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“It’s not very satisfying, but if you can’t do anything, I’ll have to accept that.”

“You will.” She flashed another grin. “Take care. Get that window fixed asap. Or at least covered. Wild animals will camp out in your vehicle if you leave it open.”

I turned and scurried back to the front porch. I would tell Patrick I’d overheard from there. He wouldn’t have liked me sneaking up on them, but surely he suspected I might have been listening from the porch.

TWENTY

A LITTLE GIRL

Twenty Years Ago

The bottom of my foot itched. Also, my back itched. I couldn’t decide which one was worse. I couldn’t scratch my foot because it was buckled into a black patent leather Mary Jane shoe. Not only that, I would have to lean forward to take off my shoe, and I couldn’t do that.

The reason my back itched was because I was sitting in a big chair and the seat cushion and back were scratchy material. The chair arms were wood, which made my arms hurt.

But right now, my hands were folded in my lap. I didn’t like that either because that was one part of me, except for my eyelids, that I could have made tiny little wiggles without getting in trouble. I could blink without her noticing. I could have wiggled my fingers around and even moved my hands to another spot on my lap without getting in trouble. But with them folded, they were locked in place, and she would have noticed if I unlocked them. She liked them folded.

“That way, you can’t fidget as much,” she said.

My dress was itchy too. It was white with a high collar and lace along the top. The sleeves were long and puffy with lace at the ends. There were white buttons all the way down the front, and a pink ribbon sash. The skirt covered my knees. Underneath was a petticoat to make my skirt fluff out when I did standing poses.

I didn’t like the dress. No other girls wore dresses like this. I wanted to wear a swirly skirt and comfortable top. Or shorts. Anything but this dress that looked like it was made in the olden times. My mother picked out the pattern and fabric, sewing every seam to fit me perfectly. Except it didn’t. In some places it was too big, in other places, too tight.

I was required to sit still while she drew a picture of me in her large blank notebook. The picture was doll-sized, and she would use it to make a pattern so she could sew a dress for one of her dolls that looked exactly like this one. She did that with all my dresses—there was always a doll dressed to match me.

My mother had a lot of dolls. The room where we were sitting had rows of cases against two walls. Behind the glass doors were gently smiling dolls. I think there were forty dolls, maybe more, in this room. I counted them once, but she added new ones all the time. There were also doll cases in the living room, but not as many. There was one doll case in the dining room and one in my bedroom. She had two cases filled with dolls in her bedroom.

When my friends came over, which wasn’t very often because I was embarrassed about the dolls, their mouths opened in big, wide O’s. Some of them giggled. Some got a little scared, although I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t want anyone at my house. It didn’t matter if they giggled or got scared or something else, they all thought my mother was crazy. And if she was crazy, maybe that meant I was too.

It made me want to cry.

“Sit still,” my mother said.

“I am.”

“You shook your head.”

“I didn’t shake it.”

“You jerked it to the side, and it made your shoulders move. I can’t see the sleeves properly.” She put down her pad, walked over to me, pinched her fingers together, and plucked at my puffy sleeves, pulling them out so they looked like they were filled with stuffing.

“That’s better.” She went back to her chair, which was a lot more comfortable than mine.

When I was sitting in this chair, I felt as if the dolls were watching me. They could read my thoughts. I imagined them whispering the bad things I was feeling into my mother’s ear. When my mother heard what the dolls said, she would torture me even more, pinning and poking my body, and arranged to be as stiff and fake as theirs.

Maybe the dolls also hated their stiff, scratchy clothes. Maybe they hated me for sitting still and allowing her to make all these small dresses, stuffing their arms into sleeves that were too tight, hiding their legs under dresses that were too long. Maybe they even felt the bottoms of their feet itch underneath white lace-edged socks and shiny, black plastic shoes.

Behind me, I heard the voice that told me every day how lucky I was—At least she notices you.

TWENTY-ONE

SAMANTHA

Now

It appeared as if Patrick was now concerned about the note threatening our lives, starting to believe it might be targeted at us after all, I wasn’t sure I liked the change. It made me feel validated that he agreed with me. At the same time, I was annoyed with myself for wanting validation of my viewpoint. I didn’t need anyone to agree to know I was right. My instinct was correct and I shouldn’t be doubting that.

There was another strange effect. When he hadn’t believed the threat was directed at any of us, I appreciated his comforting words. Even if they were spoken with a hint of disdain, they still made me feel better. If Patrick believed I was safe, that we were all safe, maybe we were.