Page 23 of She’s a Doll

“You are,” Auntie Dawn replied, voice low and serious. “You need to be there.”

“I’m not g⁠—”

“You need to be there. I don’t care how you feel about police, Tiff. This is bigger than that. You know what they’re saying.”

“I don’t care what they’re saying.”

“You need to start caring. You need to start caring right now.”

“Lucy is de⁠—”

“No. Don’t say that. We don’t know where Lucy is. She might come h⁠—”

Grandma’s face twisted in a way I’d never seen it twist before, her brows collapsing, her lips wrenching apart. A couple of tears escaped her closed eyes. “I can’t, Dee. I can’t. I know she’s not OK. I know. She wouldn’t leave Cookie shut up in a room without water. She wouldn’t⁠—”

“Tiff⁠—”

I wanted the clock to stop.

I wanted everything to hold in place.

I wanted time to think.

And, for a strange, gut-churning moment, the universe obeyed. Auntie Dawn’s voice stretched and slurred, turning into an ugly, elongated drone, unnatural and nerve-racking, like nails down a chalkboard. Grandma slowed too, her face a picture of grief, caught in heartrending detail.

I summoned every ounce of will, of anger, of desperation I had left and threw my arm up, first one, then the other, reaching toward Grandma, reaching for that hug.

I didn’t know what I’d expected.

Auntie Dawn screamed and slapped me out of Grandma’s hand. For a moment I hung there, my skirts just starting to billow, my arms still outstretched.

Grandma’s eyes opened, her face falling slack in shock, her lips parting around a small gasp. In that instant, I thought of the paper in the arts-and-crafts box under the dining table. I thought of my plan to write a letter⁠—just two words, over and over again: I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m⁠—

Time snapped forward, a rubber band springing back into shape.

The ground surged up, and my vision split in two, one eye going left, the other right. I saw, from two angles, Auntie Dawn kick my body away, the crunch of broken porcelain deafeningly loud.

“Dawn!”

“It moved! It moved! It⁠—”

“It’s just a doll. It’s just a doll. It’s⁠—”

“No!” Auntie Dawn’s voice was high and getting higher, like a jet engine, powering up, getting louder, faster. “I’m telling you! It⁠—”

And then everything was a blur, time swirling away from me, Auntie Dawn’s voice, Grandma’s, Cookie’s surprised, frantic barking smashing together as everything shrank down, my lost eye dipping to black, my connection to my shattered pieces dimming into nothingness.

9

I never saw my grandma again.

I never smelled her cooking again, felt her hugs, never argued with her about old books while she braided my hair.

“Marrying the man for Pemberley is all well and good, but you know, eventually he’s going to say something else offensive, or rude, or just annoying. Elizabeth should have just murdered Mr. Collins and assumed his identity. It’s a humble life, but at least you don’t have to wear a bonnet.”

“You know, Lulu, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

“But the highest form of intelligence.” My canned response.