, so I took the opportunity to press on. “And I won’t stop her, either.”
Nola took a step back from me, making me feel as if my words had made an impression. But I was too horrified at realizing that I was becoming my mother to appreciate any victory. We both turned toward the door at the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Mellie, Nola!” my mother sang as she flung open the door before ushering us into the foyer of her Legare Street home. She enveloped us in successive hugs scented with Chanel No. 5 and wrapped in silk. I had once hated that particular perfume, as it always reminded me of the mother who’d abandoned me when I was six, but it was beginning to grow on me again, just like my burgeoning interest in opera and sharing shoes. The whole “mother-daughter” thing was a lot like moving to another part of the world where nobody spoke your language, and with the addition of Nola to the mix, I had a feeling it was about to get a lot more interesting.
“Hello, Mother. Thanks again for letting us stay.”
“Don’t be silly, Mellie. You’re my daughter and I want you to think of my home as yours. And you, too, Nola. I’ve even had house keys made for both of you so you can come and go as you please. Mrs. Houlihan has already set herself up in the kitchen with General Lee, so it will be just like home.”
Nola groaned. “Why does the dog have to come, too?”
Not that long ago, I would have agreed with her. Moving from military base to military base with my father, I wouldn’t have been allowed to have a pet even if I’d wanted one. But then I’d inherited General Lee from the late Mr. Vanderhorst and I’d found myself a pet owner, if one could call me that. I was more like General Lee’s companion and sleeping buddy, source of food and treats, and a warm lap. Not wanting to display weakness, I thought I’d done a pretty good job of hiding my growing fondness for the furry little guy.
I frowned at Nola—something I found myself doing a lot lately, and if I wasn’t careful, it would give me wrinkles. “If you say one more mean thing about my dog, you’re going back to your father’s.” I picked up my suitcases and headed past them toward the stairs. “I’m assuming I have my old room?”
There was a brief silence as Nola and my mother contemplated each other as my last words sank in. “Yes, dear, and Nola has the room across from you. The bathroom, luckily, has been redone, but I’m afraid the bedroom hasn’t been tackled yet. I’ve been too busy with the rest of the house and didn’t anticipate having a guest so soon.” She began walking toward the stairs as she spoke to Nola. “Colonel Middleton will be here shortly and can carry the rest of your things if you just want to grab your backpack and guitar for now.”
I staggered under the weight of my own suitcases, and wondered why she hadn’t mentioned that to me.
She continued speaking to Nola. “But the mattress is new and the sheets are clean, so I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.”
“As long as there’s room for my dollhouse, it should work.”
I turned and met my mother’s gaze. Jack and Chad were supposed to bring the dollhouse over later, and I’d hoped that by the time it showed up my mother and I would have had time to convince her to keep it anywhere other than her room.
I stumbled into my bedroom and dumped my suitcases before joining Nola and my mother. Like the rest of the rooms in the house, Nola’s room was large and airy, with tall windows and ceilings, the requisite deep crown moldings and medallions. But what this room lacked was my mother’s and Amelia’s keen eye for interior design. The previous owners—scrap-metal millionaires from Texas—had, unfortunately, left their mark on this room, making me think of that line from Macbeth about all of Neptune’s ocean scrubbing something clean. As I examined the room’s color palette, I doubted that an entire ocean would be enough.
Black foiled wallpaper with hand-painted and oversize neon orange daisies sprouted on all four walls from floor to ceiling in an apparent attempt to re-create a drug-induced alternate reality. A puce velour rug covered up the beautiful hardwood floors, but not enough to completely disguise the purple-dotted decals that were affixed to the wooden boards in a random pattern, like vomit from a similarly hued leopard. Long strings of miniature pom-poms in an assortment of colors even Crayola wouldn’t claim hung from each window as some sort of space-age curtain. My stomach heaved a little from staring at it.
“This is awesome!” Nola exclaimed as she dropped her guitar and backpack in a corner, the teddy bear’s face poking out of the opened zipper. I felt sorry for his eyes that lacked lids to block out the horror. “I thought you said you hadn’t had a chance to decorate it yet.”
“Um, er, not exactly,” stammered my mother. “The previous owners left it this way.”
“Wow. You got lucky. You don’t have to change a thing, huh?”
My mother and I traded glances again and I was sure her horrified expression matched my own. Swallowing heavily, I said, “We’re thrilled you like it.”
Walking to the far side of the room, my mother pushed open a door. “And you have your own private bathroom.”
Nola stuck her head inside the newly remodeled space, taking in the tasteful neutrals, the black-and-white marble, the delicate faux paint pattern on the wall. “Too bad they didn’t fix the bathroom, too.”
