Grace Doll (11 page)

“Jon’s dead.”

His skin pales. He glances at the boy. “His son?”

I nod, reach for him, and he takes my hands, squeezing them to the warmth of his feeble chest. Oscar’s sorrowful expression causes the pain inside to spread through disbelieving fibers.

With teary eyes, he nods toward the stranger—Jonathan’s son—as if to remind me that he’s here. “Get him inside.”

I leave Oscar, close the car door and march through snow to the porch. Jonathan’s son stands, his body shaking violently, his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. I unlock the door, turn on a light. “Come in.”

Once he’s in the house I pull the car into the garage, unload Oscar’s walker and help him indoors. We’re silent. I’m certain his mind is scrolling through memories of Jonathan, of us, just like mine is.

Oscar’s gaze locks on Jonathan’s son as we approach the living room. “You’re Jon’s son?” Oscar’s tone carries amazement.

He nods. “Brenden.”

Oscar’s surprised gaze swivels to mine. His eyes glisten again. “Jon’s son. How about that?”

Another round of tears fills my eyes. I blink them back, nod. “Yes.” I escort Oscar to his chair—a soft recliner that sits next to the fireplace. I’m frustrated. At Jonathan for leaving me. At Oscar—because he’s going to leave me, too. At this messenger for bringing bad news.

Brenden’s chattering teeth hold Oscar’s attention. “How long were you outside?” he asks.

“A while.”

“Oh my.” Oscar shoots me a startled glance.

I lift a shoulder, unable to juggle the frustration and sudden panic tearing through me like fire, drying up tears and emotion. Jonathan. Gone. Oscar…I pace, rubbing my arms. I want to cry, scream. I want to fight with God for taking them both from me.

Oscar clears his throat. He nods at Brenden who’s shaking, covered in a fine dusting of ice from head to toe. His jeans and sweatshirt are inadequate for the harsh mountain winter.

“Sis, turn on the fire.”

I flick on the fireplace and look at Brenden—amazed that he’s here, that Jonathan’s really gone.

Jon.
My past, something I’ve buried deep and far away, suddenly resurrects and flies from the grave and into my consciousness in the form of thousands of memories on a celluloid strip. Days. Nights. Hours. Moments of a life I escaped threaten to submerge me with their vivid reality of having once been a part of me.

“Brenden, pull a chair close to the fire,” Oscar urges. “Go on.”

Shaking, Brenden crosses to the fire, his eyes on the red flames. He doesn’t bother with a chair, just lowers himself to the brick hearth where he huddles with his back to the heat. His gaze locks on me.

“Maybe Brenden would like some hot chocolate?”Oscar suggests. “Or coffee?”

I don’t feel like being hospitable. I need time to deal with the shock of Oscar’s terminal illness and Jonathan’s death. I need to gather the memories zooming around in my head out of control, the memories this visitor’s presence has unlocked. And I need to lock them away again.

Oscar’s eyes are uncomfortably piercing as they look at me as if to say,
what’s gotten into you?

“Hot chocolate sounds good,” Brenden chatters.

As the sheath of ice covering Brenden melts, his shakes begin to subside. His gaze follows my every move. What does he know about me?

The only thing I’m certain of is, Jonathan wrote and told me that when he passed away, his son would bring me the vial.
The vial.
I close my eyes, as if the act will close off the vision of that night. The fire. Dr. Lemarchal. The images whisper through abandoned corridors of my mind.

I open my eyes and Oscar tilts his head in the direction of the kitchen as if to say, ‘be quick.’

Forcing my legs across the carpet to the kitchen, I flick on a light. Why must I play at being hostess? I need time—my own time—to deal with all of this. I can’t navigate through muggy shock lodged inside of me.

From the living room Oscar’s soft, gravelly voice mixes with the deep cadence Jonathan’s son’s voice.
Jonathan.
Waves of sorrow rise inside of my chest. The microwave chimes. I pull out the steaming mug, add hot chocolate mix and go back into the living room.

