The Dollhouse

by Charis Cotter

  “Daddy doesn’t like him,” said Fizz.

  Her mother turned on her, and her face went very, very red. For a moment, I thought she was going to slap Fizz.

  “Don’t. You. Dare,” she said, spitting each word out at her daughter. “Don’t make trouble, Fizz. I’ve warned you before.”

  “Well, he doesn’t,” muttered Fizz.

  Her mother took a deep breath. “Daddy and Adrian are very different people. They don’t have a lot in common. But Daddy appreciates that Adrian is an artist, and Daddy is very pleased with what Adrian has accomplished with the dollhouse.” She said this as though she had said it before many times. “Now,” she said, looking over at Bubble, who had been watching them, wide-eyed, “Let’s all go together, remember our manners, and see what Adrian has made for you.”

  “For you, you mean,” grumbled Fizz, half under her breath.

  Her mother gave her a sharp look as she led Bubble out of the summerhouse. At the door, Bubble turned and whispered, “Remember your manners, Fizz,” and stuck her tongue out.

  Fizz returned the gesture, then looked over at me.

  “You better come too, Ghost,” she said.

  I hesitated. I still had that uncomfortable feeling that I didn’t quite exist, that I was somehow transparent. Fizz calling me Ghost didn’t help.

  “Wait,” I said. “I want to ask you something.”

  She turned back.

  “Why…why can’t your mother see me?”

  Fizz shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because she’s a grown-up. Grown-ups don’t always see what kids see— haven’t you noticed?”

  She was right there. How many times had I seen things that my mother saw completely differently? And just in the last few days— the haunted house, the moon, the doll, the train accident?

  “Yes, but—” I began.

  “And anyway,” Fizz continued, “it isn’t her dream, is it? You say you’re dreaming all this. In dreams you can see people who don’t see you.”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “That true. So now you believe me that I’m dreaming? That this is all a dream?” I waved my arm around to include the summerhouse, the dolls and their tea party, Fizz. “And you’re just part of my dream?”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” said Fizz, grinning, and she ducked out the door.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE PERFECT SUMMERHOUSE

  Fizz was so annoying.

  And yet I had to follow her, across the too-bright lawn, up the curving staircase and into the dark, shadowy hall. It felt deliciously cool after the heat outside. A grandfather clock standing near the opposite door began to strike. One— two— three chimes echoed through the house. The sound of the bells seemed to linger in the silence. There was a lovely smell of roses.

  Fizz and I climbed the steep staircase to the second floor, then Fizz made a quick right turn into my room. Or was it her room? The mahogany closet doors stood open, and she ducked inside and started up the stairs to the attic.

  But they were different from the last time I’d been here. There was no dust, for one thing. And the wooden stairs looked flat somehow, with no wood grain showing. When we reached the attic, I saw that it was no longer empty. In the light from the window at the far end I could see a few chairs, an old trunk and a lamp.

  I only had a few seconds to take this in, because Fizz was disappearing through the door that had been tightly locked the last time I had seen it but now stood wide open. Voices were coming from inside the room. I stopped at the door.

  “It’s beautiful,” cried Bubble. She was bending over an object at the far end of the room, on the other side of the dollhouse, with her mother and a tall, thin man looking on.

  “Don’t touch it,” said the man in a tight, worried voice, shooting out his arm to pull her hand back. He wore a light-colored summer suit and had unruly brown hair that kept falling into his eyes.

  “Just look, sweetheart,” said her mother. “You know the rules.”

  Fizz turned around to me and made a face.

  “But what’s inside it?” said Bubble, leaning down even lower to the floor.

  Fizz and I moved closer.

  “Your mother told me you like having tea parties in the summerhouse,” said the man. “So I made you a summerhouse just like the one in the garden, and there’s you and Fizz having a tea party in there with a little doll’s tea set and—”

  “There we are!” said Bubble. “And there’s April, May and June! Fizz, Alice,” she said, looking over her shoulder at us. “Come and see! He’s made my dolls!”

