Chapter 1 - The Doll on the Grass
The doll left my daughter's hand before I could reach her.
One second she was swinging it toward her grandmother like an offering, her little pink sleeve stretched out over the grass, and the next it was tumbling through the gray air above that cracked stone pedestal behind our house. I watched it turn over once, pink dress flashing, blonde hair whipping, and I thought how wrong that was — that something so small and loved could be made to fly like trash. My mother-in-law stood perfectly still in her maroon cardigan, her hands at her sides, her gray bun tight against the overcast light, and she didn't flinch when the doll went past her.
My name is Lauren and that morning I was still trying to be the good daughter-in-law.
It was just after ten and the yard was damp from last night's rain. The grass was soft under my sneakers and the air smelled like wet leaves and cold stone. My daughter had brought her favorite doll outside, the one with the pink dress and the little pink plastic shoes that clicked when she walked her across the kitchen floor. She'd been holding it so carefully against her chest in her pink top and pants, her light brown hair falling forward as she ran in a circle around the pedestal. That old gray stone thing on its concrete base, cracked right down the middle, we'd never talked about why it was there. Then my mother-in-law said something low I didn't catch, my daughter swung the doll toward her, and I heard her voice, thin and panicked.
"Grandma, no."
The doll landed face-up at the base of the pedestal. I saw the little puff of dust come up from the grass where it hit, right against the weathered concrete. My daughter's hand was empty and hanging in the air. For a half second no one moved. The trees behind the yard were dark and still and the light stayed flat and overcast, like the whole morning was holding its breath.
My mother-in-law moved first. She stepped forward and put her hand hard on my daughter's shoulder. I was three steps away and I saw her lean down close, her cardigan brushing my daughter's pink sleeve, her mouth near my daughter's ear. My daughter's face crumpled. Tears were already rolling down her cheeks and her bottom lip was shaking so hard she couldn't keep her mouth closed.
"Tell anyone and you'll regret it."
She said it low, like a whisper, but I heard every word. It wasn't loud enough to be a scold. It was meant only for my daughter. My daughter stared up at her grandmother and then her whole body gave way into a wail.
I was already running. I dropped to my knees on the damp grass and pulled her into my chest, my light blue shirt getting wet at the knees, my hands around her back. She sobbed against my collarbone and pointed forward with one shaking finger toward where the doll lay in the grass.
"Mom, he threw my doll."
I held her tighter. I could feel her heart hammering through her pink top. Over her head I looked up at my mother-in-law. She hadn't stepped back. She was standing right there in her gray skirt and patterned blouse, her posture straight and stern, looking down at us. The doll was behind her on the ground, face-up and staring at the sky.
I didn't know what my daughter meant by he. There was no he in the garden. Only us three.
"What is she talking about?" I asked, quiet.
My mother-in-law gave a small, cold smile. It didn't reach her eyes.
"She's confused," she said. "Children imagine things."
I stood up slowly, lifting my daughter with me. Her legs wrapped around my waist and her wet cheek pressed to my neck. I could smell her shampoo and the rain on the grass. I looked at the doll again, then at the woman in front of me who had just threatened a three-year-old to keep her quiet.
"Why would you do that? That doll belonged to the daughter your husband never told you about."
May you like
The words came out of me before I realized I'd known them. I hadn't known. Not really. It was something my husband had let slip months ago after a late call, half-asleep, a name he never explained, and I'd pushed it down. Now it was just there, between us, with my daughter sobbing in my arms and the doll lying in the dust at the base of that stone pedestal and neither of us moving.
My mother-in-law's smile faded. Her eyes widened just enough that I saw it, and then narrowed again. Behind us, the back door of the house stayed closed, but I could hear the faint sound of a car turning onto our street.