I stood in the middle of the room near the large tester bed that my mother had covered in a simple white chenille bedspread she’d found in the attic. I stared at the expanse of white like a person stares at the stationary horizon to quell carsickness. The room held only the bed, a dressing table, a dresser, and a low chest of drawers that my mother planned to convert into a TV table for the s
mall flat-screen that would be arriving later. The furniture had been culled from the attic, my house, and Trenholm’s Antiques, and I was just realizing that we should have crammed more furniture into the room. As we’d left it, there was plenty of room for one large dollhouse in any of the four corners.
“I love how airy you’ve made the room, Mother. Lots of good, empty space. I wouldn’t add a thing.” I smiled hopefully at Nola as she emerged from her bathroom.
“Except for the dollhouse,” she said as she stomped across the room in her military-style boots, something I wouldn’t necessarily call a fashion accessory or wear in public with striped leggings and a short, ruffled skirt. “I think it would be perfect here,” she said, indicating the corner to the left of the headboard. “Don’t you think so, Mellie?”
I was too busy scrounging around for reasons why the dollhouse shouldn’t go anywhere in a thirty-foot radius of her to correct her use of that dreaded nickname.
“Actually, Nola,” my mother said, “we were thinking that the empty room down the hall would be the perfect spot for it. That way you can put it in the middle of the room and see it from all angles instead of against a wall. I could even find a large table to put it on so everything’s more or less eye level. What do you think?”
Nola’s lower jaw stuck out just enough to remind me of her father when he made up his mind. And if blood were indeed thicker than water, I knew that we had as much hope of persuading her to change her mind as we had of convincing the Architectural Board of Review to allow me to paint my Tradd Street house purple.
“I think it would be perfect in that corner.” She moved to the bed and stepped up on the little stool beside it to plop down on the bedspread. “Maybe we can find another bedspread that goes with the room, something with a little more color. I mean, if it’s not too expensive.”
I tried to think of a tactful way to tell her that if she wanted to find something that matched the room’s decor, she’d have to be prepared to Dumpster-dive behind Goodwill, where I’m sure they discarded those items that would never sell. As if reading my mind, my mother sent me a look of warning, so I kept my mouth shut.
The doorbell rang. Turning to Nola, my mother said, “That must be your grandmother. We’ll leave you here to freshen up and get ready for lunch. We have to be at Alluette’s Café at noon, so we’ll need to leave in about half an hour.”
A crease formed between Nola’s eyebrows. “Why are we going again?”
“We wanted you to meet Alston Ravenel and her mother, Cecily. They’re cousins of yours—third cousins, once removed on your grandmother’s side.” She began listing Nola’s family tree, as all Charlestonians are wont to do, until Nola’s eyes began to glaze over.
My mother noticed and stopped with the genealogy lesson. “Anyway, you and Alston are the same age and both entering the eighth grade. Alston is already enrolled at Ashley Hall, your grandmother’s alma mater—and mine, too—so we thought this would be a good way to find out more about the school before your admission interview.”
“Admission interview?”
There was a hint of panic in Nola’s voice, and I instinctively took a step toward her, remembering my own sense of panic each time my father had announced yet another move to a different army base. “Didn’t Amelia tell you about this?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Nola shrugged. More quietly, she said, “I didn’t think I’d still be here to deal with it.”
I stilled. “Where did you think you might be?”
She shrugged again, avoiding my eyes. “Anywhere but here.”
I saw my mother open her mouth but I quickly shook my head. Turning back to Nola, I asked, “What made you change your mind?”
With her gaze glued to the floor, she mumbled, “Mrs. Houlihan makes good tofu burgers.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “I’ll take your word on that.” I found myself clenching my hands together, my nails biting into the skin as I tried to find the right words that would tell her I understood without sounding too emotional. The one thing I’d learned about Nola was that she didn’t allow emotions to guide her in any decision, and it bothered me to consider what she’d gone through in her short thirteen years to make her that way. I’d at least had thirty-three years of maternal abandonment as my excuse.
I recalled watching part of a music video on MTV when the cable guy had come to install my DVR. It was a live concert where kids were throwing themselves into a crowd with raised arms, trusting that somebody would be there to catch them. I’d found myself holding my breath, sensing the danger, but feeling somehow bereft, too, knowing that I’d never known that kind of security, especially not as a teenager. Taking a deep breath, I said, “You must feel like you’re jumping into a mosh pit at a Slipshod concert, not really sure where you’ll land or who will catch you.”