  The two grown-ups turned to us.

  “Come and see, Fizz,” said her mother. “Who’s Alice, Bubble?”

  “The ghost,” said Bubble.

  Her mother frowned. “You know there’s no such thing as ghosts, Bubble. Fizz, have you been encouraging her again?”

  Fizz sauntered over, and I hovered in the background the way a good ghost should.

  “I don’t need to encourage her, Mother,” she said. “She’s always imagining things all on her own, aren’t you, Bubble?”

  Bubble looked from her to me and back to her sister again. Whatever she saw in the expression on Fizz’s face made her retract.

  “Just pretend,” she mumbled. “That’s all. No ghosts. That’s true. But look, Fizz, it’s perfect! So tiny and perfect!”

  Fizz crouched down so she could examine the summerhouse. I slipped around to the other side of Bubble so I could see too.

  Bubble was right. It was perfect. The summerhouse we had just come from had been recreated in miniature, with a screen door and a shady interior. Two girl dolls in blue dresses, one with brown hair and one with red, sat on the floor where a flowery tablecloth lay spread out. A tiny china tea set with blue flowers was arranged for tea for six, with three little dolls identical to the ones I’d seen in the summerhouse sitting obediently waiting for their tea. Behind them I could see rattan furniture with crisp blue-and-white cushions.

  “Look!” cried Bubble suddenly. “There’s Sailor!”

  A toy golden retriever lay on the little rattan couch.

  “That’s wrong!” said Bubble. “He’s not allowed on the furniture. He’s not allowed to come to my tea parties. That’s true. He messes everything up and drinks the tea and eats the cookies. That’s true.”

  She reached her hand out to open the screen door, and the tall man yanked it back.

  “Don’t touch, Bubble!” he said sharply. “I’ll get him.”

  “Sailor should be outside,” complained Bubble, rubbing her hand where the man had grabbed it. “He’s always outside. That’s true.”

  The man opened the summerhouse door and, with a steady hand, extracted the toy dog, careful not to touch any of the dolls or furniture in the process. He laid the dog down just outside the screen door. “Better?” he said, looking at Bubble.

  “I guess,” said Bubble. She stood up and backed away from him. “You hurt me.”

  “Oh don’t be silly, Bubble,” said her mother. “Mr. Inwood barely touched you. I’m ashamed of you. He’s made this beautiful summerhouse for you, with your dolls and the tea set, and all you can do is complain about Sailor. Say thank you.”

  “Thank you,” mumbled Bubble.

  “Fizz?” said her mother.

  “Thank you, Mr. Inwood,” said Fizz in a singsong voice. “Thank you for making us a beautiful toy summerhouse that we can’t play with. And thank you for hurting my sister.”

  “Fizz!” snapped her mother. “I warned you!”

  “It’s all right, Harriet,” said Mr. Inwood. He wouldn’t look at Fizz, and he shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. “I understand. It’s difficult for them, but someday they’ll appreciate that the dollhouse is not a toy.”

  “Then why do you say it’s for us, if it’s not a toy?” asked
Fizz. “Why do you and Mother spend hours and hours talking about it and making things for it, and we aren’t allowed to help or touch anything? It’s your toy, not ours.”

  Her mother grabbed her arm and gave her a shake. “Fizz! That’s enough. Go to your room this minute.”

  “Why should I?” yelled Fizz, stamping her foot.

  Bubble stood looking from her mother to her sister, her lips quivering.

  “Mama?” she said uncertainly, starting to cry.

  Her mother dropped Fizz’s arm and turned to Bubble. She put her arms around Bubble and gave her a hug.

  “There, there, Bubble, it’s all right,” she said. “Fizz just lost her temper again. Let’s all calm down.”

  “I don’t like it when you yell,” said Bubble. “That’s true.”

  “I know,” said her mother, looking over her shoulder at Fizz. “I’m sorry.”