“I invited Brenden to sit on a chair, but he’s afraid his wet clothing will damage the furniture,” Oscar says. “I assured him we don’t care about that.”

Oscar knows I’m meticulous about stains and dirt.

“Perhaps you’d like to change?” I ask.

“They’re drying, thanks to this fire,” he says.

I cross to him and extend the mug. His hands—identical to Jon’s—with long, flawless fingers, reach for the mug. Just the sight of his hands sends a light tremor through my nerves. Touching him is out of the question. I set the mug on the table next to the hearth and his brows knit momentarily.

Ignoring the way my heart skips when he looks at me, I pull over the closest chair and position it next to the hearth.

“Sit.” My voice still sounds brittle. Brenden’s brow remains knitted in confusion. I’m being inhospitable to my dearest friend’s son. An ache of guilt reverberates through me.

I gesture to the waiting chair. “Go ahead,” I soften my tone. “Sit.”

Looking at Brenden, I’m thrown back decades, like I’m looking at Jonathan as a young man. But his son’s bone structure is more distinct. His chin isn’t soft like Jonathan’s. And the eyes are fierce, not gentle and earnest like Jonathan’s were.

Brenden coughs. “It was really cold out there. I didn’t come prepared.” His gaze remains tight on me. I detest people who stare. At last he sits in the chair, and his eyes snap back to mine.

“It’s barely twenty degrees out,“ Oscar comments.

Turning, I exit. I’m jittery now. I need to be alone, to mourn.

I grab a blanket from the hall closet and when I return, Brenden tilts his head back, drinking down the hot chocolate. “Thanks.”

He’s at odds with what to do with the mug, so I extend my free hand. He stands, ready to set the empty cup in my palm, and his nearness sets off a blazing heat of warning that races through my blood. I pull back my hand.

“Would you mind putting the mug on the table?”I ask.

His features crimp, but he sets the empty cup on the side table. I glance at Oscar, whose eyes are wide at my request. But he knows why I insist Brenden does not hand me the mug.

Oscar clears his throat. “Another hot chocolate, Brenden?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Something to eat, perhaps?”Oscar asks.

“No, I’m good.”

An odd silence drifts between us. I take the mug into the kitchen. I want to pretend Brenden never showed up here. Stop time thirty minutes ago—no—stop time whenever Jonathan died. When did he die?
Oh god, Jonathan
.

Their conversation continues without me.

“When did Jon pass away?” Oscar asks.

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“I’m sorry.” Sadness weakens Oscar’s voice, the sound sending fingers of hurt clutching my throat as I fight off a sob.

When I’ve composed myself, I return to the living room.

Oscar looks to me as if to insist
‘say something.’
But I can’t. Disbelief and frustration have silenced my tongue and dried my tears. I’m distracted by the sound of Brenden’s voice—the gravelly lilt—a rough cousin to Jonathan’s kind tone. And I’m surprised and put off by his casual response to Jonathan’s passing. Why isn’t he devastated? Doesn’t he feel the emptiness I feel? I wanted Jonathan alive forever—like me.

The gravity of the future squeezes away my ability to respond. Oscar and I have both known this day would come. We’ve even discussed how we would deal with having the news brought to us by someone we’ve never met. Someone who knows about us. Somehow, the scenarios aren’t playing out the way we’d planned.

I’m certain it’s because I’ve secretly been sure I would face this day alone. Knowing my two companions and only friends would die before me has left me with no other possibility when I allow myself to ponder this scene. I’m floating in a disturbing, heartrending nightmare alone, tainted by Jonathan and Oscar’s mortality. I have to face what’s really happening.

“Sis?” Oscar’s voice cuts through the quagmire.

“Yes?”

“Did you hear what Brenden just said?”

The piercing gray of Brenden’s eyes sends a shudder spinning down my spine. “No.” I place my hands on my cheeks. They’re too warm. “What did you say?” I ask.