She lifted her eyes to mine and her expression could only be called a scowl, but I saw the brightness in her eyes again, and I couldn’t help but feel I’d hit the mark. “The band is Slipknot, Mellie. Nice try.”
My mother took my elbow. “Come on. Let’s not keep Amelia waiting. Come down when you’re ready, Nola.”
Twenty minutes later, the three of us turned from where we were sitting in the parlor when we heard loud clumping coming down the stairs, then watched with matching stunned expressions as Nola appeared wearing the same outfit she’d been wearing earlier—complete with combat boots and short, ruffled skirt.
Amelia quickly stood and gave Nola a hug. “You certainly have a sense of style, dear, and one that even your old grandmother can appreciate.” She left her arm around Nola and faced us, the older, elegant woman in the St. John knit suit and Ferragamo pumps next to the beautiful teenager dressed in an outfit that looked like it came out of a ragbag. I had the absurd impulse to jump up and high-five Amelia for knowing the right thing to say.
My mother and I stood and gathered our purses. As I held open the front door for everyone as they exited, Nola said, “I hope this stupid café has food I can eat.”
Amelia didn’t bat an eye. “Alluette’s is known for its organic and vegan menu. That’s why I chose it.”
And another point for you, Amelia, I thought as I locked the door behind me. Aloud I said, “I hope they have food for the rest of us.”
My mother sent me a look that I’m sure was meant to remind me of my manners. I rolled my eyes in response as I dropped the keys into my purse, then followed them to Amelia’s car.
I sat in the back of the Lincoln with Nola, Amelia and my mother up front. I’d never ridden in a car with Amelia Trenholm before, but for the first time in our acquaintance I began to understand where Jack got his penchant for driving at breakneck speeds down narrow, tourist-filled streets. I clutched at the door handle with my left hand and braced my right on the headrest of the driver’s seat in front of me.
Nola kept her gaze focused outside her window, apparently oblivious to everything except her own thoughts. My mother didn’t seem to notice as she and Amelia chatted away as if driving like a Formula 1 driver through the streets of Charleston were an everyday occurrence. The radio was set at a very low volume to an oldies station. I thought I recognized the song they were playing but couldn’t hear it clearly enough to know for sure. Hoping that music might distract me from the knowledge that I was most likely hurtling toward certain death in a car driven by a woman I’d never have thought had homicidal tendencies, I tapped my mother on the shoulder.
“Can you turn up the radio, please?”
Without pausing in her conversation, she reached over to the volume control and turned it up. I relaxed somewhat against the cream leather upholstery as I recognized the familiar strains of ABBA’s “The Winner Takes It All.” Closing my eyes, I began to sing quietly to myself about a heartbroken lover who’s desperate enough to ask her ex if his new lover kisses like she did. My eyes jerked open as I realized what I was singing aloud, and found Nola staring closely at me with Jack’s blue eyes.
“Do you kno
w who sings that song?” she asked.
Smugly, I said, “Of course. ABBA.”
“Great. Let’s keep it that way.” She sat back in her seat and pretended to stick her finger down her throat. “As if listening to ABBA wasn’t nauseating enough to begin with.” She leaned forward and tapped her grandmother on the shoulder. “Can you change the station, please? I think I’m getting carsick.”
Without a pause in the conversation, Amelia switched the channel to an alternative rock station where they were playing the recent hit of a new and up-and-coming star, Jimmy Gordon. He had more of a bluesy sound than a rock sound, but his voice dripped honey, and he wasn’t too hard on the eyes, either. The song “I’m Just Getting Started” was haunting and melodic, with just enough of a beat to give it airtime on more mainstream stations.
I turned to Nola to ask her what she thought of the song, but stopped in midsentence. Her skin was even paler than usual, her fingers like claws digging into the tops of her thighs through the striped tights.
“Are you all right?” I asked, wondering whether she’d been serious about being carsick.
“Change the station,” she said with a strangled voice, but loud enough for both women in the front seat to hear. My mother turned her head to ask why, but when she caught sight of Nola’s expression, she reached over and pushed a button. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Nola sat back, her face cold and immobile. “I hate that song. And I hate Jimmy Gordon.”
“I don’t think he’s that bad. I actually like him—” I began.
Nola cut me off. “I’ve met him. And I don’t like him.”
The icy tone of Nola’s voice must have captured Amelia’s attention. “Who’s Jimmy Gordon?” she asked, looking at us in the rearview mirror.
Nola stared out her window, her shoulders curved into a perfect letter “C” as if to shut out even the light, effectively letting us know that the conversation was over.