  Fizz was still glaring at everyone.

  “I’m sorry too,” chimed in Mr. Inwood. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you, Bubble. It’s just that the dollhouse is so special, and so precious, that if just one thing gets broken, it will take hours to mend.”

  “Wasn’t going to break anything,” grumbled Bubble.

  “You know you can’t touch, Bubble,” said her mother. “Just like Queen Mary’s dollhouse in England. No one can touch that. You remember when we saw it, Bubble? How we wanted one of our own?” She was smiling at her daughter now, dabbing at Bubble’s tears with a lacy handkerchief.

  Fizz had crossed her arms and stood watching them, frowning.

  “Yes,” said Bubble, brightening. “It was a beautiful dollhouse! That’s true.”

  “And Mr. Inwood has worked so hard to make this one perfect too. We just can’t touch.”

  Bubble nodded her head and hiccupped.

  While their attention was on Bubble, I was curious to have another look inside the summerhouse. It was just as Mr. Inwood— Adrian— had said: everything was so perfect and small. The teacups, the plate of shortbreads, just as they had been in the real summerhouse. The shortbreads? I wondered if they were real. I stretched out my hand to touch them, glancing quickly at the grown-ups to see if they were looking my way. They weren’t, and then I remembered that it wouldn’t matter if they were, because they couldn’t see me.

  I was invisible. It was my dream. I could play with the dollhouse as much as I liked.

  I gently touched one of the little cookies. They weren’t real: they were made of plaster and stuck all together with glue so they wouldn’t fall off the plate.

  Not quite so perfect, I thought. Now if they were real little shortbreads you could actually eat, that would be perfect.

  Looking past the cookies, I realized there was another doll standing in the shadows at the back of the summerhouse. I peered in, trying to see it more clearly.

  It was a girl doll with a pale face and straggly brown hair wearing a sleeveless green top, jean shorts and bare feet. I looked down at my clothes and back at the doll.

  It was me.

  I felt that falling feeling again and the darkness closed in on me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  BUTTERCAKES

  A dog was barking outside.

  I opened my eyes. I was lying on my bed with the green bed curtains closing me in and the afternoon heat beating through them. I struggled to sit up, then opened the curtains on the window side and got out of bed.

  I went to the window and looked out.

  A golden retriever with a red collar was racing back and forth across the back lawn, barking his head off.

  I rubbed my eyes. I must still be dreaming. I stumbled out into the hall, where there was a sweet smell of roses, and then the downstairs clock began to chime: one— two— three chimes that rang out and then died away, leaving a whispering echo in the silent house.

  The door opposite mine opened and my mother came out. Okay, not dreaming.

  “Oh, Alice, good, you’re awake. I need you to sit with Mrs. Bishop for an hour or two while I go to town to do my shopping. She’s just woken up from her nap, and she needs some company.”

  She looked at me more closely. “Are you up to it? How are you feeling?”

  I yawned. “I’m okay. How long was I sleeping?”

  “A couple of hours. I decided to let you sleep. Can’t hurt. Now go wash your face, and I’ll bring you a glass of lemonade.” She bustled down the steep stairs at a good clip. She must be getting used to them.

  I turned to go into the bathroom. A dark-blue bowl full of white and pink roses sat on the little desk against the wall. I bent my head over and inhaled the candy-sweet smell. Then I went into the bathroom and splashed my face. I looked pale in the mirror, with dark shadows under my eyes. I could still hear the barking.

  When my mother brought me the lemonade, I was sitting on my favorite perch on the window seat, looking out at the dog, who had flopped down on the terrace, his tongue out.

  “Where did the dog come from?” I asked.

  “Sam— I mean, Dr. West— left him here. He brought him for a visit with Mrs. Bishop— but then Sam got called to an emergency and had to leave in a hurry. Apparently, Mrs. Bishop likes the dog. I don’t know why. With that big tail of his he could do a lot of damage to her antiques. Now that she’s awake she wants me to bring him up.”