“Dad wanted me to give Grace something. Where is she?”

His question hangs in the air without moving. I swallow. Flick my eyes to Oscar who’s already watching me. I turn my attention back to Brenden even though I’m not sure I’ll be able to speak through the pulse pounding in my throat.

Brenden has no idea.

Jonathan, you didn’t tell him?

Overcome with a rush of hysteria, I rise on shaky legs and run from the room.

Chapter Ten

~Brenden~

Did I say something wrong? She looked at me like I insulted and wounded her. All I did was ask where Grace Doll is.

My brain feels like it’s finally defrosting. I can think. Feel. Smell.

Outside, I was sure hypothermia had set in. And delusion. That girl walked up to me and my frozen brain started tricking out. I could have sworn I was looking at a young Grace Doll. Numb from cold, I realized I was in deep trouble. Grace was either dead, and coming for me, or she was the devil. I’d have done whatever she wanted just to get warm.

The ticking of a towering, ornate grandfather clock in the corner is the only sound in the place. Where did she go? I stare after her, through an opening that leads to the rest of the house. She looks so much like Grace it’s unreal. Who is she? Granddaughter?

The old man watches me. Grace’s husband? The girl’s grandfather? My body unthaws, and I itch with discomfort.

I feel like I’ve interrupted something.

“Is she okay?” I ask.

He ignores my question. “I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. Oscar.” He extends a trembling hand. I rise, cross to him and shake. “Her name is Katherine. Jon was a dear friend of ours.”

I glance around for a sign of Grace. Should I ask Oscar where she is? I lower to the chair. “Is Grace here? Dad wanted me to give her something.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You…do?”I ask.

“The news of your father’s death is hard for her.” Oscar nods at the exit. “Give her a moment.”

Thick quiet stalls in the air. I continue glancing at the opening where the girl vanished.

So Dad had been here and met Grace’s family. Spent time with them. Jealousy fires inside of me. I feel cheated—again. With each tick of the grandfather clock my nerves ratchet up. I feel like an idiot, sitting here with these people who knew Dad better than I did.

What if the old lady’s not here? No way am I going to miss my chance to tell her what I think of her, or give up my right to 150,000.

“Hell,” I mutter, and scrub my face.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

A million things. Dad was a stranger. I wanted to know him, and he didn’t want to know me. Yet he traveled around the world spending time with people who weren’t family. He expects me to do this for him—and all I get is pacification money—not even a thank you. Sure, the money will be great. But it doesn’t patch the wound inside.

I won’t even have the satisfaction of telling Grace Doll off.

“She knew him too?” I jerk my head in the direction of the empty hall.

Oscar nods.

“Figures.”

The girl appears, face flushed, eyes red as if she’s been crying. She pauses in the doorframe, her chest rising and falling. What’s wrong? She hasn’t taken off her winter coat. Black jeans frame long legs with black boots, the top trimmed in fur. She stands with her hands behind her back, her spine against the doorframe as if she needs support. As her breathing begins to slow, the redness in her cheeks fades. Her ocean-blue eyes stay lifted, like she’s unable to look anywhere but at the ceiling.

“I—the news of Jonathan’s death—“ Her voice is breathy. She closes her eyes, as if thinking about Dad hurts.
Join the club.
“It comes as a shock.”

“So you weren’t in regular contact with him?” I ask.

Her eyes open. “It had been a few months since his last letter.”

“I wasn’t sure what to expect when I got here.” I dig through my backpack for the silver box and pull it out. “All he told me was that I needed to bring this to Grace.”

Yes, now she looks. Her eyes lock on the container. She takes in a deep breath. Oscar, too, seems shocked to see it in my hand. Moments drag like hours in silence. My heart starts to pound. What’s in this damned thing? Finally, she steps toward me like a fawn taking its first steps, and reaches for the box.