  “Can I help you with him?” I said.

  “Sure. Come on.”

  * * *

  —

  The dog’s name was Buttercakes.

  I laughed when Mom told me.

  She grinned. “I know. What kind of grown man calls his dog Buttercakes? Imagine calling him in the park!”

  I laughed again. “I guess Dr. West has a good sense of humor.”

  “I think so,” said my mom, with that foolish look on her face again.

  “You like him, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Of course I like him,” said Mom, becoming brisk. “He’s a very nice guy. And a good doctor. What’s not to like?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I like him too.”

  We fell silent. Then Mom opened the kitchen door.

  “Buttercakes!” she called, making a face at me as she did so.

  After greeting us with more barking and a lot of jumping around, Buttercakes drank a big bowl of water and then Mom put him on a leash and said firmly to him, “Behave!”

  Buttercakes looked solemn for a moment.

  “Here, you take him,” said my mother. “I’ll come behind and make sure he doesn’t knock anything over.”

  Buttercakes seemed to know that once he was in the house he had to calm down. He walked sedately up the stairs with me clinging tightly with one hand to the banister and the other to his leash.

  Once we were at the top of the stairs, he pulled a bit at his leash and led me straight into the old lady’s room. He put two paws up on the bed and his tail started wagging again.

  Mrs. Bishop was sitting up in bed, wearing pink pajamas with blue flowers and a white hairband. When she saw Buttercakes, a wide smile transformed her stern old face.

  “Hello, you foolish dog,” she said, petting him. “Come to visit me, have you?”

  She produced a dog biscuit from somewhere and Buttercakes gulped it down.

  After a few more pats and endearments, and a couple more biscuits, Mrs. Bishop noticed me.

  “Buttercakes, lie down and be good,” she said, and the dog obeyed. “Alice, I understand you’re going to be keeping me company this afternoon.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, standing a bit straighter.

  “Your mother tells me you have a concussion,” said the old lady.

  I glanced back at Mom, who was standing at the door giving me an encouraging smile.

  “Yes, I do. From the accident.”

  “And how are you feeling?” />
  “Umm…okay, I guess. I get headaches.”

  “Do you have one now?”

  I didn’t. The lemonade had woken me up a bit, and although I still felt a bit foggy, my head wasn’t hurting at all.

  “No. I had a sleep and that seemed to help.”

  “Well, you may be interested to know, young lady, that I, too, am suffering from a concussion. So, we have something in common, you and I.”

  “Does your head hurt?” I asked, forgetting to be scared of her for a moment.

  “Sometimes,” she replied. “Your mother and Dr. West have me on medication, so I think that helps. And I sleep a lot.”

  “Do you ever have funny dreams?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I certainly don’t have dreams that make me wake up in the night and scream the house down, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I glanced back at Mom. She gave her head a little shake.

  “Just wondering,” I mumbled.

  “Well, never mind that.” She turned to Mom. “Go away, Ellie. Alice and I can manage quite well on our own. You better put Buttercakes in the garden while you’re gone, or he’ll get up to mischief.”

  Mom and Buttercakes disappeared. Mrs. Bishop fixed her eye on me.

  “Go to the window, then tell me when your mother’s gone.”

  “Uh…okay.” I went over to one of the tall windows that looked out on the front drive. After a couple of minutes, Mom came out, got into a dark-green car and drove away.

  “Well? Is she gone?”

  “Yes.” I returned to her bedside. “Is that your car?”

  “Of course it’s my car. Whose car would it be?”

  “I don’t know, I just—”

  “Never mind the car. Your mother seems to think I need a babysitter. Do you think I need a babysitter?” She glared at me.

  “Umm…no. I think she just wanted me to stick around in case you needed anything. Not exactly a babysitter.”

  “I have a bell. I will ring it if I need you. Just bring me my reading glasses and you can go. I think your mother put them over on the dressing table earlier when she was tidying up. I’d like to know how they’re going to do me any good way over there.”